Angel

It was a chilly day in January. I was a new mother, trying to figure out how to work my newborn into the everyday tasks of my life. Things were great when we were home. All the gear I needed was available at my finger tips. It was packing to get out of the house that made life challenging. Did I pack the bottles? Did I have enough diapers? What if I need something I didn't bring? It was quite overwhelming at first. This day was no different. It was the six week check-up for my newborn Jacob. I was still struggling to physically feel like myself again. Don't get me wrong, I was loving motherhood. But admittedly, I was still quite emotional. I had finally come to terms with the idea I could not breast feed, and though seeing Jacob finally put on some weight, thanks to bottle nourishment, I was still harboring a bit of guilt. I knew I had somewhere to be, and if I dwelled on the little things, I would never get out the door and to the doctor on time.  Not having my husband home meant I had to get the baby and the stuff out on my own. I was already feeling rattled. But I buckled my little chicken in the car seat, and we were off.

I can't recall, but this may have been the first time we drove anywhere alone. I had to take my eyes off the baby in order to drive, and I wasn't altogether comfortable. I drove along apprehensively, much the way a new driver does. It was an awkward carefulness. Jacob was a bit fussy in the back, not an all out cry, but enough to make me a bit anxious. I was rigid and guarded, and I just wanted to blink us to the doctor. I was in the left lane, up against the median, because the doctor's office would be a left turn. Out of the blue, a car on my right swerved toward me with no notice at all. I was blocked in between the car and the median and my reflex was to pull away from the car, so I jumped the median curb and slammed on my breaks. I was up on the median with my right tires hanging out in the lane. I freaked out and started panting and Jacob must have reacted to the sudden motion of the car and my panic, and began belting out a tiny but fierce baby cry. 

I couldn't get to him, because there was no safe way for me to get out of the car, and I had to get us back and moving. I was panicked because it was the first time I hadn't thought about an asshole driver pissing me off, I was worried about the safety of my baby. And my heart was pounding out of my chest. I could barely choke back my own tears. I calmed enough to get us safely back in the lane and continue to the doctor. My hands were shaking, my baby was wailing, and I just wanted to go home. I turned on the radio softly to try and settle my nerves, and out of those speakers came the soothing sound of Sarah McLachlan. In the arms of the angel, you may find some comfort here. It didn't take but one or two bars, before Jacob and I had calmed. He stopped crying, and I stopped shaking, and together we got through our first trauma. 

I know it will sound like a generalization, but I kid you not. From that time on, whenever I put that song on the radio, my Jacob would calm and coo, and often fall asleep. It became my go-to song in the car, and with the exception of one or two times, it always worked. Sarah's Angel gave us comfort wherever we were.

Bubbie

Bubbie, I want to learn how to cook our family recipes. Can I make copies? These were my words to my Bubbie, my mom's mother, when I was finishing up college and planning to get married. I wanted to be able to cook all of our favorites.

Why don't you come over, and I'll show you. It was like a golden ticket to the best of the culinary arts schools in all the world. And it was mine. And it was free of charge.

A roundish woman in her 80's, with a beautiful, full head of silver hair, my Bubbie stood about five feet tall. Maybe. Though I had great love for both my grandmothers, my paternal grandmother died when I was 5 or 6 years old, and unfortunately my memories of her are few. Bubbie however, lived to be 92, and when we moved to Florida in 1987, she became an everyday part of my life. She was such a good cook. Not a gourmet by any means, there was nothing fancy about her cooking, just yummy homemade treats, and lots of traditional Jewish fare. Hands down, the. best. matzoh ball soup. Ever.

I remember the day I went to learn the recipes. I brought a notebook, but it did little good. There were no recipes! Everything she made was from her head, the way a true cook creates. No instructions, no measurements, just a little of this and pinch of that. And of course she always reminded me, The most important thing is to put in lots of love. That's what makes things taste so good.

She amazed me. I think back now about that day, and it could have very well been a cooking blog, or a story cookbook. I don't think I wrote a single thing down, I just watched her. Every time she did something, she told me a story or explained why she did it a certain way. She was a product of her generation, she grew up in the Great Depression. Everything got used, and nothing goes to waste. Only need an egg white? Find a use for the yolk. Or freeze it for use later. Thanksgiving Turkey picked clean? Use the carcass for a pot of turkey soup. Like so many others from the time, she remembered throwing whatever they had in a pot to make soup. She ate chicken parts that made my sister and me squirm.

And kitchen gadgets? She didn't have any. Her favorite tool was her hands. I remember as she poured eggs from one bowl into a mixture in a another bowl, she used the side of her hand to wipe out every drop. Not a rubber spatula, but the half inch-wide surface created from the tip of her pinky, down to the heel on the side of her tiny little hand. The most advanced kitchen gadget she had was an electric juicer. I ended up with it when we cleaned out her place. I still have it. It makes me smile when I use it to squeeze fresh orange juice.

I loved to watch Bubbie cook. I loved the smells in her kitchen, and my Zaza trying desperately to wait for the latest dish to be presented for tasting. She didn't even seem to mind when he grabbed something off the plate to taste before it was formally presented. He loved her cooking. We all did. We could taste the love in every bite.

Dads

"Forget AIDS,  I'll double bag it every time. I do not want to be a dad." I nodded, agreeing he was too young to have children. "Not now, not ever. I never want to be a dad." I was perplexed, and couldn't help but respond in surprise.

"Really? You don't think you'll want to have kids some day?"

"Nope. I never want to be a dad. Dads are assholes."

 And he swore, as much as he liked girls and acting like a player at only 16-years-old, he'd always use condoms because he never wanted kids. Okay then. We left it at that. My high school students, mostly boys, needed this class. But we agreed we would be open, not personal.

**

We connected on FB several years after he graduated. I taught this kid for four years. I got to know his family, and he worked for my husband on weekends. I have a book's worth of stories about him and his classmates. We were a family. I handed him his diploma when he graduated. I always had a very special place in my heart for him. I asked him how he was doing.

"I'm getting married," he told me. "And I have a kid on the way." I wasn't sure how to react. I waited for more information. "Yeah, it wasn't planned. But we're going to make a go of it. I love her, and I'm not going to leave my kid without a dad." He insisted they were happy, so I was too.

**

The other night, after several FB posts reflecting on personal growth, I started to become concerned. I had seen similar posts over several days, and I was worried. He and his wife had moved up north to be near her family. Last I heard he had a great job, a beautiful little girl, and he and his wife were doing great. But the daddy pride and family photos were replaced with words of wisdom embedded in reflective memes.

I messaged him, "Everything okay with you kiddo?" He's about 30 now, but I'll always think of him as one of my boys. And I always called him kiddo.

"It's been a rough year, but I'm getting better." I didn't even inquire further. I didn't need to. "I just got out of rehab." All of the air pushed out of my lungs. My cheeks flushed and I wanted to cry. I wanted to give him a hug.

"Well that's bad and good, right?" I was appealing to the fact he got help.

"Yeah, I got caught up in all the wrong crap, fucked a lot of stuff up." We continued with banter about the Miami Hurricanes (he's a big fan of my alma mater), and he told me he was back in Florida living with his aunt and trying to get back on his feet. In between the small talk, he dropped bits about what was happening. "I'm learning a lot about myself. There's a reason I got the way I did." It seemed positive he was doing the personal work one needs to do when dealign with addiction. He shared that he likes his sponsor. And as I wondered what happened with his wife and daughter, and where they were, he let it all out. There were lots of drugs and alcohol and partying, and he was living what he described as a shady life. And he got caught and that sent him into a downward spiral resulting in more of the same. He lost control and knew it, so he asked his mom for help and they checked him into rehab. And he seemed remorseful. "I just don't want to fuck my daughter up. I lost everything."

And we talked some more, and I offered support. He was excited his daughter was coming for a visit after the holidays. He and his wife were at least on speaking terms. I reminded him nothing is impossible, and while I made no crazy promises about what I knew nothing about, I encouraged him to believe it may be repairable. He has some work ahead of him. But I'm certain about one thing. Not all dads, not even the ones with problems of their own, are assholes. At least this one isn't.