Bad Grandma

We are sitting knee-to-knee at the top of a long flight of stairs that runs from the first floor of my daughter's Los Angeles home, to the second. There are three bedrooms up here; two are empty -- the adults having left for the night. And the third, where my 6-year-old grandson was supposed to be slumbering, has just been vacated.

"Call Mommy and tell her to come home," he says, one hand on the banister and the other wiping fresh tears from his face.

"No, I'm not," I say. "Mommy needs a night out."

His tears, which I believe are as false as those of a screen idol, slide from a trickle to full faucet. I am impressed with this talent.

"I want Mommy," he repeats.

"I can put you to bed," I say. After all, I had already fulfilled the prescription left by his mother: We cuddled under the covers, I flipped the pages of a favorite book and read dramatically -- playing all of the characters in different tones of voices -- and, I kissed his sweet forehead before twirling the light knob off and slipping out the door.

"Call Daddy. Call Isaac. Call Faith," he said. His father, brother, aunt; I waited for him to add the postman, gardener, housekeeper -- anyone but bad Grandma.

"I don't feel safe," he said, tossing a grenade. I smiled as I heard a sentence likely gleaned from kindergarten warnings.

"What can I do to make you feel safe?"

"Call Mommy."

"You're acting like a bully," I said. My grandson paused his tears for a bit and turned to look at me. He couldn't believe his ears, and his luck.

"You shouldn't call me a bully," he said. "That's not allowed at school."

I could see the scoreboard in my head, and his hometown team was trouncing the visiting one. Then, came my next foul: I started to cry. Not false tears as I believed my grandson was producing, and not sobs, just wet whispers of defeat.

"You win," I said. We had been at this for 30 minutes and I was ready to wave the white flag. "Let's go downstairs and call your mother."

When we reached the guest room where I was spending the night, he hopped in my bed, smiling as if he had been designated Most Valuable Player.

My cell phone had already received a text from my daughter. "How did everything go?" she wrote. "Were you able to put him to sleep?"

Self-pity turned to pique. My second born -- the recipient of decades of my love and devotion -- had predicted I'd encounter difficulty in putting her own second born to bed. She knew I was fresh at this, having lived in different cities for all of his young years. Why had she not warned me? Why had she allowed me to enter the game like a player without proper headgear?

I returned her text: "I failed. He wants you home."

"On my way," she sent back.

When I turned to tell him the good news, he was fast asleep on my bed. His mother arrived, shook her head, and then carried him upstairs.

The next morning, my grandson and I greeted each other warily. Instead of pouting, I opted to put the previous night's episode behind me. "What would you like for breakfast?" I asked, kissing the top of his head. "We have Cheerios, or if you prefer, waffles." I was acting Diner Waitress in a game we often played.

"Cheerios," he said, evidently also eager to erase our evening dust-up.

The next day after I returned to my Los Angeles apartment, my daughter phoned. "He said you called him a bully and that you cried."

"True and true," I said.

"You shouldn't have done either," she said.

"I was unprepared," I said. "I didn't plan my reaction and couldn't help my tears."

"You're the adult," she said. "You should've known better."

My shoulders sunk as I felt another round slipping away. "I'm sorry," I said. "I wish it had turned out differently."

That evening, I sent my daughter a text. "How about I come over early tomorrow and give him breakfast? You can sleep in."

"That would be lovely," she typed back. We were not opponents after all. Obviously, the three of us had regretted our actions, words, and wounds, but remain deeply attached.

Now, because my daughter is an award-winning TV writer and director, the unfortunate scene just described could possibly be fictionalized and turn up in one of her episodes. Luckily, I can first report it here, from my POV.

So score one for grandmas -- good, bad, and somewhere in between.

Piano

The freight elevator is reserved for Friday between 10 and noon. A member of the maintenance crew has already been to my apartment and removed from a hallway closet two folding doors and wire shelving.

For my part, I've shifted its contents to a different closet in my 582-square-foot studio. Soon, a pre-owned Everett Upright Piano, with bench, will occupy that empty area, which once housed a handful of sweaters, a mat for morning stretches, a pail, broom, and dry mop. Instead of a wave of a hand like some ordinary wizard, I have used wit and brawn to transform a once humble space into a music room.

"How long have you been playing?" the eager salesman had asked as we climbed two flights of stairs to review pianos in my price range.

Catching my breath, I had said, "Oh, I can't really play. I'm a perpetual beginner. All I want is to learn how to play Rogers and Hart." He hesitated, perhaps wondering if I was serious in my search, then shrugged whatever and continued up another flight.

I didn't think he needed the history of my piano quest, but I'll tell you: Neither my first husband nor I played, but because we believed a house filled with music was a bonus, in 1970 we bought an upright and offered lessons to our daughters.

From the moment six-year-old Faith sat down on the bench; she treated the instrument as if it were her long-lost twin. (Her sister, Jill, tried lessons, but quickly decided to leave that particular talent to her sibling.)

My draw to the piano didn't occur during those years; it wasn't until another time and place that I decided to take lessons. It was the '80s, and the upright had been exchanged for an ebony baby grand. I can still see that handsome piece, with its wing-shaped lid, which seemed to send its notes soaring.

I wish I could remember the name of the young man who was my first teacher, and led me through Alfred's Basic Adult Piano Course - Level 1. But in 1990, when my first marriage ended, the baby grand and lessons exited, too.

Tommy and I first met in 1996, and we learned we had the same favorite song: Rogers' and Hart's "It Never Entered My Mind." That commonality, plus others, led to marriage and another piano. I was never able to smoothly play our tune, but I could pick my way through George Gershwin's, "They Can't Take That Away From Me."

I can still see -- and hear -- my wannabe crooner standing at the side of our Yamaha, belting out "The way your wear your hat..." Like an aged nightclub duo, I'd I search for the right keys while my sweetheart patiently waited for me to catch up to his lyrics.

After Tommy died in 2012, I sold our house. The piano went, too, as part of an estate sale. Because I was moving to a studio apartment in River North, I believed there'd be no room for the instrument. Or, maybe I thought any images of our schmaltzy showbiz scene would be too hard to bear.

During my nine-month stay in Los Angeles, my roomy one-bedroom apartment could've housed a piano, even a baby grand, but I never desired one. It wasn't until I returned to Chicago, and in a conversation with a friend that the thought came up. I must've been gloomy the day of our lunch, because she advised: "Find something to make you happy."

Happy. Then, clear as day I heard Tommy's tenor: "The way you haunt my dreams,
no, no, they can't take that away from me." I saw the two of us in the dining room alcove where the upright stood. I heard us laugh as I struggled with chords.

"A piano," I told my friend. "A piano and lessons; that made me happy."

So, once the pre-owned Everett comes home, and I hang portraits of jazz giants on walls where wire once hung, I plan to host "Sing Along Sundays." By then, I'll have purchased a few songbooks and those who can squeeze in, and are willing to play piano, or sing, will bring alive Rogers, Hart, Gershwin, and others of that era.

During those times, perhaps our chorus will imagine ourselves in a favorite musical. And because my mind's eye knows no limits, I'll see Tommy there, too. Maybe by then, I'll be adept at our favorite song, and I can accompany him as he sings, "And wish that you were there again, to get into my hair again, it never entered my mind."

Mean Girl

So far this month, two people are mad at me -- wait, maybe three. Perhaps even you?

Surprisingly, I'm okay with that. In my advancing age I've decided to switch from a lifetime of Nice Girl to an occasional Mean Girl.

Oh, you won't find me tripping the feeble, or hurling insults at strangers, just that I may do something that makes you mad -- like acting haughty or telling you no -- and, I can live with that.

This recent decision is so liberating! It all began in discussions with several acquaintances and I was not able to satisfy either with my No, can't do response.

While my repeated No eventually terminated the dialogues, it didn't stop my brain from simmering. Because of my decades of being nice, polite, and diffident, I couldn't leave the issues as settled. Instead, I obsessed about my dissenting and anticipated a night of tossing.

It was then the refreshing idea slipped in among my turbulent thoughts:  It's okay for someone to not like me, or to be mad at me; I will survive.

And with that light bulb moment, I felt unburdened, and knew I could then sleep peacefully.

Of course, this liberating notion required a bit of research: When did my intent of being Nice Girl begin? So while visions of avengers skipped on by without pausing, calendar years flipped backwards until I reached childhood.

I see pre-teen me posing in front of a three-way mirror in a department store circa 1950. Mother is seated on a cushion surveying the outfit I am sampling. "You look fine," she says, responding to my dour expression.

I dearly love this beautiful woman who is scrutinizing my fashion show. With her upswept hairdo, blue eyes, Max Factor red lipstick, and beauty queen shape, she resembles a film star. She is adorned with costume jewelry, a sweater I wish had a higher neckline, a slim skirt, and high heels she insists on despite the resulting bunions.

The scene in this department store is familiar: My mother selects my clothes. As usual, I button my lip about my hatred of her choices because I believe my tie to her so fragile that I dare not oppose. "If you want me to get it," I say about each unappealing ensemble, "let's do it."

So Nice Daughter continued until Mother died. She left this earth without ever learning of my loathing of the bulky winter storm coat, the school shoes with thick heels, or the faux cashmere sweaters that made my skin itch. I can live with that; she didn't deserve to ever meet Mean Girl.

Nice Girl was also Nice Student; first to raise her hand, turn in her perfect penmanship paper, and volunteer to erase the black board. That's why the unpleasant time in the assembly hall still reproduces darkly whenever I try to recall my eight years at Lafayette Elementary.

"I can't see the stage," I said to my chum on my left as I tapped the stiff cotton of her blouse. "Can I try on your glasses?"

After Sandy handed them to me and I placed them atop my nose and ears, I let out, "Wow, I can even see the buckles on their shoes."

"Elaine, stop talking or you'll have to leave the assembly," said Miss Lowe, her finger touching her lips for emphasis.

This had never happened to Nice Girl! I removed my friend's glasses, handed them to her, and used my small arm to wipe tears. I was mortified. In my childish mind, that incident dumped me into the group of bad kids, those who would be sent to the principal's office.

I had made the teacher I adored mad at me, and that incident must've seeped into my brain and stuck there as if it were chewed gum on the bottom of an unlucky shoe.

History reveals that my desire to prevent anyone's displeasure went beyond those I care about. I see now that it protected everyone from Mean Girl, like an insurance policy that promises full coverage even in the event of flood or earthquake.

As I look back on these petty examples of how important it was for me to be Nice, I wonder how off base I had been. Perhaps Mother would've taken my view, considered it, and said, "Oh, I never realized that. Of course, you can choose what you like."

And maybe Miss Lowe, if she had known how her simple shushing had devastated me and left a lifelong stain, would've pulled me aside and said something like, "I know this was not your usual behavior. You're still my star pupil."

No matter. You've been warned: Watch out for Mean Girl.

Abandonment Issues

The super thick exercise mat won't arrive until tomorrow. But I'm hyped up to begin, so I improvise. Two curly bathroom rugs tease. I place one on top of the other and plop them on the hallway floor.

From my filing cabinet -- a cardboard box stored in a closet -- I retrieve a folder labeled, Medical Soloway. Did I place my physical therapy exercises here, or could I have tossed them in my recent move?

Found! Now, I have no excuse to ignore the suggestion from my internist that began with her question: "Does the pain start in the butt and radiate to your leg?"

"Exactly," I had said during a consultation the previous day.  Was she clairvoyant, I wondered, or had a glance at my online chart revealed this was a recurring symptom?

"I've booked an appointment late in September for an epidural injection," I said. "Those shots helped in the past."

I went on, "The pain started after walking at least a mile." But instead of congratulating me for my daily treks as I had hoped, she announced, "sciatica."

Then she turned from the computer screen and said, "Actually, physical therapy may be better for sciatica than undergoing the needle."

As she was reaching for a prescription pad, I confessed, "Um, I did six weeks of PT in Los Angeles."

Her face brightened, "Did it help?"

"While I was doing it," I said.

"Well, perhaps you should try again before the epidural. Let the surgeon know the results and maybe you can avoid the shot."

That was the conversation that had me flat on my back, with stomach muscles pulled tight, and counting to 10 with each stretch. After the last maneuver, compressing on the two rugs, I scolded myself for abandoning these beneficial exercises.

If they were indeed easing the pain encountered with long walks, why did I shove the instructions deep into the file cabinet and ditch a padded mat in the L.A. apartment I recently left? I wondered: why are good intentions so easily dumped?

Instead of remaining on the duo mat to ponder the question, I retreated to my bed, the better to meditate on my latest desertion. With my eyes closed and the sliding door open to a morning breeze and the sounds of early traffic, I retraced other worthwhile plans I had promised to pursue, but instead paused.

Let's see, there were courses on speaking Spanish beyond the present tense, lessons on swimming while breathing on either side, private piano lessons so I could play Rogers and Hart, and group singing classes to accompany myself.

The most enjoyable part of all of these activities -- including my recent physical therapy -- was the pre-research and purchases. There might be new workbooks, wardrobes, equipment, and other necessities.

And once an instructor and location were determined, came the exquisite next step of entering the details on electronic and paper calendars. Ever the optimist, each activity would be "a recurring event," which I would optimistically stretch out for an entire semester.

Oh stop it. I know you're imagining I flunked at all of those endeavors, threw out the workbooks, tossed the goggles, sold the piano, and cursed the composers. Well, no, nothing so abrupt or dramatic. Each one slowly slipped away, like a full moon that disappears from the sky.

If friends or family inquired as to the status of any pursuit, I'd say, "I just got too busy with work and couldn't fit it in any more." (Substitute "lazy," "bored," or "discouraged" and you'd be closer to the truth.)

Fortunately, I barely remember the tails of my attempts, but I easily recall the beginnings. So, after a year's time, when a fresh catalog appears in my mailbox, or when a new apartment offers both an indoor and outdoor pool, or when a promotional flyer is pasted on a nearby bulletin board, I feel the familiar lures of  "Why Not?"

Of course, doing daily physical therapy exercises doesn't exactly match the pleasures I would win if I were to hablo español, do laps, tinkle the ivories, or croon. On the other hand, if I performed them every morning without fail, it's possible I could walk a mile without returning home for an Advil, heating pad, or icepack. And perhaps I could cancel the epidural.

And, if I were able to repair my body and walk or trot without stabs, perhaps I could one day run a marathon. Hold on; let me look into that.