You know that kid? The one in your house, with their nose in their phone? Or maybe it’s your sister’s kid with her nose in her phone, or the neighbor kid with his nose in his phone?
They pulled it out last week at the family BBQ, reluctantly relinquishing it only when Nana finally asked a firm, direct question. They have it out when you’re watching TV; you ask if they don’t like the show and without moving their eyes from their small screen say no of course this show is fine. They tell you a joke you don’t get and when you ask them to explain it they roll their eyes with impatience and tell you, dismissively, “It’s a meme,” then walk away.
Well that kid hears everything. Everything you say, they see everything you do. Their ability to multi-task is alarming.
My preferred form of dissociation as a child was reading. And of course cell phones weren’t much of a thing until I was in college, so my nose was always in a book and I’m sure my mom felt like I was never paying attention. I liked also to pretend I was not.
My mom is really good at coming up with creative ways to keep kids busy. There were four of us, so I think she kind of had to think on her toes for her own sanity.
If we complained about flies in the summer, she’d hand us a fly swatter and a sanitizing towel. We’d run around trying to catch as many as we could. We’d get one and go to her yelling, “I got one Mom!”
She’d say, “Great job! Keep it up!”
When she’d clean her purse and purge all the expired credit/debit/membership cards she’d tell us, “Yeah just take this and bend it in half in the middle, then bend it back. Ok now do that over and over again and it’ll break!” After ten minutes of toiling over the card we’d finally split it in half. She’d congratulate us on a job well done and hand us another.
She liked puzzles and we wanted to do them with her but of course couldn’t figure out much of it. So she’d allow us the pleasure of going through a thousand tiny puzzle pieces and flipping them right side up, sorting them into edges or no, and gathering similar colors together.
“Here’s another edge piece Mom!”
“Great! Find some more!”
And we would. We’d eat it up.
None of these things were actually fun. We just thought they were fun because she said they were fun.
I think she got this from her father. My Grandpa Johnson is a loving person, but definitely a product of the patriarchy. He loved his family how he was taught to- by working hard. Once he got home, though, he expected to be waited on hand and foot; literally. We were over every other Friday night to pick up my aunt, so he’d get home from work, sit in his recliner and my Grandma Barbara would bring him a beer. He’d take off his shoes and socks, revealing sweaty, smelly feet, grab some eucalyptus lotion and ask, “Who wants to rub Grandpa’s feet???”
I shit you not, we’d all fight over who got to do it that day. It was bananas. What were we thinking?
Also, small love letter to my Grandma, I think it’s a testament to how kind and down-to-Earth his partner was that he was Grandpa Johnson, and she was Grandma Barbara. She was a saint. Part of my soul left when that kind and fierce woman passed.
My Grandma Barbara died young. It was awful. More than awful. She was an empathetic, selfless human being. I could enumerate the acts that cause me to say this but for now just know it was true. She was the kindest human I ever met.
She passed from lung cancer. She hadn’t smoked for long, and it came as a surprise. She had had a tickle in her throat, didn’t get it checked for a while because she “was fine,” then passed away six months after the diagnosis.
I remember my mom getting the news that Grandma was sick. If you think I idolize her mother, my mother had never had any better of a friend. My grandmother was her North Star, her safety net, the one person she always had.
My mom can be a little tough, and very hard on herself. She is also very selfless. I remember my Grandma Barbara, when my mom wasn’t even around, saying, “How’s your mom doing? I hope she’s ok. She’s always leaning on the cart when she shops. I worry about her back….” Knowing my mom, her back probably was killing her and I had no idea; my mom isn’t one to complain. Seeing myself and the siblings who biologically came from her all have nearly debilitating back problems, I assume she did too.
This was my mom’s best friend. She tried to be tough because we were watching her get the call. She collapsed to the couch to sit, like I’ve never seen her do. She allowed herself to cry for ten seconds or so, then put on a brave face for us and said, “Grandma’s not well. We have to prepare for the idea that she probably will, but might not, make it.”
My Grandma Barbara passed away in December of 2002. We got a call from the hospice nurse that she was likely to not make it through the night and sped up to her house. My mother likes to tell the story of how I tried to support her best friend in her last few hours on this planet, but I don’t see it as anything but a kid doing the bare minimum for the most amazing person she'd ever met.
I had occasionally given foot rubs to Grandma as well; she had said they always made her day. So when I arrived, I sat at the foot of my grandma’s recliner. It was good she was dying at home; everyone should be so lucky. My uncles, aunts and cousins were there. I sat on the floor and gave her a foot massage. I rubbed her feet for what my mom said was hours. I wanted to do anything I possibly could to help this beautiful, strong, selfless woman transition into the afterlife.
I stepped away and ran to my mother when I heard the death rattle, the sound of a person's lungs shutting and no longer taking in breath. It was terrifying, but now that I think of it, it was probably harder for my mom to hear that than me.
My Grandma Barbara passed soon after that.
I was at the drug store last month and I saw this puzzle on sale. It was Van Gogh’s Starry Night, but it had a Bigfoot running through the woods under the stars. I remembered enjoying puzzles with my mom, thought about how my dad would love the Bigfoot reference (he regularly and vehemently defends his position that the large ape is, without a doubt, absolutely and positively real), and bought it for pandemic entertainment.
I got home and enthusiastically got out my new puzzle, excited to begin the journey. When I opened the box my excitement deflated some as I saw a thousand tiny pieces in a messy pile. An hour later I’m still sorting and starting to think shit this is boring as all get out.
I stopped sorting, and sat back in my chair.
I laughed aloud.
My mom knew this part was boring. She hadn’t wanted to do it either. It wasn’t that sorting puzzle pieces used to be fun in the 90's and now it’s suddenly not. It’s just that Mom said it was fun and so it was.
Touche, Mom, Goddamn, Touche.
Also. You guys. Did you know you can totally cut credit cards in half with scissors in like one second?
My mom and I are very different people. She voted for Trump, I’m an avid leftist. She wanted nothing more than to have children, I went to college and found a career instead. I enjoy weed, she thinks it’s stupid. I figured just by the logic the people with different personalities do most things differently, I would parent in stark contrast to her.
I was wrong.
Yes, my step-daughter is liberal. She totes pride-paraphernalia everywhere. She adores the cats that my mom hates, plans to go to college like myself and is an avid producer of the art my mom doesn’t get. But man alive do I parent like she did.
After April’s birthday party this year, the house was a disaster. Absolute disaster. We got back from the hotel and I looked around at the mess and wracked my brain about how to even begin tackling this project. It was going to be hard enough to convince my grown ass partner to help clean, how was I supposed to get his 12 year old kid into the idea too?
I asked Jim to go to the store. We needed beer, sparkling water and three candy bars. He asked why. I said just trust me.
I say, “You guys this night is going to be so fun! I have something great planned!”
“What is it?’ they ask, rightfully suspicious.
“It’s a surprise!!! Ok. First. My phone is screen mirroring to the living room TV on youtube. I get to pick the first song!”
I put on some Blink-182 and crank up the volume.
“Jim! Go get yourself a beer. April, here’s a fancy wine glass, pour your sparkling water in here! Ok, ok everyone in the kitchen! There are three candy bars in the fridge, April. Whoever cleans the most gets to pick which one they get!”
Before they can even process the fact that we’ll be cleaning, I move on.
“But, don’t get too caught up in cleaning because the second the song ends, the first person who races to the phone gets to pick the next one! April you gotta help me beat your dad EVERY TIME otherwise we’re stuck with Tom Waits all night.”
I wink at Jim, but April nods dutifully at the instructions.
“Ok! Jim set a timer for an hour! So everyone understands, we have only one hour to get as much cleaning done as we can!!! Ready? Clink your glasses, cheers, and good luck because I am going to beat you both! Go!!”
My “cleaning party” was a hit. April was sad when it was over. Of course it was rigged and she “won” and got to pick her candy bar.
It wasn’t actually fun. But I said it was going to be fun, so it was.
When I was a kid, we went to a swap meet with my Grandma and Grandpa Johnson. If you don’t know what that is, it’s like a big garage sale. People buy and sell antiques or crafts. Or, like if you’re starting a business you can go there to get your feet wet selling small quantities to try to get your business up and running. This particular meet was huge, the whole sale probably covered a few acres. It was the middle of the summer and after we each spent our five dollars or whatever we’d been given for spending money, we got hot and cranky and bored.
My parents had befriended a man with a blanket booth. His name was Remmi. When we complained we had gotten bored, my mom said, “Help Remmi sell some blankets.”
It was a blast. I felt like such a grown up, helping customers, counting back change. I hardly remember Remmi but I have a vague impression in my distant memory of a kind man with caramel skin and a heavy accent. He thanked us for our “help.” I’m sure we were more of a chore to have underfoot than anything, but he clearly appreciated the energy of kids running around his shop and the company of my parents. He gave us each a blanket for free as we left. I picked one with pandas on it and as I type this piece on my bed, it’s sitting under me.
I made the bed a few days ago. April saw me getting this blanket out of the closet. She said, “Your Remmi blanket! Is that your favorite blanket?”
“It’s one of my favorites. Hey how’d you know it was my Remmi blanket?”
“You told me. You went to a sale when you were little with your Grandpa, I think you called it a swap meet? You helped a guy named Remmi sell blankets then he gave you that one.”
I squinted then vaguely recalled telling her this story I think sometime last summer. I shook my head. I don’t remember her responding to that story beyond a shrug and a nod, but she had been paying attention; she even remembered Remmi’s name.
She really does hear everything I say. What a fucking terrible thought.
I have an anxiety disorder and get panic attacks. I also have insomnia. Severe insomnia.
My mom didn’t know how to deal with the anxiety; this isn’t her fault she literally just didn’t know. So I told her about it and she did the best she could. It was eventually treated by doctors and she apologized that she hadn’t known how to to deal with it more efficiently.
My insomnia she recognized from my father and siblings. She didn’t get it get it, as she’d always say, “I’m asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow!” But she could see it was a thing for us. She’d get up when we came toddling into her room. She’d sit on the couch with us, put on Nick at Nite and fall asleep with us while we watched re-runs of I Love Lucy and Golden Girls.
The one good thing to come out of my myriad experience with panic attacks is that I now know how to help others going through them. This skill has helped me professionally as well as personally. Anxiety runs in my step-daughter’s family so it was sad but not surprising when she started experiencing attacks herself this past year. I won’t go into the details about the attacks because, in spite of the fact that her presentation is literally textbook, she’d hate me sharing. So I’ll just say that she’s getting them, and she has a trigger she has to get past about twice a week.
My mom always says her mom would be proud of who I am. I believe it but have a hard time internalizing it because I remember so little. But I regularly tell my partner she'd love him (except when he is even being remotely unkind to me, then she'd kick his ass). But I confidently tell April without any hesitation that she'd adore her, and show her the picture on my favorite bookshelf of her setting me on her lap and smiling at me as a kid.
When she gets stressed I say, “Hey kiddo, what do you need. You need water, here is some water. I put it in a fancy wine glass.”
She always smiles at this and my plan works. Drinking the water and having it be “fancy,” in a wine glass gets her mind off what her mind is on and she snaps out of it. Then we sit on the couch and watch tv or get a foot massage.
We’ve talked a lot about how the disorder works and why it’s not your fault. I’ve told her, “You know, almost everything about anxiety sucks. But. The one good thing about it is that when you’re an adult and you’ve learned to navigate it, you’re going to be soooooo good at helping others through their own attacks.”
Of course, April is a quick study.
My medications hadn’t been refilled on time a month ago. I was struggling with withdrawals and full of anxiety. I explained what was happening to April.
I slept in that day and was met when I woke, not by my partner, but by April.
“How are you doing Desi? Can I get you anything?”
I said, “Oh no of course not I’m fine. Thank you.”
She said, “Can I get you water?” Without waiting for a response she stands and says, “I’m getting you water." She returns to the living room, precariously balancing one of my tall red wine glasses. "I put it in a fancy wine glass for you."
The other day April, couldn’t sleep. I’m not currently working outside of the home, so I told my partner I would take care of it. I got April a snack and some water. We curled up on the couch under a blanket and watched Golden Girls.
Jim asked me why I wasn’t just sending her to bed. I shrugged, “This is what my mom did with me when I couldn’t sleep.”
I called April yesterday. I asked what she had for lunch. She said a bagel and chips and salsa. I told her what the cats had done then asked her what she was up to during her last week of summer vacation.
April said, “Watching Golden Girls. Do you mind if I let you go? This is a great episode.”
The kids are gonna be alright, y’all.
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