To Edna With Love

My mother-in-law passed away the other day following a stroke.

Dr. Edna Richard was 76. 

She passed away barely six months after my father-in-law.  To lose loved ones so suddenly, in succession, leaves us with heavy hearts and often overwhelming grief.

And memories.  Rich, wonderful memories. 

Edna Richard gave the world three wonderful daughters while presenting countless more in a career that spanned over 40 years. 

As an Ob/Gyn, Dr. Richard's eyes were the first ones seen by hundreds of babies.  She spent her life caring for families in their most intimate, joyous moments.

Now that she's gone (and not subject to a howling hospital administrator) I can share a little secret:  She  kissed each and every baby on the forehead before handing it over to the mother. 

Dr. Edna Richard was a beautiful, elegant woman.  My wife has fond childhood memories of waiting in the living room for her parents to descend for some "warm up" dancing before a night on the town.

She was always impeccably dressed, always in a dress, except once, an experience as odd for me as catching Mitt Romney in a Soul Train dance line.

She loved and embraced me and my two children as her own (we like to say in our family the only "steps" lead to another floor).  And once we gave her two additional granddaughters, well, I was good as gold.  

Naturally, for a woman who had at least 50 Godchildren, her grandchildren were the best, the brightest and most beautiful.  "She is so intell-eee-jent," she would gush in her thick Haitian accent, "She connn-nnnnects with people."

Other than watching a kid devour ice cream there are few greater pleasures than watching a grandparent in their element.   

Trust me, if Edna had her way they would be hammering away on Mt. Rushmore for her six grandchildren.

My mother-in-law had a wonderful, often unintended sense of humor.  Countless times I would be sitting in a room with her and Tania (my wife) listening to them speak French and she would turn to me and remind me, in English, that Haitians often speak French.  Then she would turn around and go back to speaking French.

Haitian custom calls for posing stoically, straight faced, in photographs.  It's mostly generational, and if you look closely you see pride bursting through.

When people die we go through photos.  For me, one stands out. 
In it my bride to be, hours from her wedding, is standing in sweatpants and a t-shirt, wearing her veil and a smile set to last through the evening. Her mother is next to her, holding her hand.

On this day, in this picture, Mom is smiling.

And somewhere, today, she is still smiling down on her daughters, her grandchildren, and all of the children she cradled and kissed through the years.

Godspeed cherie.

Wrestlemania, Youth Edition

At 6:00 am last Sunday, my son Thomas, age 13, and I headed out to his club wrestling tournament.

Cue the theme from Rocky, "Gonna Fly Now."

Youth wrestling tournaments are quite the spectacle, beginning with the early morning traffic jam for weigh ins.  We arrive just before 7:00 am at the dark, dank gymnasium north of Chicago, a perfect setting for a blue collar sport.  Forget the brie and chardonnay, this is a Velveeta and Red Bull crowd.  Kids file in with gear over their shoulders, parents carrying coolers.  Once inside, the kids are round up like Holsteins to have their weight, hair and fingernails checked.

After a quick team warm-up, we all sit, and sit, teams and parents clustered together on hard, unforgiving bleachers, which is fitting. 

Wrestling is a grueling sport, who's one-on-one nature and continuous movement results in a twisting, reaching, ongoing vulnerability.  I competed in high school with teammates who now coach my son.  We are all older, fatter and balder, but the lessons remain.  As legendary Iowa coach Dan Gable says, "Once you've wrestled, everything else is easy." 

Beginning at 9:00 am up to 12 matches take place at once on four mats, made possible because kids as young as 5 don't need much room.  Groups of kids are called up to the "bullpen" room by age group, then sent out to wrestle each other, often after a 30 minute wait with nothing to do but stare and flex at each other.

Whoever came up with chaos theory had youth wrestling tournaments in mind.  Where else can a parent sit for over seven hours to watch their child in action for a total of 30 minutes, presuming each six minute match "goes the distance," which at the youth level is as likely as Tim Tebow embracing Buddha.  Unlike baseball or choir (my oldest daughter's passion), where you are vested in a "team" because your kid is part of a group, it's hard to get excited watching the 40 or so matches before my guy is up.  Then again I have never seen someone throw a hip toss on a mezzo soprano.

At the youth level matches are quick and random.  Last year, Thomas lost a close match, after which I went for my constitutional. As I emerged, his coach ran up to me and said, "Man, what a great turnaround." Turns out he pinned another kid while I was, ahem, away.

On this day, Thomas lost his first match, then battled back against three opponents to take fourth place, winning a nice medal (any parent knows it's all about the hardware). 

We headed back around 4:30, stopping for his obligatory McFlurry before we talk about the day.  In his fourth match, for third place, he faced a kid known for headlocks, youth wrestling's version of a "one trick pony."  Thomas countered him the first two times, stepping in and managing a takedown, but missed the third time and got pinned.  I tell him how proud I am, for persevering, at which point he flashes a sheepish grin and says, "Thanks Dad, but I was just tired and ready to go."

Marv Levy, who led the Buffalo Bills to four straight Super Bowls, used to walk the field during warm-ups and ask his players, "Is there anywhere you would rather be than right here, right now." 

My answer, of course, is no. 

Growth 1, Resolutions 0

I'm not much for New Year's resolutions. 

I'm not much for New Year's anything besides football, movies, Chinese take out, busting out the karaoke player or a good game of cards.

Many years ago I got in the habit of taping the "Rockin' New Year" show with the ball at Times Square.  The kids and I would watch over breakfast, same result.

A creature of habit, that I am. 

But I have never been big on resolutions.

Not that I don't reflect or look to improve.  That I do quite a bit.

Since I hit my forties, perhaps coinciding with my metabolism's screeching halt, I took aim at three things I have always wanted to do, but not with a big pronouncement on January 1st.

I picked up a guitar several years ago. 

I thought it would be fun to play for the kids, though I picture them telling stories someday of the times Dad "held us against our will" to hear the opening riff of "Day Tripper" several hundred times.  Today I could probably earn half a sandwich on a subway platform.

I took a year's worth of improvisation classes at Second City, performing a few times with an ensemble which was great fun.  I would love to do more but one artist in the family is enough. 

And I started this blog. 

A couple of years ago my boss at the time handed out an evaluation with space for "personal goals."  I wrote that I wanted to start a blog. 

Check.

If you are a reader of Just...Getting...Started, loyally or occasionally, I thank you.  The response has been great. 

Lord knows I have opinions.  The idea of being "out there" with them and that people would enjoy reading them is both flattering and humbling. 

Changes are coming in the new year as I take Just...Getting...Started to a bigger stage.  Stay tuned. 

And Happy New Year to all. 

Some Zzzs Please

Have you heard about "Go the Fu*k To Sleep?"  Described as a "children's book for adults," it's pure genius.  Check out Samuel L. Jackson on this youtube link:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hNhnCD0EZtE

C'mon, this is funny stuff.  It's O.K. to laugh.

I love "Go The F*ck to Sleep" because it's another chink in the "perfect parent" armor; A sippy cup in the eye of the parenting fantasy as nothing but smooches and ice cream.

Parenting is a full contact sport.  I would love for my kids to go to sleep on demand, just like I'd love walls without hand prints or a bedroom that doesn't double as a doll and toy minefield.  And while we're at it, I'd like to wear dry cleaning within a mile of my house. 

How can beings so small, so cute, be so utterly destructive and exhausting?

As far as kids and sleep goes, so far I'm 2-for-4.  My twins were easy on the sleep front once they passed age two, though early on it felt like Vietnam.

These days, my younger ones are creating their own legacy.

When Audra was two she went through a diva phase, constantly changing her clothes.  One night I awoke to the thump of little feet.  Over the next week or so I would open her bedroom door and find her in one of three states:

1.  Naked in front of a pile of clothes.
2.  Asleep on top of a pile of clothes, either naked or in a, ahem, creative ensemble.
3.  Running around the room in a creative ensemble.

We were forced to move all clothes to the top shelves of her closet. 

As parents, we continually move things higher, out of a kid's way, as if a flood has struck the living room.  Show me your refrigerator door and I can guess your kids age within two years. 

Then there's Drea, who somehow can't fall asleep unless strapped into a car seat, and appears ready to vault out of her crib a la Mary Lou Retton.

If I can stay awake long enough, look for my follow-up book, "I'm Too Old For This Sh*t."

Nobody's Foil on 9/11

Aluminum foil.

My wife will tell you I have an aversion to it.  A big one.

I'm not afraid of it, but won't use it, unless I have no choice. 

Growing up, my father used aluminum foil.  And reused it.  There was a drawer in our kitchen full of crumpled, crinkly used pieces of foil. 

In fact, I don't recall seeing a fresh sheet of aluminum foil, coming from the box, until my mid-twenties.

We didn't grow up poor, and my parents aren't cheap. 

My father, my parents, were children of war. 

My Dad was 8 years old on December 7, 1941.  

He grew up outside of St. Louis in a home often shared with soldiers from a nearby military base.

He knew sacrifice.  As part of the war effort, aluminum was rationed along with food and other commodities.  

He never forgot. 

Growing up I remember hijackings and showdowns with the Soviets.  I remember sitting in the school hallway with my head under a book, hiding from nukes, or whatever was headed our way. 

I wondered how, when I heard about guerrilla warfare, they managed to escape the zoo and learn how to use a gun. 

I remember vividly "The Day After," a movie about life after a nuclear bomb hits Lawrence, Kansas. 

Have you seen any 9/11 specials, or read any articles?

So far I've seen little.  It's too raw, too soon, too real. 

They say 9/11 is our generations' Pearl Harbor.  

If 9/11 was our Pearl Harbor, the parallel ends there, as we engaged in two wars which involved no shared sacrifice.  No draft, war bonds or rationing.  A missed opportunity by our leaders to truly unite our country. 

My oldest children (twins) were 3 years old on 9/11.

My children, like my parents, are children of war, but they're growing up with little sense that life is different.  They need to be reminded of war, which is sad. 

So do we.  Other than a longer wait for an airplane, we have little tangible evidence of war, other than lives sacrificed and a $3 trillion Visa bill. 

Are we safer today than ten years ago?  It seems we are, but seems is the operative word. 

My twins, now in 8th grade, came home from school this week with a questionnaire for parents about 9/11.  I found myself defining terrorism.  "If we're scared or back down from our way of life, the terrorists win."

My daughter Nora asked, "What can we do to remember 9/11?" 

That's an easy one.  Cherish our freedom, and never forget.

My parents probably don't know Kid Rock from a pet rock, but they would appreciate his anthem "Born Free."  My kids do. 

And they don't use aluminum foil.