Posts

Showing posts from 2007

Elliot Ben Rush

Image
Here's Elliot! Meet our newest grandson, named for my father and just as handsome and sweet as his big brother Henry, who's fifteen months old and fast on his feet. These past two weeks I immersed myself in their household rhythm, changing diapers, wiping noses, rocking, tickling, singing, laughing.  While Rebeccah nursed Elliot and Henry napped, I knit sweaters, hats, stuffed animals and watched the cycle begin once again. We discussed the ins and outs of pregnancy, delivery, milk production, sleep deprivation, diaper rash, nipple pain, cramps, headaches, tension, paper vs cloth diapers. Did Elliot sleep better after a supplement? After nursing? What did I think?  What does anyone think? In 1967, formula was the rage. Few breast fed their baby. By 1974, the year Rebeccah was born, the switch to breast milk was in full swing and formula had dropped from vogue. Neither view takes into consideration the individual situation for each mom and baby, how mom feels about

We're Back. . .

Image
. . after two wonderful weeks in Spain and Portugal. From Las Ramblas in Barcelona to the Alhambra in Granada, we enjoyed mild and sunny weather every day, walked dozens of miles, saw Picasso’s evolution and Miro’s legacy. A brief train ride took us to Toledo, an ancient city where centuries ago Christians, Jews and Muslims lived together in peace, something of a miracle. Rugged coastlines, circuitous streets in Seville and magnificent cathedrals boasted thousands of years of history. We tasted sweet custard and lobster, flan and baby piglet, tapas and sixteen varieties of olives. Mid trip, the Chicago premiere of “Indestructible” took place to a sold out audience that left scores of people without seats. The evening’s excitement reached us via email from family and friends able to be there in person. Josh was in New York on business and unable to attend. Matt and his family live in Connecticut now. And so it goes. Busy lives pull us in different directions. All of which reminded me

Good Night

Image
“The last good night's sleep you’ll have is the night before your first child is born.” I laughed at the woman who told me that. I was eight months pregnant at the time with our first child and thought she was daft. What did she know anyway? Her three boys were teenagers. One had just gotten his driver’s license. Of course she was freaked. When her youngest left for college, I was certain she’d sleep soundly once again. However, my plan to confirm that belief never materialized. We moved back to Chicago and lost touch with each other. Besides, if we had stayed connected, she'd have had the last laugh on me. I haven’t had a really solid, devil may care, snooze until 11 in the morning sleep for the last forty years. Any hope of regaining such a night was abandoned long ago. “Before I had children, no one told me how completely absorbed I’d become in my children’s lives,” a friend told me as we talked about our children, past dreams and unrealized expectations. “You’re only as

Day by Day

Image
Some days. . . Black clouds swarm above my head. The weight of ALS bears down with a force so huge it takes my breath away. I have to wrench myself free, force myself to do something, anything, that will let in the fresh air. I’ve become difficult, I know, when I’m terrified and want only to stay in bed, under the covers and sleep forever. But on other days. . . I let optimism rule. I believe we will overcome these terrible circumstances. I project into the future and imagine Ben physically vibrant the way he was years ago when I drove him to the airport for his third year as a college exchange student in Paris, France. He hoisted a huge duffel over his shoulder as if it weighed a few pounds, kissed my cheek and was gone. When we visited him four months later, he’d already made dozens of friends who called out ‘Binyamin’ as they waved him into their lives. Ben lived in an apartment, a boat, then someone’s loft, while he studied Decontructionism, a difficult philosophy to compre

A Few Words About My Dad

Image
My Dad, Ben Sokolec, Spring 1980 At a French coffee shop for breakfast during a recent trip to New York, Steve and I sat across from a father and his ten year old son. The dad ate his omelet while working his Blackberry. The boy concentrated on his laptop game while he nibbled a slice of toast. Neither spoke. The check came, the father paid and they left. The boy held the laptop open, still working the keys as they climbed into the car. For many years, my Dad sold wholesale meat to local butcher shops and spent more time than he cared to at the stockyards. His days began at 3 in the morning and by two in the afternoon, his workday ended. In the warm weather, he’d play a round of golf and by the time I got home from school, he’d be napping on the sofa, listening to the radio. I’d nestle alongside him in what I remember as a safety zone. We didn’t say much, but the connection was there. He’d ask about my day, my friends. Mostly we’d just listen to an afternoon baseball game or the

Magic

Image
Want a little magic in your life? Try Reiki (pronounced ray-key). Until last week, I knew very little about this healing system, other than it existed. Then my sister, Sandy Wallman, attended a workshop and came back raving about the experience. I had to try it for myself and am very glad I did. Reiki emerged from the Tibetan culture more than 2500 years ago. This ancient healing technique was discovered by Dr. Mikao Usui at the end of the nineteenth century and has been passed down to many Reiki Masters, one of whom is Bernadette Doran, who lives in Chicago and offers workshops and trainings in her home. In just a few hours, she transformed me from a skeptic to an enthusiast. But what is it? A physical, mental, spiritual and emotional healing system that channels energy, bringing with it balance and harmony. Every living thing, including plants and animals, contains its own personal energy. Once a person is attuned by a Reiki Master, the energy flow from the cosmos increases and

Things my mother told me.

Image
My Mom, Florence Pincus Sokolec, 1995 Never live with a man before you’re married. Nice girls don’t live alone in their own apartment. Get a teaching degree so you can support yourself if you need to. Knees are ugly. Skirts and slacks should cover them. Stick with wool, silk and cotton. Fine fabrics last forever. Always send a thank you card. Never swear. Don’t give your children everything. They need something to wish and work for. It’s as easy to love a rich man as a poor man. Save everything. You never know when it will come in handy. Marriage is hard work. Spend the money you have, not what you expect to receive. Don’t be the last one to leave a party. I’ve broken most of those rules throughout my life. Those I didn’t break, my children have. At this stage of my life, I think Florence had the right idea about most things, especially the knee part. She rarely complained, even while she cared for my father as he lost his mind to Alzheimer’s. But her true legacy to m

Ah, the Life of a Grandparent

Image
Grandparenthood has become a more complicated business today than it was in the past. The last of mine died before my tenth birthday, leaving my parents to fend for themselves in their early forties. Memory of those four strangers has left me with momentary glimpses and a handful of photographs. My first french fry, spinning on a stool at a coffee shop, bulging veins, a scratchy beard, a spongy lap. My parents, on the other hand, lived a lot longer. They participated in their grandchildren’s weddings and saw three great grandchildren become teenagers. Why didn’t Erikson fully explore this phase of human development? I suspect he was baffled by the prospect as much as I am. Whatever fantasies I had about the idyllic life as a grandparent have been supplanted by the reality that it’s a complex, challenging experience. I currently juggle five different family dynamics with eight grandchildren (soon to be nine) all of whom present a potpourri of personalities, perspectives and experie

Nibbles

Image
Imagine life as a two or three year old. Your world view is eye level with table tops and adult knees. No one explains the rules until you make a mistake and then they expect you to remember it the next time. Your fingers drop spoons, spill juice and can't pull on a sock. When you speak, no one understands except your parents and even they often miss the point. Asking for a cookie can become downright aggravating. You ‘toddle’ when you walk on unsteady legs making skinned knees a daily occurrence. On top of that, you have to remember to say ‘potty’ about ten times a day or you wet your pants. Here's a true story of that challenging time for both of us. Nibbles Four flights up to this tot lot program at Hull House Center is impossible, I think as I hoist my nearly two year old son Matt onto my left hip and begin the climb. Today is a glum, gray freezing day.  A friend suggested this place as a great rainy day alternative to the park.  In three months, Matt will be

Sugar and Salt

Image
April is Child Abuse Prevention month. When I worked at the Family Resource Center of Iowa County in Wisconsin, we tied blue ribbons on the tree in front of the county court house, one for each reported case of child abuse or neglect. The last year I was there, we had to cut over 200 strips. Where were my allegiances as I attached bows to the branches? With both the children and their over-stressed parents. I haven’t forgotten those moments of my early motherhood, feeling overwhelmed and exhausted when too many responsibilities and not enough support pushed me to the brink. What kept me from stepping over the line? I was lucky enough to be born into a family with competent parenting skills but realized early on that my instincts had limitations. I also recognized that in spite of my teaching experience, I knew very little about how best to parent my own children. I read dozens of child development books, discussed options with other parents in support groups, and sought counseling

Make Love Not War. . .

Image
. . . was the mantra that blasted the country during the late sixties, early seventies when our sons were babies. The Viet Nam war and the draft drove nearly everyone wild. Banning guns in the playroom was as close as we got to being protesters. Nearly forty years later, we’re in the same place. This time it’s the Iraqi conflict, a more benign word. Perhaps it’s the lack of a draft that’s lured us into complacency. Or maybe it’s that we’ve grown older, more tired and less inclined to act out, although my generation is still outraged. I wrote this story ten years ago, when prosperity ruled and war seemed out of fashion. But after all this time, I'm no closer to having clarity about . .  . Guns in the Playroom “Where’s Jermy?” Four year old Matt asks as we enter the spacious living room of our friends' high rise apartment. Joshua and Ben, my younger sons, nap at home with a baby sitter this rainy afternoon. “Oh, he’ll be here soon.” Jeremy’s mother points to the door of th

Chocolate

Image
Every once in a while, an event occurs that’s meant to be savored. Not a monumental occasion like a wedding or a birth. Rather it’s a quiet moment that often escapes notice. After the last screening of “Indestructible”, we had dinner together, then watched as Matt, Josh, Ben, Sarah and Rebeccah moved down the street together. They had no great plans for the evening. Maybe they'd catch another film or have a beer. I watched them turn the corner before Steve and I piled the grandchildren into our car and drove back to the hotel. Years earlier, when explosions over clothes, friends, car windows, leftovers, toys or bedroom territory, to name just a few topics, were a daily occurrence, I wondered what would become of their relationships. Would they care about each other? Want to spend time with each other? Call each other on the phone? I know fifty year old siblings who haven’t spoken in twenty years, curse each other to their parents, refuse to be in the same room toget

Indestructible Wins!

Image
Take a moment to bask in the light of Indestructible’s achievement. California Theater in San Jose, where the awards ceremony was held, is a beautifully renovated building. Gilded chandeliers, gold filigree, exquisite murals. Just sitting in the audience was a pleasure. All of the filmmakers were asked to come on stage for the awards announcements. Rebeccah rolled Ben onto the stage from behind the curtain, just ten feet from where we sat in the first row. The audience was filled to capacity, over a thousand.  The announcement for the best documentary began with 'powerful, compelling, inspiring’ and when the words ‘Lou Gherig’s Disease’ was said followed by ‘Indestructible’ everyone in the place rose up and cheered. For a long time. Ben said something into the microphone, repeated it, but Rebeccah was unable to decipher his words. “We didn’t rehearse." Laughter. "My brother thanks you.” (We’ll never know Ben’s exact words because he’s decided to keep that a myst

A New Twist

“I like it. But don’t you want to write about other things?” Ben’s reaction startled me.  Of course I planned to write about subjects other than ALS. I was certain the center stage this fatal, incurable, horrific disease dominated since it barged into our family nearly five years ago had shifted aside. But the construct of my blog contradicted that belief.  For the first weeks and months after Ben’s diagnosis, anyone I met on the street, at a party, or in the grocery store offered an opportunity for me to dump and ruin their day. The words just tumbled out of my mouth, as if spreading the news might diminish my distress. No one crossed the street when they saw me approach, but I’m sure more than a few people wished they had taken a different route. My husband Steve glued himself to the computer and the phone in search of a cure, a tonic, a reversal.  After a while, we developed the vacant look that comes from feeling overwhelmed. Netflix films arrived and were returned unseen. We s

Shattered Days

Image
In the spring of 2002, Ben was a new dad and struggling artist. If he wasn’t preparing for an audition, or rehearsing for a play, he was writing, locked up in a room for days. I blamed his thinning hair and unhealthy pallor on not enough sleep or too many cigarettes. Clues drifted into our lives disjointed, fragmented. Perhaps he was trying on a new role when his words slurred or his head moved at awkward angles when he ate. His voice roughened because he had to shout in his last play. Diminished muscles in his hands could be the result of too much writing or typing. Weight loss reflected poor eating habits. Nothing more. I remember caring for Ben’s two year old son John one summer morning while he went to the doctor for a check up. That was the first I knew that he was having difficulty using his laptop or a pen. Auditions were not going well because his voice sounded raspy. Afterwards, we met crowded around a small table at a sandwich shop for lunch. Ben dipped his hea