Photo by Etan Horowitz
Dear Jack,
You, the kid who used to yell: “Drive the car, Bubbie,” the
minute I strapped you into your car seat, have become a kinder, gentler person.
At age 4 years and 5 months, you could not have been more understanding when I
told you: “Jack, Bubbie has never driven in the Silicon Valley before, and this
is not her regular car. So please be patient with me.”
Without your help, I don’t know how I could have managed
taking care of you and your 15 month old sister Lucy for three days while your
parents were out of town. Take Friday evening, when Mama suggested I take the
two of you to dinner at the Palo Alto Creamery. “Bubbie, you need to go into a
parking garage,” you told me after I’d expressed my frustration at being unable
to find a space on the street. Was it was the visual cue of the garage entrance
as we were caught in traffic? Or did you come up with the idea based on prior
experience?
You served as an effective advocate for Lucy. Saying “I need
dessert,” after I’d served you and your sister dinner, you pulled a raspberry
popsicle from the freezer. Immediately after I unwrapped your ice pop, you
announced: “Lucy needs a popsicle.” When I questioned the appropriateness of
this dessert for a tot, you offered me a wide grin, nodding your head up and down.
Familiar with the different key tabs necessary for
navigating your vast apartment complex, you gave me a tour of the courtyard, bocce
court, and swimming pool. You even showed your directionally challenged grandmother how to get back to the
apartment.
Only once did you mislead me, but not intentionally. “Just
turn this knob,” you told me with great authority, instructing me to
inflate your airbed. Disappointed that nothing happened, I texted your Daddy
for help. While waiting for him to respond, you told me to use the electrical
cord. When you handed me an iPhone charging cable, you lost your credibility.
But Daddy’s response indicated you were partially correct. The electrical cord had to be pulled out of a black box mounted near
the knob you had shown me.
You are a little boy obsessed with both reading glasses and
sunglasses. Because you love handing your Daddy his eyeglasses, you get annoyed
when he tells you he’s wearing his contact lenses.
“You have to fix them” was your demand each time the lenses
on your Google safety glasses detached from their bright red frame. “No, the
green ones belong to Mama,” you insisted. Only with great reluctance did you
accept the substitute I found on the kitchen counter.
When you, Lucy, and I got to your pre-school classroom at
the Oshman Family JCC in Palo Alto, you immediately took the spaceship lunch
bag you’d helped me pack, and announced: “I’m putting my lunch in the
refrigerator.” After just a month at this school, a non-denominational United
Nations of little ones, primarily from Asian, Israeli, and “traditional” Jewish
families, you fit right in.
When Lucy and I came to pick you up on Friday afternoon, an
Israeli grandma there for her own charges asked me whom I was with. “Oh, we
know Jack,” she replied, explaining that her grandson Daniel “talks about Jack
at home.”
Did I remind you of your teacher’s discussion about Tsdekah,
the Hebrew word for “charity” a tad too often? Within the context of the
Shabbot service in your classroom on Friday morning, she spoke about people
without enough food to eat and clothing to wear. You and Lucy seemed happy to put the dollar bills I handed you into the Tsdekah can for the benefit of a
non-denominational community foundation.
Please tell me I didn’t sound like that generation of
grandmothers who told tales of “starving children in India” in an effort to get
little ones to eat. I did it only a tiny bit in the context of food, and more
when you were being difficult about getting dressed for school.
“I want soft pants,” you would say, rejecting the jeans I’d pulled
from your drawer. I admit to saying: “Jack, there are
children who don’t have nice clothing to wear. Please just put these on.”
Ultimately we settled on cotton cargo pants, not the cotton knit ones you love,
but softer than denim.
You do realize how blessed you are. One evening you cited a
list of people who love you, including maternal and paternal grandparents,
aunts and uncles on both sides of your family. Not to mention your sister, your
cousins and your former nanny and her boyfriend, and your classmates.
Okay, so you’ve grown up in an environment where questions
like “Bubbie, are we going to Starbucks?” and “Bubbie, can I get these
Spiderman sunglasses?” are understandable. A treat from Starbucks didn’t seem
like a bad way to wean you from the playground, and the sunglasses were your
reward for being such a good boy while Mama and Daddy were away.
Would I be lying if I said you were an angel? Only once did
I have to say: “Jack, get down immediately!” I swear I didn’t scream or shriek,
but spoke loudly and firmly. For reasons I can’t explain, you climbed from your
airbed onto a cabinet holding a big screen TV. When I saw the TV about to
topple, I got your attention.
But the record will reflect that there were no “reportable
events.” And I can’t wait to take care of you and Lucy again.
Love, xxxxooooo
Bubbie Bonnie
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