Let Me Do It

I am writing this blog today to my children and their spouses. It's a blog that I am writing to share with you just how much I love you and love your children. And, it's a blog to convey a message--
Let me do it, please.

You see, some of my greatest memories are of my time with my paternal grandmother. She was my favorite, as are your children, mine. I loved her so much. In many ways, she was a lot like me. Goofy, funny, silly, and a dreamer. Yes, we had differences, but that made our relationship even fuller. My memories carry me through times of looking back, longing, and reflection. 

I believe my relationship with my grandma has played a huge part in how I relate to your children. For instance, I like taking them shopping — 5 Below and Target are their favorites; mine was Thrifty Drug store.  My grandma would give me a couple of dollars, and I would usually buy nail polish. There were no restrictions--I loved that. Any color. Cool. 
We'd get 5-cent ice cream cones and walk around the store, just browsing and talking. She listened to me, and I could say anything. Your kids can also. They can tell me anything, and I'll listen.

My grandkids like going to the local frozen custard stands and getting those soft-serve cones, yum. Maybe, we even top it off the next morning (if they spend the night) with donuts. It doesn't get better than that. So let me, let me make those memories with my grandkids too, please.

I also remember times of playing in the sprinklers with my cousins. Laughing, playing tag, or not, it, or any other dumb game we could come up with. Cousin time, it's the best, especially at Grandma's house. Get it?

You know, I never thought of my grandmother as babysitting me. I was just at-- grandma's house. I had fun being with her, just as I hope your kids have fun being with me.  I realize that I can't recreate the exact times and places that I had with my grandmother, but I can create new times, our times, grandma times.

I tease sometimes that I am willing to buy their love.  I buy them simple things, though, if you think about it.  Water guns, silly string, and sidewalk chalk--little things that in their future will come with big memories. That's what I'm created--big memories. So please, let me.

With my youngest grandchild being 3 years old and my oldest being 17, I see that this grandma time has a shelf life. I'm thinking that within the next 10 years or so, my time to make these memories will be up. 10 years. That's just not enough time for me. I long for more--time. I want to hug them, have sleepovers, buy them junk food, and dumb toys. I want to read to them, go camping with them, and just plain old hang out with them. I want to do so many things, and yet I do see, off on the horizon, an end time. And it makes me sad.

So, do me this one favor. Let me do it. Let me be with them. Spoil them. Spend money on them. 
I only have a little time left to make an impression on them, make memories for them, let me be a grandma for just a little while longer. Let me do it.

And now, I'm speaking to you, in-law kiddos of mine. I hope you all know just how much I love you guys. Wow, what special people you are. Wonderful partners for my children, awesome parents to my grandchildren. What a true blessing and answer to prayer. I did pray, you know. Hard. Once I found out that I was pregnant, I prayed. I prayed so very hard over my babies. I laid my hands upon my stomach and asked God for so many things. Too many, probably, but that's just how much I loved those babies of mine.  And I prayed for their spouses even then. It might sound crazy, but you all know me by now. I'm a real planner, so I figured I'd get a head start. And God answered my prayers. He brought all of you into their lives and into ours.  And then along came my grandchildren. One by one until there were 7. What a blessing, again. I feel blessed beyond measure.

And now, do me a favor, I want you to look at your kids today and try to imagine them married with children. Think about how much you love your kids. Really think.  It brings you to tears, doesn't it? Now imagine loving their kids —your grandkids — their flesh and blood, your flesh and blood. You'd do anything for them. 

That's how I feel. So, let me do it. I don't consider it babysitting. I don't consider it a favor. I don't consider it anything other than being blessed enough by the God that I love and serve to get to love on and spoil my grandbabies. So, let me do it. Capisce? And stop it. Stop making me feel as though I'm doing you a huge favor. I'm not. Don't you get it? You're doing me one. You are the one doing me the favor. Nothing makes me happier than spending time with my grandkids, nothing.

So, here is the takeaway from this long blog. My grandma loved me. I loved her. I also love my kids and their kids. And, they love me. Let us develop our own relationships. Believe me, you'll understand one day.

Continue, without guilt, to ask me to babysit, no! not babysit, ask me to be their grandma for just a little while longer. OK? I want to do it, let me!

So, who needs a grandma? I'm available.

Me and LA

When I was almost 10 years old, my family moved to LA. Los Angeles, the city of angels.  Don't ask. Well, actually, I'll tell you. My dad's business was going kaput, so he needed to find a job post-haste with another realty firm. And my parents thought Southern California might be nice. I don't remember much about the actual move--we sold (or maybe lost) our house, sold our furniture, packed our most valuable treasures (mine were stuffed animals and books), and hit the road. It took us about 6 hours to get down there. Yes, we drove.

There we were, the 4 of us--our car, some suitcases, and not much else. My folks rented a small home in Venice. Venice in the '60s. Now there's a not-so-nice thought. Let me explain why. Riots. Riots to the left, right, and middle of us. I recall hearing gunshots during the night. I was terrified. Things were dicey. Scary.  I remember the day my dad sat us girls down for a talk about race. What? What is race exactly? I really didn't have a clue. I had friends who were just 2 kinds of people. Boys and girls. Period. This black and white stuff? Unimportant to me. I started school the next semester at a predominantly African American school. Honestly, it was irrelevant to me. I was 10 years old. Who cares! Just let me play teether ball, kickball, maybe some hopscotch, and have fun. And you know what? Most of us kids felt that way. We were there to have fun, be together, and make friends. Let the adults sort it out. It made no difference to us.

As usual, we moved soon after into another apartment, this one in a nicer neighborhood — Westwood —and then, a few months later, to Beverly Hills, with lots of Jewish kids. For me, it still made little difference except for the fact that I now wanted to become Jewish more than anything. So, my mom bought me a beautiful little Star of David necklace for Christmas that year.  I was so proud of it. We moved during Christmas vacation, though, and I never got to show it off.

This next move was into East LA. Yep, brain surgeons, my parents were not. Again, other than changing schools for the 4th time in 2 years, kids are kids.  I made friends easily. And these friends were Mexican. Good food. Beautiful families. Gangs all around us. What a life. My best friend at that particular school was Estelita. I loved her family. Typical Mexican, 4 kids, cute bungalow home, warm, friendly people, who (I believe) felt sorry for me. They took me everywhere with them. Their family was a little different from ours, in a good way, though. They had huge gatherings — food, music, so much fun. Culturally, they were different.  The women prepared the food; the dads ate first, and then the women and children sat down to eat.  I always wondered about that, but hey, free good food--what's to complain about?

I was soon going to be entering what we referred to back then as Junior High. 7th grade. Time for gang initiation. I told my folks what I had to look forward to, according to my new school friends.  And before the semester was up, we high-tailed it back up to Northern California.  Oh, what a life.

I have to say, I loved my time in Southern California.  I met some awesome friends. Had some fantastic food. Great learning experiences.  Learned a lot about cultural differences and felt, for the most part, as though I had spent some time abroad.  Yes, it was that different. Maybe that is what eventually sparked my interest in travel, who knows. I just know that my life lessons during that specific time were invaluable. They changed me. Unlike some of my Northern California friends who had never moved out of their city, let alone their homes, I felt different.  I had had some life experiences that they hadn't. I didn't even realize it at the time.  I did not know I would end up so accepting of all nationalities, foods, cultures, and beliefs.  And yes, I knew they weren't the same as mine; however, I saw the beauty in those differences. They were so much a part of my being. Again, I did not realize it until I became an adult and found myself defending those very groups of people.  After all, I had lived among them, I knew them, and while I agree we were different, were we really? 

Looking back, this is what I know — my friends were wonderful. Their parents accepted this little white girl into their homes.  They fed me, let me join in family celebrations, gave me hand-me-downs (as we were quite poor during those years), and treated me like one of them.  I learned about Mexican culture through them. I learned how to cook Mexican food, and I was taught the culture between men and women, husbands and wives, and the little differences. I loved it. As for black culture — well, I have a funny little story to share. My best friend while living in Venice was Jackie. One day after school, she asked me to come over and play. The best part of the day was when I showed up and witnessed the shocked look on her mother's face.  She had assumed I was Mexican because of my name. We had a good laugh about that. She told me later that she was afraid that my parents might get mad if they ever found out that Jackie was black. I said — oh no, they know she's black. They don't care. Jackie's mom was pretty impressed by that. Yes, I have some pretty wonderful memories of those friends in Southern California. I wonder if they remember me?   I wonder if they know how they shaped my character, my personality, and my desire for travel?  I wonder if they knew how much I loved them and appreciated their teaching me about their cultures, their way of life, and for letting me be one of them?

I believe they taught me some very critical life lessons.
Lessons of love, acceptance, and sameness.
For three short years, they became my people, and I became theirs.