Kochane Babka…

Somebody recently said to me, “Your own grandmother must have been amazing.”

Well, I had three.  My maternal grandmother I only saw once a year. I remember her mostly for shrieking, “Don’t touch my doorknob! I’ve just polished it”, and sending me cotton underpants every Christmas.  One was my husband’s grandma, a very gentle and sweet Welsh lady who taught me how to bake, and whose nut grinder I still use to this very day.

And then there was Babka.

She was my father’s mother, and she lived in Poland. I only saw her twice in my life.  The first time, I barely remember.  I was very small, and she came over to Scotland. She sewed my sister and I “party dresses”, frilly confections with gauzy overdresses and puff sleeves.  Mine was blue, and Teresa’s pink with roses on.

But then, the year after my big brother died, we went to Poland for our vacation - somehow, going where we usually holidayed seemed unbearable without Stephen.

Babka couldn’t speak English.  I couldn’t speak Polish.  But we communicated.  I remember her as being very sad, but she exuded warmth, kindness and acceptance. She called me “kochane”, which means “darling”.  She taught me how to make “compote” with fruit from the orchard, and how to roast the heads of sunflowers so we could eat the seeds as a snack.  She cooked on a wood stove, and let me help.  She gave me lots of hugs, and chuckled when Teresa and I formed the Duck Rescue Society, after we learned that the flock of white ducks behind her little barn was destined for dinner in our honour.  We still ate duck for dinner, and I don’t think we saved any, but lugging indignant ducks up to the loft of the barn and `hiding’ them kept us busy and happy.

When we drove away from her little farm for the last time, I burst into tears.  My parents were angry with me for upsetting Babka, but I couldn’t help crying.  Neither could she.

I never saw her again, and I never did learn to speak Polish, in spite of many attempts.  I used to send her letters in English, though, and they always began with the only two words of Polish I could remember:  “Kochane Babka…”

The Ultimate Snappy Answer For Sarcastic Parents

One phenomenon I’ve witnessed, time and time again, is the snappy answer to a serious question. Those questioning are children, perhaps experiencing something for the very first time in their little lives. The snappy answers come from adults, who have seen it all, done it all, and can’t resist a double meaning or a nasty bit of sarcastic mimicry thrown in there. It’s a cheap, lazy way of making yourself feel superior, venting off steam, or fending off emotional connection. And I’m not talking about gentle teasing.

You may be tired, the kids may be driving you to distraction, but sarcasm has no place in communicating with children. They deserve honest interaction, and straightforward explanations. Parents who routinely throw jaded comments at small children end up as the very same ones who wonder plaintively why their teenager is so sarcastic, rude, disconnected , uncaring - and never listens to them.

Sarcastic answers are born from ego, not love. When you are tempted to toss off a snappy answer, stop and ask yourself, am I doing this because I’m tired? Am I showing off to some other adult? Am I so disconnected myself that a bit of honest emotion feels harder than putting down my child? Was it done to me, when I was young? Are they asking about something I just don’t want to deal with?

Take a deep breath. Hear what they are really saying. Remember that everything in the world is new or momentous to a child. What you answer now will forever affect how they deal with it or feel about themselves in the future.

If you possibly can, make sure their first experience with the subject they’re asking about is a good one.

If You Could Pass On Your Deepest Core Beliefs To Your Grandchildren, What Would They Be?

If I could pass on one value, my deepest core belief, to my grandchildren, it would be “Love”. That sounds a warm, rosy and comfortable legacy – yet it is anything but. Real love is not sentimental or easy. It’s not just buying your grandchildren presents, or merely feeling happy and sunshiney (until they begin to squabble with each other.)

Love is the hardest path to walk, and the older I get, the more I realize how close I am at any given moment to being one hair away from messing it up. It’s not a path for the timid, because you are always conscious of trying to light the way for little feet. If there’s one truth I know, it is this: Every small slip, every impatient outburst, every careless or flippant comment, will come back at you ten times over when your children or grandchildren finally hold up the harsh, blunt mirror of adolescence.

Love requires respect. That means realizing your children or grandchildren are not possessions or there to boost your self-esteem. They are new human beings with a lifetime of learning and growing to do, full of their own unique thoughts, feelings, dreams, and paths. Love means truly listening, and never judging. Above all, it means accepting responsibility for your own mistakes, not being afraid to apologize frankly and sincerely, if an apology is due.

Love requires a tremendous amount of courage. It’s a walk for the warrior, not for the weak.

There’s nothing pink and fluffy about it.

Don’t Run - You’ll Fall!

It’s a well-known fact in our family that my mother was just a wee bit over-protective.  In fact, as teenagers, my sister and I once heartlessly suggested she write her autobiography and call it “Don’t Run – You’ll Fall!”  Being brought up with a never-ending litany of fearful vetos had predictable results.  I became almost as timid and over-protective as my mother.  My sister took the opposite path, embracing the most dangerous professions, hobbies and relationships she could find.

Now I am watching my daughter with my newest grandson, Leo, 20 months old.  His favourite toys are empty soda pop bottles, pots and pans, Tupperware containers – and cupboard doors.  Ursula is in my opinion one of the best and most thoughtful mothers ever to grace the earth.  Knowing my own limitations, I just have to trust her.

Still, watching Leo climb in and out of the (unlockable, easy to push open) TV cabinet, I can’t help saying things like, “Watch he doesn’t trap his fingers.”  Ursula puts up with this with good humour, knowing I know perfectly well she is actually watching him like a hawk, monitoring and evaluating every experience she decides to let him attempt.  As for me, when I blurt out my impulsive utterances, I hear my mother’s voice, saying the very things we used to tease her so mercilessly about.

I can tell you one thing, however:  when I look at Leo, I see a little boy filled with blazing confidence, curiosity and joy.  Yes, I’m sure Life will knock some of that out of him, but with parents like my daughter and her husband, hopefully he won’t be damaged by the harder lessons:  He’ll have the tools to use what he learns wisely and well.

Deja Vu

I found a snatch of poetry I wrote in my twenties, after a hard day working in the barn in sub-zero temperatures. I still remember how stiff I was that evening, and how much my bones ached.

The poem went like this:

I take a hot water bottle to bed
Instead of a husband
Scottish shortbread,
And a cup of tea in fine English bone china,
paper-thin

I am practicing
being old

- MFM copyright 2008