Contact Me

Any time - drop me an email
miriamhendeles@gmail.com
1-323-243-7116

Contact Me

Any time - drop me an email
miriamhendeles@gmail.com
1-323-243-7116

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Fidget Spinners and Other Fun Grandchildren Bonding Activities

 

One of the reasons I love being a grandmother is that I think of every interaction with them as fun. Just having a silly conversation and making funny faces with my two and a half year old grandson is a blast but that’s another article!

A few weeks ago, reader Leah Hastings of Pure Flix media, wrote in to suggest I post some ideas for grandmothers to do with their grandchildren. Thanks, Leah!

So….Here are 10 fun ideas which are a mixture of culturally Jewish ideas and general population ideas. All are good, but since I’m a Jewish Bubby or grandmother, I veer towards the Jewish stuff! So come along with me and explore these ideas….

  1. Listen to CD’s of a  funny tape: My grandchildren love to listen to funny tapes which are usually educational stories and songs acted out by professional writers and actors and sold in Judaica stores. Really fun tapes filled with lessons on good character traits  are “When Zaidy Was Young”  and “The Marvelous Midos Machine”.These are wonderfully entertaining – for adults and children –and are useful for playing in the car during long and short errands. Play it at home in the kitchen or family room and sit around and laugh and learn. It’s great stuff and the lyrics and tunes will stay with you for a long time.
  2. Sharing Fads and Crazes: When I was a child, it was the Hula Hoop. When our kids were growing up it was the Rubik’s Cube which went out of style and then came back a few years ago when my own grandsons were pre-schoolers! How perfect. Just these past few weeks, the newest fad is the FIDGET SPINNER.                      It’s wild. It’s great for the kids to have something to share with their friends (during recess only, I’m told!) It’s not too expensive or hard on the parents’ wallets.  It’s fun for those kids with or without ADHD. (but don’t we all have a little bit of ADHD?) And best of all, it’s great as a conversation starter.  I love listening to my grandsons tell me about this fad, showing me how it works and asking my many silly questions (they are very patient with me!).
  3. Friday Night Shabbat Meal: Another fun activity revolves around our Friday night Shabbos or Shabbat meal when our son, daughter-in-law and grandsons eat with us. Every week, they come home from school with a handout from their teacher. The handout consists of questions on topics from the Torah Portion or Parsha of the week that the children have learned. My husband and my son read through the questions and when one of the kids doesn’t know the answer or hesitates, my husband makes up some silly choices with the correct choice being the only logical one. This always gets the boys to laugh and warms my heart because I know we are creating memories.
  4. Baseball Game Outing: Every summer we take the boys to a Dodger Game and the boys love it. It has become a tradition for the past six years since our older grandson was only three. It’s hard to believe he sat still for the entire game at that age, but he did. Anyway, we bring along hot dogs from home and other snacks and take lots of pictures and my husband explains the game to the boys and it’s really a lot of fun. Their mommy and daddy don’t come along, by the way. It’s a great way to give them time off. Oh yeah, we are due for that trip to the ballpark this summer, but the season just started so we’ll wait a month or so.
  5. Day at the Park: This is simple fun – we usually do this on a Sunday afternoon. We grab some balls of all sizes, sandwiches, water bottles, mitts and some scooters. And we head to the park and have a picnic. We haven’t done this for some time and just writing about it is making me excited to suggest it for a future Sunday.
  6. Playing Board or Card Games: As mentioned above, the most popular one is chess. I rarely beat my grandsons and the game goes by pretty fast before they “check-mate” me, so this one doesn’t take that much time. But it’s fun while it lasts.
  7. Reading Books – I love reading “The Cat in the Hat” to my 2 year old grandson. He gets really into it and  he points to the pictures on the page, enthusiastically naming  them. We have a blast, turning the pages (when he lets!)  and discuss his topics about the “fish,” and the “water,” and Thing One and Thing Two.
  8. Singing Songs and Finger Plays: I love singing songs to my toddler grandson. I also enjoy doing the motions and watching him giggle, sing and imitate my motions. He already knows some of the songs like “Itsy Bitsy Spider” and others from his playgroup so he’s an experienced guy. Recently we did “Head, shoulders, knees and toes….” and I just adore the way he’s picking up all the names of body parts.
  9. Piano Lessons: The old expression is that the shoemaker’s kids go barefoot, but this piano teacher is not going to allow her grandsons to grow up without piano lessons. So even if I have to give them a lesson here and there when we see each other and when I and they have time, I will do that! So far it’s been fun, if not sporadic. A few lessons on rhythm, note reading and such. They love it, I love it, and it keeps us bonding. And by the way, when they prepared an anniversary card for my husband and me several months ago, they wrote about us “Omi (that’s my grandmother name!) teaches us how to play piano!” And reading that made me proud!
  10. Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf: It’s always a fun tradition to take the boys for a cookie or Danish, or other snack at the Coffee Bean near our home. It serves as a special time with grandparents.

“Nachas,” Grandchildren and Facebook

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I’m a Nachas-ist. Yep. You read right. I’m addicted to “nachas.” Now, nachas – (pronounced nakh-es) according to the dictionary is Yiddish for joy or blessings,pride especially from one’s children and grandchildren.

The truth is that there is no English word or phrase that captures the exact nuance of what nachas is. Not one of the words – joy, pride, blessed feeling – conveys the true meaning of what we know to be “nachas.”

Nachas is so unique to the Jewish culture with the stereotypical grandmother/Bubby or Mom who kvells (there goes another non-translatable Yiddish word) about her progeny.

groovy-granny

So back to being a Nachassist, I believe that I spend most of my existence as a grandmother kvelling (loosely translated as inner boasting, bragging) about the little and not-so-little-anymore boys who were born from my children- otherwise known as grandsons.

Cute ones. Adorable ones. Smart. Talented. Athletic. Perceptive. Kind.

hands

Oh and handsome and charming too.

And did I mention that I am absolutely NOT prejudiced or biased at all? I mean anyone will attest to the above claims.

So how am I a nachassist? You see, I thrive on nachas. (See above descriptions. We’re showing, not telling here.)

Nachas is what keeps me going. And nachas is what also keeps me distracted from doing what I have to do as in when I tell my 5-year old (irresistible) grandson, “Will you just stop being so cute? I can’t stand it anymore and I can’t get anything done with you around. Go away, okay?”

And he smiles back at me, in that knowing way. He gets it. He knows that I don’t have patience for too much cuteness. Then I tell my daughter-in-law (his mother) that they should make it illegal to be so cute.

The last few weeks, I agonized  at how little I wrote, blogged, read or did anything of significance with my brain because all I could do is kvell.

And you know, kvelling and accomplishing just don’t go together.

Now, in case you think that Nachassists are similar to Narcissists in that they have a personality disorder, think again.

Nachassists are not bad or selfish or damaged. They are simply human and they are just doing what comes naturally when good things come our way in life.

You see, even if you don’t have grandchildren, you can display a healthy dose of nachassism with regard to anything good in your life.

For example, if you have a child who is accepted to an Ivy League university, you have joy and pride in what the child has accomplished. That’s “nachas.” (if you’re not Jewish you call it something else, but you get my drift).

And if you worked really hard to play a Beethoven Sonata on the piano and then you perform it perfectly (or almost perfectly) in front of a large audience, you have nachas from yourself.

Nachas is that good old-fashioned, cuddly feeling you get when  you or someone you love gets or earns something really good and worthy of pride.

Now, sometimes “nachassism” can veer into dangerous territory and perhaps earn a not so nice reputation like its cousin “narcissism.”

How? When a Nachassist gets an urge to post a picture of his or her progeny on Facebook, it can cause some issues. For example, if the nachassist forgets to ask permission from the parents of the cute, adorable and irresistible kids. That can pose a problem of privacy being invaded into the young family’s territory, a feeling of being intruded upon.

And that’s when nachassism gets a little sticky.

The simple way for a nachassist to prevent any problems is to ask permission. Then, the parents of said children can either say yes or no. (hopefully they say yes, right?)

If yes is the response, the nachassist is free to post that photo for all his/her facebook friends to ooh and ahh over said child.

Never mind that each of those facebook friends who are admiring, liking, reacting and otherwise stroking the Nachassist’s ego on Facebook is secretly thinking, “My grandchild is much cuter. Hmph.” It doesn’t matter if each one is eagerly waiting to post his or her own nachas about his or her own life, it doesn’t matter.

Because that just proves how powerful the Nachassist phenomenon is. Later on, the likers, reactors, and strokers can post their one Nachas on Facebook for all to see.

You see, it’s all just a Nachas game, played by nachassists who want to brag and boast, share about their good events in life and/or grandchildren.

And that’s not so terrible, is it?

So the next time something good comes your way, go ahead and share it. Post it. Be proud of it. We are all here to read and share in your happiness.

And just so you know, we begrudge you the good fortune. In Yiddish – that’s called “Farginning.”

Oh, yeah, it’s hard to translate exactly into English. But you get my drift, don’t you?

May all grandmothers, grandfathers, parents and children have nachas from each other and themselves! Amen!

 


FAREWELL TO A HOUSE

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When a neighbor sold her house, her grown children complained. “How could you give up our childhood home, Ma?” they asked. My friend couldn’t understand what the fuss was. Her kids were already married and settled in their own homes with growing families. Why the guilt trip?

A few months ago, my mother sold her house of 53 years – the one my siblings and I grew up in — to a construction company.

Today, I’m that balking adult child who dislikes any change. I’m miserable at the thought of our house being demolished, unhappy that a huge apartment building will replace my childhood home.

I want to kick and scream, “No, No!” I am emotionally tethered to this home and I need some closure. Badly.

So I travel to Brooklyn from my home in Los Angeles to help Mom clear out some final things before she moves and to say my official farewells to… The House.

To me this is not just any house; it’s many things to many people.

For five decades the house was a constant, a symbol of sameness. So much happened there, yet so much stayed the same. This is the house where we laughed, played, sang, ate, (and sometimes dieted.) The one where we studied, learned, listened, cried, complained, talked, yelled, argued, and partied. The house where my father, the disciplinarian punished us and the one where my mother pleaded for mercy.

The one where we hosted friends, had sleepovers, welcomed guests and celebrated milestones like bar and bas mitzvah’s, sweet 16 parties, and engagement parties. The house where all six of us brought our respective spouses to meet my parents.

This is the house that was always there, while molding us all into the individuals we are today. Saying good-bye to the house signals the end of an era.

My sisters, who live a few miles away helped her toss, throw out, purge. Together, they’ve been sorting through her stuff, discarding, deciding, selling on e-bay, giving away, and packing up her life in the form of furniture, clothes, toys, games, books, pictures, appliances, and so much more.

Ma, you don’t need this. Throw it out,” my sisters told my mother about some yarn and fabric and other objects that have been there so long.

During my visit, mom and I are upstairs in one of the bedrooms. She hands me a bunch of photo albums, tablecloths, and artwork by my late Grandma.

Here, take these, Miriam. I can’t throw them out and the girls don’t want them.” By “girls,” she means my sisters.

I’m sentimental about stuff so I carefully lay the albums in the empty suitcase we dragged down from the attic. I take the lovely round, lace tablecloths even though my linen closets back in LA are full. I pack the art canvases that my then-90 year old paternal grandmother painted.

My father saved everything: Old report cards, New Years cards, some projects. We laugh and reminisce. I take a few and throw out the rest. I take some old sheet music from my piano lessons.

My parents built this house in 1962 when I, then the youngest of four children, was 2 years old. Two younger sisters were born there in that five-bedroom brick home of 2 stories plus a large basement. So many events took place there that our neighbor across the street used to say to my mother, “Eva, this house could write a BOOK!”

The last chapter in that long 53-year old volume reached its downhill conclusion when my father (after 65 years of marriage) passed away last year. Since then, my mother has contemplated the idea of living closer to my siblings. The idea became a reality and the house was sold. My mother began the packing process.

Soon, my mother, who lived and breathed her home, her hearth, celebrating days, months, years and decades of history will be moving – or “downsizing” — to an apartment a few miles away.

The thought of not being able to just pop in there anymore pains me. Till now, living far away, I could fantasize that things stayed the same. Whenever I came back “home” for family events, things were just a little different. My room became a computer room; my sister’s room, my father’s exercise room. My brothers’ room became the sewing room, after a room in the basement morphed from a sewing room into a speech therapy clinic for an acquaintance. Two of the upstairs bedrooms became guest rooms; the basement, an area for guests with a separate entrance.

But the four walls of the house and exterior pretty much stayed the same. The peeling paint and woodwork refreshed every so often, the outside shutters missing. The bathroom tiles, my father’s bookcase, my mother’s breakfront with china, the dining room table, the living room rug where the kids played stayed the same.

More clutter, progeny visiting on weekends and playing Legos and blocks on the living floor. I was now one of many many others who called this home their home away from home.

But that house with that driveway, lawn, front door, combination lock, code and extra set of keys hanging on the gold curly-bumped edges of the front mirror for anyone from the family who needed the car. And the coins and dollars in the “front hall drawer” for needing extra change for the bus or subway.

No longer will I be able to punch in the code on that combination lock on the wooden front door when my husband and I arrive from the airport and quietly take the luggage upstairs while shushing my children in middle of the night.

No longer will I go past the front foyer, down the hall and past my father’s study where he would be sitting there and doing his work. No more smile and wink and kiss. Even as my father has passed away 9 months ago, knowing his study with his desk and bookshelves were still there was comforting.

My siblings lived so much closer to The House all these years as adults, certainly spent even more quality time on a daily or weekly basis than my own long-distance family who came for family occasions, The house was a hub for everyone.

Many grandchildren would spend the night while passing through to summer camp or yeshiva. Neighbors would use the basement for overflow out-of-towner guests. Grandchildren would come by to spend a Sunday afternoon, take pictures, sit and shmooze in the kitchen, and run down to the “avenue” to shop for unique items.

Toddler grandchildren would throw things down the laundry chute and then giggle as the other one stayed downstairs to catch it. Oh what fun! Until my father (RIP) would shush everyone up. But not for long.

Parties for charity were held in the basement and/or the living room, school events took place in our living room, high school play run-throughs, color war projects and cooking classes for organizations were held in our home. My mother said yes to practically everyone or anyone who asked to use her house for an event.

An acquaintance psychologist used the guest bedroom off of the kitchen once a week so that he could be near his part-time practice in the area. A friend who had a speech therapy practice drove in every Sunday and used one of the large areas in the basement for her speech therapy practice. A separate entrance was designated for her clients, right through the basement. The waiting room was the room that used to be our “bike room” when we were growing up.

A cousin in Israel hears about the move and writes, “I can’t imagine that she won’t be living there – so many good memories – such a part of my life. I know it’s only a house – but what a house so full of warmth and love, not to mention good coffee…”

Soon, the house will be demolished – the one with memories of yarn turned into knitting or crocheting, fabric made into clothes, photos taken, old letters sent and received, smiles and tears, parties and homework, meals and friends, sleep-overs, visits, children, grandchildren, home-comings after camp, visits after marriage, baby’s nursed, and non-surprise surprise parties. Cousins coming by, places for our children to stay during school vacations, and places for others to drop by when just in the neighborhood.

It is the end of an era of punching in the combination into the front door to spend time with loved ones in a large and welcoming house.

All that’s left are the myriad pictures in our memories, on computer and in albums to show to future generations and say, “See? That’s where we grew up. That’s the house that could have written a book…”

I sit with my mother in the kitchen, eating salmon that she’s baked in her GE oven with the manual knobs. We talk about the baby grand piano, and that she has no room for it in her new apartment. She offers me the piano.

We research prices on piano movers. I take a look at the keys, some of which have been stripped of their ivories by wear and tear. We talk about moving the piano and restoring it. I visualize the baby grand piano of my childhood in my living room.

As each of us takes whatever material pieces of the house with us, we embrace lessons learned from living there in our hearts and minds. Kindness, flexibility and hospitality. Friendship, love. Knowing we can take those intangibles with us makes me feel just a little bit better about the loss of the house.

Letting go of The House becomes easier with the memories turned into lessons.

But still. No amount of letting go will enable me to walk down that block again.


Please Tell Me That Story Again!

About two weeks ago, my mother-in-law had hip surgery. After several days in the hospital, and a remarkable recovery thank G-d, she was released from the hospital and admitted to a rehabilitation center where she stayed for about a week. While my mother-in-law (we call her “Grandma”) was in the rehab,  I visited her. Wanting to cheer her up, I shared a cute story about one of my grandsons.

My husband mentioned to  me that after I told Grandma the story, she was so happy that she repeated it to my husband that night when she saw him. And the following evening she asked my husband to review the story again with her.

She wanted to remember every detail.

When my mother-in-law (did I mention she will be 95 kain ayin horah, in May?) joined us at Pesach where our family was together for the Holiday, the first thing she asked me was “Miriam, please tell me that story again. The one about the little one who you took shopping with you. I love to hear it…”

And so I agreed!

Her eyes lit up in excitement as she leaned forward to listen to the story yet again.

Several weeks ago, JoJo (my grandson’s name changed to protect the adorable) who is 4, came shopping with me to K-Mart, where I needed to pick up a few items.  After about an hour of shopping, where JoJo was being a very good boy, he asked me for something to eat.

‘I’m huuuungry….can you buy me something to eat?’

Looking around as we were waiting in line at the checkout, the first thing I saw was a Hershey Bar. I asked him if he wanted that, and his said, ‘Yes!’ Fine, I thought. It will keep him happy till I get him back home.

Isn’t that sweet….said Grandma while I continued on with the story.

Okay, so I paid for my items, and handed him the chocolate bar, which he held carefully in his hand while we walked to the car, with my bags in the shopping cart. I opened the car door, and helped him into his booster car seat.

‘Can I eat it now?’ he asked.

milk-chocolate

‘Sure,’ I said.

Turning toward her daughter, my sister-in-law, (who was with us at the time) Grandma said, Pshhhh. Could you believe the maturity? Unbelievable…

I continued: And I buckled him in and  loaded the car.

After driving a block or two, I stopped at a stop light, turned around briefly to check up on him, and  saw him munching the chocolate bar. He was busy and all was well.

Then I saw him fold the wrapper over the chocolate, as if he was done eating. He had eaten about half of it, and I wondered why he wasn’t finishing it.

Figuring he wasn’t that hungry, I didn’t say anything.

‘I’m saving the rest for B.B. (his older brother’s not-real-name).  It’s his birthday today,’ my grandson offered.

Doing a Mitzvah!

I love mitzvos!

Grandma opened her mouth in wonderment, as if hearing the story for the first time. She threw back her head and laughed with sounds of joy and nachas that only a great-grandmother can do. Then she leaned forward, looked downward, and shook her head, “Unbelievable…just unbelievable…such kindness!”

I continued on:

So, the whole thing happened so fast, I really didn’t know how to react or to think anything huge about it. I just simply said,”OH, that’s so nice of you. What a good idea! Such a mitzvah!”

‘Omi,’ said JoJo. ‘Can you take it from me and put it in a plastic bag? I don’t want it to melt.’

I took one of the shopping bags and put it inside, but JoJo wasn’t satisfied.

‘Can you put it in by itself?’

Not wanting to ruin the birthday gift, I did. I emptied the contents from another bag and put the half eaten chocolate bar into the bag and held onto it until later when JoJo’s mom came to get him.

Sure enough, later on he gave his 7 year old big brother the special gift of the leftover chocolate bar.

And that’s the end of the story, I told Grandma.

No, it’s not, no, it’s notsaid my mother-in-law. He’s going to be some great person…because he’s so kind.

And me? The grandmother? The teller or kveller or bragger or boaster of this story about my grandson? What do I gain from this story?

I realize how powerful one positive event can be in a person’s life, in ours and those whose lives we affect.

What narrative do we create out of the stories in our lives? How do we interpret them?

Do we repeat and reinforce the positive events over and over by sharing with others or at least in our minds and our hearts for posterity?

How do you feel about sharing or reinforcing positive events with others and ourselves? Let me know.

And by the way:

Postscript: This morning, I was passing my mother-in-law while she was talking to her physical therapist who came by for scheduled sessions. I overheard my mother-in-law tell the therapist, “You have to hear what my grandson did. His mother…or someone…bought him a Danish…or a candy bar…I don’t know what… and he only ate half of it, and offered to give the other half to his brother whose birthday it was! Could you believe how special he is?”

Happy Holidays to all! May you have much pride and joy from your families and loved ones!

 


On Celebrating Mistakes and Making Music

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When my 6 1/2 -year old grandson came over after school a few weeks ago,  he pulled a worksheet out of his backpack and sat down at the dining room table to do his homework.

The sheet had a series of incomplete phrases, pictures and blank lines where he was supposed to fill in the blanks with the word that matched the picture. The first word was “bike,” which he found on a list of choices and copied correctly onto the blank. Further along the page came a picture of a lake. He saw that and started to write the word, but he somehow skipped the “a” and wrote “lk” which I pointed out to him, by asking him to look at it again.

Oops,” he said, and turned over his pencil to erase it. And just as he was beginning to erase the letter, he said, “Wait a minute,” and turned the pencil back again upright. Then he drew a circle around the K and wrote the remainder of the word “ake” alongside the  letter l followed by the circled K. The lake now had a huge circle in the word, which somehow annoyed me slightly but I said nothing, so as not to distract him.

But when he did it again on another word further down on the page, I asked what was going on with the circling of mistakes.

He shrugged and said, “My teacher says we shouldn’t erase, but we should draw circles.”

Playing after homework!

Playing after homework!

Okay. Who am I to argue with what the teacher says?

A few days later I’m faced with a situation that reminds me of my grandson circling his mistakes.

I’m about to play the keyboard for a group of students who are visiting a facility for the elderly.  As part of a program in memory of a creative member of our community, Avigail Rechnitz, I’ve coached the students in a local girls’ junior high school to sing several Hebrew and Yiddish songs. This is the big day. The girls are prepared, excited, ready to go.

All ready to go...

All ready to go…

I turn on my keyboard so I can play the intro, to cue the girls to begin their first song.

I peer into the digital window and see no electricity. Nothing. I bang on the keyboard in vain. I search my bag for extra batteries. None.

I motion to the girls to begin singing a cappella, which they do. They sing the three songs we’ve prepared and then an encore or two.

Everyone thanks the girls for the performance. The residents are thrilled and the social worker in the home is grateful for our coming.

But I’m annoyed with myself. Why did I forget the batteries? How could I be so disorganized?

Batteries out of juice....

Batteries out of juice….

A week later the girls are going to another rest home to perform. This time I remember the batteries. And the strings for my harp, in case one of them rips. And the stand for my music and some extra sheet music, just in case.

The performance goes over well. I’ve circled my mistake from the time before so that I know not to do it again.

Imagine if I could do that with all my missteps. Just circle what went wrong and then correct it the next time. All that energy wasted on “what if,” and “oh no,” can be transferred to new energy with brand new batteries. Or harp strings.

I’m reminded of the story about Itzhak Perlman at a concert, where one of his violin strings popped in middle of a piece he was playing. (Incidentally, this also happened about 25 years ago when my husband and I were at the Hollywood Bowl watching Perlman’s concert and when a string broke, someone just brought him another violin. The audience applauded, Perlman made a joke and the concert went on – but that’s reality. I digress.)

So according to the supposed story about Perlman at the supposed concert, he began to play the music using the three remaining strings while the audience gasped in awe. He changed keys, modulated so that he was able to avoid the missing string and produced the same piece that he had rehearsed on all four strings.

Whether that story is true or not (it’s been bandied about online for many years), I love it because of the alleged remark that Perlman made after playing the modulated song:

“Sometimes we just have to make music with what we’ve been given…”

How have you coped with mistakes in the past? How have to gotten past sweating over mistakes, and instead celebrating them, circling them and learning from them?


“Imagine If…” – A Children’s Book Review

By Rabbi Zeegel; Illustrated by Darrel Mordecai

By Rabbi Zeegel; Illustrated by Darrel Mordecai

Way back  when Theodore Seuss Geisel wrote a zany                 rhyming book for children, I wonder if he realized that he’d be so successful with the series that future  authors would attempt to imitate him.

I mean, imagine imitating green eggs and ham. Or a cat in a hat. Or a fox in socks.  It’s kind of ridiculous, wouldn’t you say? Still,  for  years, wannabe Dr. Seusses congregated in coffee houses, libraries and living rooms trying to mimic the flavor of the venerable Dr. Seuss. Continue reading


Graduations, Grandparents, and Gratitude

Today I attended an important graduation.

It wasn’t my own graduation. I haven’t had any of those lately, even though several years ago, I graduated from being a mom of growing children.

Today, I attended my grandson’s kindergarten ceremony.

benchumash

 And it was most exciting because my husband and I enjoy watching our grandsons’ milestones.

You see, my youngest son, who is 20 and his brother above him are studying out of town. With the rest of our sons married, my husband and I have got the empty nest, and we are grateful. Continue reading


Styles of Giving

There has been some research out there about how people show their love. How Do You Show Love?

Some say “I love you” and others give presents.

Some show their affection through touch and hugging and others do so through listening carefully to what their loved ones are saying.

Some give food, others give presents. Some give time and others give money. Much has been written about this topic of love styles in relationships. People show love in various ways and the differences between people can cause friction.

According to conversations I have had others say that occasionally there is a block between the giver and the receiver, particularly when their styles of giving and receiving are different. Continue reading


Are they your grandchildren?

Ever since my book came out, I have been flooded (already!) with many comments, feedback accolades, and blessings. And then come the questions, which I am happy and excited to answer. However, there is one question that has baffled me from the beginning (all of 3 days ago!).

“Are these kids on the cover your grandchildren?”

Huh?

First off, the answer is no. The kids are  complete strangers. Adorable, charming and lively. But strangers to me. In fact, I give credit for the cover design – or “jacket design” as it is called — to the graphic artist assigned by the publisher. And as far as I know, no one asked me for my family photo album to use for the cover.

True, it must have been hard to find children as endearing as my own children grandchildren are – but they tried – and I think they succeeded.

The fact is that the children on the cover could be anyone’s children or grandchildren. They could be yours, mine, or that of the neighbors down the block. They are  every bit as adorable as every single mother and  grandmother out there feels about her own children and grandkids.

These children are a sample of wonderful kids who are celebrating the birth of a new Grandmother.

These kids seem to be happy, well-adjusted  kids. And that, as parents and grandparents is what we wish for the next generation.

So, my question to my readers of my book is “Are these kids YOUR children or grandchildren?”  Because if so, then the graphic artist has achieved her purpose.

Have nachas!

 

 


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