"Seventy-Two"

Today, June 7th, would have been my dad's 72nd birthday and this December marks the twentieth anniversary of his murder. I have spent half of my life without a dad, and to tell the truth, I don't really remember what it's like to even have one.


Every year, when either his birthday, Father's Day, or the anniversary approaches, I tell myself , "Just don't think about it too much. Don't walk around or mope so people will know I am thinking about him. I can think about him, (or not), and cry about him, (or not)." Trying not to think about any of it just makes his absence even more overwhelming, which, of course, makes me cry anyway.


Last night I was looking at some pictures my mom posted on her Facebook page and I was so taken by both my parents' youth, their beauty, their...togetherness. It struck me that once upon half-a-lifetime-ago, I had parents - plural. In that other part of my life, never did I imagine that there would be any parenting done by anything less than two people.


As a kid, I always imagined that when I was a grown woman with my own kids, I'd return to my parents' house - my childhood house- to watch them "grandparent" my children. I struggle now, still trying to imagine what it would have been like. Would my dad be more interactive with them than he was with me? Would my mom have the kids sleep over on weekends and make them teddybear-shaped pancakes in the morning? Would my mom even wake up before 10:30 to make the pancakes? Would my kids climb the same tree that my sisters and I climbed in the backyard? My life seems punctuated with endless question marks. You know, I actually rent out small spaces in the worlds of "what-if," "it's not fair," and "why us? why me?" It's not even like I want to be in any of those places; real estate there is automatically included in the "losing-a-loved-one" package.


On any of the occasions that would typically honor my father's life, like today, it's his death that somehow winds up dominating my mind. It's not the memories of his life, or the memories of the (very) few things we did together that pop into my mind, but the way he died and what my entire family is missing because of his death that saturates my thoughts. However, there are years when his birthday comes and goes almost as if it's like any other day, but maybe because my kids have to be somewhere or the day is simply over-scheduled enough to keep my mind mostly occupied. While I always acknowledge the day somehow, even if silently to myself, and allow it to pass dry-eyed, I will still call my mom just because I want to acknowledge it outloud for her.


So many years have gone by now and all of the people in my daily life have no clue who my father was, including my husband and children. My mother recently said that she wanted to write a memorial to him on the twentieth anniversary of his death because, "I want people to remember him, to remember he was here." Maybe it wasn't in those exact words, but pretty close. When a person passes away, all you hear is that person's name for some time. But then what happens after those first few months or even a year? Nothing. Nobody ever mentions it again, as if that person never existed at all. At least that's how it feels. Certainly, I don't expect anyone to say my dad's name in casual conversation every day for the remainder of my life, but it would be nice if someone had a random memory to share with me about him. I'm a huge believer in sharing; I do it all the time. I remember seeing a friend many years after high school and telling her how I still remembered the smell of the soap in the bathroom of her childhood home, and also a funny story about her father, who had since passed away. She seemed so grateful to know that someone remembered those things, especially about her dad. Honestly, I told her because they were happy memories for me and I really wanted to share them just for the sake of reconnecting through that old childhood bond, but in the end, I was thrilled that it made her feel good on a completely different level.


I feel so accustomed to silence where my own dad is concerned. Sure, every once in awhile you have to tell someone that your loved one is dead if it comes up in coversation, and sure, he or she says they're sorry. As sorry as anyone might be, there's a certain disconnect to their sympathy because they never knew the person who died. I really wish someone in my life actually knew him, knew he existed which makes me understand my mom feels compelled to write a memorial in honor of him. Last night, feeling overwhelmed with life and feeling sad looking at the old pictures of my parents, I started to cry for a few minutes. Nobody wants to be sad alone, so I went downstairs to sit with my son and my husband but I started to cry again. My son asked me what was wrong and I said, "Tomorrow would have been your grandpa's birthday." Neither of them said a word. Their complete, yet faultless, disconnect to my sadness was because neither of them knew my dad nor understood my loss, but their silence made my grief even more suffocating. So, I called my mom.


I really never know exactly how I'm going to feel on Father's Day, when I have to give cards to my husband's dad instead of my own, for instance, or on my dad's birthday, like today. Maybe I'll mention it to my friend if we're on the phone, or I'll call my sister and talk about how old my father would be if he was still alive. Maybe I'll say hi to him when I finally go to bed, in the dark, at the end of a long day full of child-related activities. Maybe I'll cry alone, like I've done many, many times.


What I do know is that I love him and I'm heartbroken that he's not here anymore. But at one time, he was here. For all of you who never knew him, or for all of you who knew I once had a father but don't remember him, his name was Nathan Mizrahi.


And today, he's "Seventy-Two."

Jazz Blues

Tonight I watched my son, Eleven, play his trumpet in one of his last Jazz band concerts in elementary school. This was the third time this week, (and the fourth time in the past two weeks), that I went to whichever school his jazz band "tour" was stopping at to play their groovy tunes. Each time, I couldn't help but stare mostly at the tall boy standing in the back row; the boy who is now taller than his mother; the boy whose mustache has been darkening by the day; the boy who's quickly looking less like a boy and more like a man. I stared simply out of shock because this boy is my son.

I brought my camcorder tonight and zoomed in to watch him as he blew into his trumpet. It was a fight just to get him to go to the concert, partly because he didn't want to miss baseball, and partly because he constantly claims he isn't interested in jazz band, or any band, for that matter, at all. So, we gave him the choice to play most of the game with the option to leave early to get to the concert. He said if he couldn't play the entire ball game, he wasn't going to play at all. This confused me, though, since whenever I tell him he has a baseball game, on nights when there are no conflicting concerts or anything else, he insists he's not going to play ball, either. I can't figure out what this kid wants and that was exactly what I was trying to do as I zoomed in on his face; figure out what was going on inside his head.

He looked sorta bored, sorta sad, even, whenever he removed the trumpet from his lips. His shoulders looked all slumpy, which is not unusual for him, as this posture is his norm when he's not feeling confident in himself. I nudged Forty-Three in the ribs, partly to hurt him, but mostly to get his attention.

Thirty-Nine: "He's all slumpy. He has no confidence."
Forty-Three: " ."

No, that's not a typo; Forty-Three is a man of limited responses. He just sort of nodded in agreement.

But I didn't need any response anyway. As a mother, I knew what I needed to do regardless of whether Forty-Three had anything to grunt in agreement or disagreement about. When the last sounds of Louie Louie faded out and as the children started filing off the stage, I found my son's band teacher and thanked her for the wonderful work with the band and the music program. I also thanked her, as I'm apt to do in my end-of-the-school-year thank you notes, as well, for her utter belief in my son and his innate musical ability. I wanted him to play a solo in the concert and expressed how sad I felt that he simply lacked the desire or the confidence to do so. It was difficult not to break down in tears, as again, I am apt to do when I talk about my kids, when I thanked her for encouraging him endlessly, and even admitted to her that I felt that not only was he letting her down by not practicing his instrument, but that I, too, was letting her down because I couldn't force him to love the trumpet or make him play like she believed he could play. She told me not to give up on him because even though next year in Junior High school he would probably lose interest, (lose even more interest, really), he might get it back. (unfortunately, though, I am not hearing wonderful things about the school's musical department, so.... a big "uh-oh" right there).
By the time we got home to watch my DVR'd American Idol, I still couldn't help thinking about my Eleven: an awesome trumpeter, an impressive home-run-hitter, a phenomenal third-base man. On top of that, he's also a smart, handsome kid with a good heart and a sensitive little soul. I stopped the DVR playback for what turned out to be a good ten minutes in order to tell my unconfident child some things he needed to hear.

I told him that because he has so many people believing in him, he needs to try to believe in himself, as well. Maybe it's wrong to do so on some level, but I told him that I never believed in myself and that I still struggle with that every day of my life - and I'm close to forty years old. I told him that I always allowed other people's negative opinions about me to become my opinions about me instead of believing all the good things I really knew to be true about myself. Every teacher he has ever had since preschool only had glowing things to report about his capabilites. Use them, I told him. Don't waste your youth trying to be too cool, or sitting in front of video games all day. Take the love and encouragement from your teachers and from us to feed your talents. Yes, I'm annoying, yes, I push you, I continued, but all for good reason. I wanted to play the piano and the drums, but I never got to. I never had the push that you have. Take advantage of it, I implored. I only do these things because I see how disappointed you are in yourself, how you don't think you are any good. Youth is when you can explore what you like, what you're good at. This is your time to blossom, I said.

He was laying on the loveseat, his long legs and big feet hanging over the side. I could see the thicker hair on his manlier-looking legs. But the way he was looking up at me was so child-like, so innocent. For the first time in, wow, I don't even know how long, I think he was actually listening to me. And not the one ear to me, one ear to Family Guy kind of listening, but absorbing listening. My tear ducts let one or two drops sneak out. You don't even know the depth of my love or pride, I added.

Eleven didn't turn away from me like he usually would even though I knew he was exhausted and that he just wanted to watch Adam Lambert and Kris Allen sing their final songs. He looked up at me, waiting. I added as much as I could, as much as I could articulate at 11 PM and with only 8 hours of sleep in two days. I, too, was so tired, but I took this "alone time" as an opportunity to share my desires with him as a parent. I begged him to learn from me, not because I am his mom, or only because I'm older, which we all know doesn't always mean wiser, or not because I know everything there is to know, but only because in this instance - the believing in oneself department - I know whereof I speak. The gist of everything I was talking about came down to using his youth, talents, and the push from his educators and parents to his advantage and not to let it slip away before it was too late.

He fell asleep, still in his black pants and white button-down, sprawled on that small couch. It still hurts me that I can no longer lift him up, carry him upstairs, change him into his Spiderman pajamas, and tuck him into bed. But if I can lift him up in other ways, then so be it.

As adults, we always wish we knew then what we know now, and when we were children, we thought we knew everything. I still don't know why my son looked so unhappy on that stage tonight, whether he really was just bored, or if he was feeling anxious just because he's Eleven going on Twelve and that's what eleven year olds going on twelve look like. Was he up there wishing he was at baseball? Was he up there angry that I was clapping proudly in the audience?
Was he up there thinking about a negative observation his friend pointed out earlier today that made him feel self-conscious?

As a mother, I can only guess about these things, but I do hope that now when my son has that certain look on his face, that maybe he's thinking about something important I once told him.

The Memory-Repeater's Daughter

My mother always has a memory or a story to tell... and retell and retell and retell. It's come to the point that each time she tells me, my sisters, Forty-One and Forty-Six, a story, she prefaces it with, Now stop me if I'm repeating myself. Did I tell you about the time when daddy got drunk...

DAUGHTERS: "STOP!"

Whenever she's in New York, there's never, ever a story she doesn't retell. She can tell me one in the kitchen, yet when we move into the living room five minutes later, she inevitably begins to tell me the same thing, even if she re-words it somehow in order to make it seem like something fresh and new.

Thirty-Eight Plus One: "MOM!"

Sixty-Six: "Oh, I don't know who I tell what."

Me and Forty-One laugh. Hysterically at times.

Sixty-Six: "Just keep laughing at your old mother. You'll miss me when I drop dead."

More laughter.

A few months ago, I went to Forty-One's, and sat at the kitchen table, our usual spot to wax totally unpoetic about life. Sixty-Six happened to be present, as she likes to fly north for the winter to spend Hannukahmas with her grandkids. So I plopped my ass down and started doodling on a scrap of paper from the ever-present pile o'papers whose purpose, I decided, seems to be for doodle-friendly people. I begin my normal doodle, Slash from Guns N Roses.

Me: (sighing) "I hate everyone."

Forty-One: (bigger sigh) "Me too."

Nota Bene: This is how we usually start our daily conversations.

Sixty-Six, plopping into her spot, coffee mug in one hand, a brand new, undoodled newspaper under her arm, throws her Snappy, which is the name of her cigarette case, onto the doodle pile: "Stop me if I'm repeating myself, now. Did I tell you about your cousin's dog? He has cancer and it started in his toe.

Now thankfully, we can allow her to continue, as this story is not part of her usual repertoire. She tells us about the dog's toe and how it was infected and that the vet discovered cancer. Sad stuff.

A few more doodles, a half-hearted glance at Forty-One's almost-completed Cryptoquote and Word Jumble, a fruitless search in her fridge for something I can pluck out and pop in my mouth, and I'm done with them... for a while. I always find myself back there later, though, sitting in the same seat, doodling on the same paper.

Round Two, two hours later:

Me: "Everyone annoys me.

Forty-One: "Me too."

Sixty-Six: "Oh, you two are annoying. Did I tell you your cousin's dog..."

Us, Eighty: "Stop!"

Sixty-Six: "Oh, I don't know who I tell what.

This goes on all day, the next day, and then the following three days after that. (I had actually warned Sixty-Six before she got to NY that she should save up some new material for when she gets here, that way, there'd be no repetition). So after day six of doodles, word jumbles and me and Forty-One driving Sixty-six to the brink of madness with our banter about how people suck, the conversations tend to get stale really quickly. When I sense that they're both about to kick me out of Forty-One's kitchen, though, I start talking about anything random because even though there's nothing left to rant about, there are times when I'm just not ready to leave.

Me: "Eleven scored three baskets the other night."

Sixty-Six: "Oh, good, good."

Forty-One: "He's so handsome."

Pause...

Sixty-Six lights up her Doral cigarette, which is like the no-name version of a Camel and a constant source for jokes. They taste and smell worse than any other cigarette but because they're so cheap, she maintains it's worth it. They're like ten bucks a carton but they contain questionable ingredients. That Sixty-Six; she's a thrifty ol' lady with lungs of steel.

Pausing continues. When there's too much silence, the sudden death of the conversation unnerves me because it means we've exhausted all facets of the "why people suck" and "remember when we were little..." stories and I know I'm going to have to leave. But when nobody makes a move to dress or if there's still furious doodling happening, I know we're good. We somehow find our way back to the default conversation that never gets tiresome:

Forty-One: "I'm hungry."

And there it is.

The subject of food invariably leads to what could be hours of sometimes exciting, often times frustrating, conversation. While the excitement of talking about gobs of melted, browning cheese and chili covered with Fritos is still hot, I always manage to quash the entire, exhilirating exchange:

Thirty-Eight Plus One: "Well... all this talk is making me hungry too but I still have to lose seven pounds."

A new cloud of Doral smoke pollutes the air.

Sixty-Six: "Shut up already!"

Forty-One: "Yeah, really! We're sick of hearing it already!"

Sixty-Six: "I'm going back to Florida. Can't you find something new to say?"

I sit there, simultaneously astounded by her nerve and my sudden impulse to eat the refrigerator, and because I'm dietarily challenged, vomit it back up. She gets up and lets the dog, Five, inside, who's been outside barking incessantly.

Sixty-Six: "Oh, did I tell you about your cousin's dog...?"

Eighty: "Yes!!"

By the time I leave there, it's time to get the kids from school. I remind Eleven that he has a game and needs to do homework right away. No hanging out with friends, either.

Eleven: "I know. You told me last night."

We eat dinner at five because his game is at 6:45. At five-thirty I tell him to do his homework.

Eleven: "I KNOW! You told me already."

At six o'clock, he's laying upside down on the couch watching Family Guy.

T.E.P.O.: "Your homework is all done?"

Eleven: "No."

Just like that. He answers without fear of getting in trouble. He answers the question evenly, like I just asked him if he likes peas.

T.E.P.O.: "Do your homework! You have a game tonight!"

Eleven: "I know! How many times do you have to repeat yourself?!"

Who the ef is this kid anyway, talking to me like that? I only repeat myself because apparently, telling him three times isn't sufficiently getting the idea through his skull.

I need a talkative adult around me so I force my mom to come to my house the next day, thinking a change of scenery might spark something interesting to talk about. She sits on the couch and we talk about how annoying children are when it comes to homework. She starts telling me how annoying I was when I was a kid because if I got a ninety on something, I would come home and re-do it because I wasn't happy with the original mark.

T.E.P.O: "I know, Mom! You tell me that every time we talk about my kids or my horribly low self esteem."

Seven hurls herself onto my lap room several times throughout the night and each time, I tell her to shower. Each time she comes back, she's still dry.

T.E.P.O: "You'll smell really bad if you don't. When I was your age, there was a girl that smelled like pee pee and once at a sleepover...

"Seven: "STOP! You always repeat yourself, Mommy."

I know there's an evil giggle burbling inside my mother somewhere deep down; she gets this sick satisfaction when one of the kids does something to me that either me, Forty-One or Forty-Six do, or had done, to her. I think I hear a quiet little "ha-ha" as she passes me to go outside to smoke. So I go outside to sit with her as she puffs her Dorals.

Sixty-Six: "See what happens? No matter how much you kids say you're not like me, you are."

And it's true. I've become the Memory Repeater's Daughter.