My Nanny

mommyeverafter — Sun, 18 May 2014 23:02:01 +0000

I have written on this site, since it’s inception, about my Nanny.
My Nanny was my grandmother on my dad’s side. She was incredibly special to me, and I lost her when I was 13 years old after a furious 6 month battle with cancer.
She is why I have a thing for feathers and lucky pennies.
She taught me about art.
We used to go to museums and at the very end of our visit she would have me pick out the postcard of my very favorite piece of the day.
We used to sit on the big rocks by the pond by her house, next to waving cattails and resting geese, and would sketch our feelings with charcoal.
I would sleep over at her house and she would bring me breakfast in bed with her finest china plates and bowls and crystal glasses for my fresh squeezed juice.
My Nanny taught me about scones and Almondina cookies and Ikura sushi and champagne grapes.
She taught me about The Phantom of the Opera and Into the Woods.
I struggled a lot with my Nanny’s death. She was so young. We had so much more to see, and hear and taste and do and sketch together.
But what I struggle with the most is that she did not live to see me as an adult.
I think about how much she would love my husband; how she would appreciate his gentle way, his artistic abilities, his passion for food and his tenderness. She would have made him her fried chicken and mashed potatoes and would have smiled so contently as he licked his plate clean.
That makes me sad.
I wish my Nanny could see me as a grown woman. As a wife, as a mother. I wish she could see how I pack lunch for my husband and daughter every day, just like she did. How I cook dinner every night. How I eat biscotti and sing lullabies and teach.
But that sadness does not compare to how I feel about how she missed meeting my children.
She would love my children.
And not just because they would be her great-grandchildren, but she would love them for who they are.
My daughter: She would love my girl for her spirit, her feisty personality; how she is so gifted in the arts, both fine and performing; how she enamors strangers with her cuteness and spunk; She would laugh at how, like me, she never stops talking.
My son: She would love my boy for his sweetness; for his reddish hair; for his rolls of pudge and warm, coy smile and the twinkle in his eye; she would love how he eats with great gusto and would love cooking for him.
I do believe in angels. I believe that our loved ones, while maybe not watching every moment of our lives like a movie being projected in a theater, are around us, and weave in and out of our lives and consciousness throughout the years and the milestones and the moments.
Today my Nanny would be 80 years old.
If she were here, we would celebrate her with a cake from the Ultimate Bake Shoppe. We would put on music and I would tell my daughter to say, “Just a little bit of dah-ncing” in my Nanny’s way. We would give her handmade cards and maybe a pretty handkerchief or picture frame with photos of the kids.
We would snuggle up to her softness. We would say, “I love you.”
Today my Nanny would be 80 years old and I miss her very much.
Don’t your feet get cold in the winter time?
The sky won’t snow and the sun won’t shine
It’s hard to tell the night time from the day
You’re losin’ all your highs and lows
Ain’t it funny how the feeling goes away?
Desperado, why don’t you come to your senses?
Come down from your fences, open the gate
It may be rainin’, but there’s a rainbow above you
You better let somebody love you, before it’s too late

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an ode to a Bubbie

mommyeverafter — Wed, 20 Oct 2010 22:13:54 +0000

Bubbie, dearest–how do I love thee?
Let me count the ways.
I’d wax poetic (har!) about all your charms,
but don’t have enough time in my days.
A Bubbie devoted, you have been,
since the dawn of this baby’s time,
when your favorite little star
was a mere twinkle in your eye.
Before she was born, you knitted for her,
cooed to her, and planned
for the time that you could play “Potchy Potchy Hentele”
with her two pink, perfect hands.
You stroked my belly, proudly,
and kissed us as she kicked.
Singing, “Mommy loves the baby”
would always do the trick.
And then that April morning,
after a 3-day false alarm snafu,
your new best friend arrived,
at your lucky number, 2:22.
And from that middle-of-the-night moment,
you’ve relished in your love affair,
with the clone of (moi!) your first born,
(with the same exact lack amount of hair).
You were touted as the “baby whisperer”,
you were mocked for “hovering”,
you were thanked for your amazing help
and for the expert love-er-ing.
You taught me how to bathe my babe
(oh, you mean I don’t fill the tub with soap?)
you showed me by example,
you gave me strength,
and love,
and hope.
You know just which toys she will adore,
and you shower her with treats.
You help me every.single.day.
and never make a peep.
You’re always up for a dance party,
and on other end of the phone,
you never make me feel silly or wrong,
you never let me feel alone.
If this baby is anything like her mom,
(which she is in every way),
she’ll love you infinitely, amazingly and wholly,
(and be the one calling you 18 times a day).
You’re the consummate mother, the ultimate giver,
and I hope you understand
that Bubbie, as a grandmother,
you are the definition of grand.
So, thank you for the help, thank you for the hugs,
thank you for always always being here.
We will shine for you, always, as your little stars,
we love you,
Bubbie, dear.

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Mommy Ever After » grandmother

My Nanny

an ode to a Bubbie