Two Sisters And A Brother - A Partridge Family Timeline

It’s a simple question and it seems like there should be an easy answer, but for me, it’s complicated. At a social event you get to chatting with someone. You talk about families of origin and they ask the question. How many siblings do you have? It happened with a neighbor just the other day. I always freeze for a moment before answering. This time I barely hesitated before replying. 

Two sisters and a brother, I said. Then I had to add: and a step-sister who is not really a step-sister anymore, but I still consider her family. That was my answer and it is technically true, but leaves out the dead brother, the dead step-brother and the forty year old half-brother I haven’t seen since he was three. 

The pictures tell the stories. My powder room is a holy shrine to the past, papered with family photos. I can walk in there and commune with my people. There’s the last photo taken of us five kids, when my sister, Laura, was three weeks old. Jeffie was holding baby Laura in his lap, a day or so before he was hit by a car and killed at the age of seven. In another picture, maybe six months later, there were four of us. The family classic is our Endless Summer photo. We were in Florida, all gathered around our VW bus. My father was shirtless, with the body of a Greek God. 

My step-mother, Dotty, looked tres chic in her white sunglasses. I was about eight, looking into a camera lens. We had the full complement of siblings at that time. My father had left my mother and married Dotty a few years after my brother died. Dotty had two children so we were six kids. 

Dotty was the best thing that ever happened to us. My father was a chameleon. He was influenced by whomever he was with and Dotty was the best influence on him. He was a better father to us when they were together. 

My parents got married the day they graduated from Oberlin College. It took some years to do the math and realize that Mom was expecting when they got married. They tied the knot in June and Jeffie was born in January. I have no idea how things would have gone had my mother not been pregnant. It is unknowable. There were four more kids and several miscarriages in the next seven years. 

 Clearly, fertility was high and birth control was low. Many people walk the face of the earth thanks to the “rhythm” method. I’m pretty certain I am one of them. My mother made it clear that she would have been quite happy with her two boys, and possibly Priscilla to round out the genders, but Laura and I were superfluous. Thanks, Mom. 

Two Sisters & 2 Brothers & 2 Cousins

I had two sisters and two brothers for three weeks. Then I had two sisters and one brother for five years. When Dotty and my father were married we added Annie and Peter as step-siblings. Every other weekend Dad would drive two hours each way to come pick us up on a Friday afternoon and drive us back home on Sunday evenings. We spent half our school vacations with them. We had good times as a family of eight. Annie and Doug were the same age and Peter was three years older. The kids were 5, 7, 8, 11, 11 and 14. We had big family dinners, went on road trips and did lots of sailing on our sloop, Xanadu. 

Dotty was the glue that held everything together. She loved to do group activities, especially tennis. One year we had matching, monogrammed sweatshirts and there was a phase where everyone was playing the recorders. Think von Trapp Family, but we were literally named Partridge, so we were actually The Partridge Family, like the tv show. Other than a few instances of shop lifting and a fair amount of pot smoking (for some of us) we were all pretty good kids, except for Peter. He could be a real asshole and didn’t have much of a conscience. He seemed to be wired wrong. He was terrifically handsome and charming with a surfer’s beautiful body, but kept acting out and was sent to boarding school. 

Eventually Peter moved to Hawaii where he was “living off the land” which was code for drug dealing. We assumed it was pretty innocent, as in he grew and sold weed, but when he was shot in the head and found dead in a rental car, we discovered his life was a bit darker than we had been giving him credit for. The killing happened in the city of Pearl on Oahu. I believe the detective’s words were something like: Peter was a known user and dealer of heroin. Yikes! He had recent passport stamps from some shady places, like Bangkok, Thailand. The last communication I had with him was about six months before he died when he called Doug and me in Los Angeles and asked us to carry a suitcase to New York for him. He wanted us to be his drug mule! What a total asshole. We said no and that’s the last we heard from him. 

After Peter’s death our count was two sisters, one brother and a step-sister, although that didn’t last very long . Not content to have an adoring wife, the former minister turned teacher decided to have an affair with another married teacher who worked at his school. Ugh! Dad, really? Does it never end with you? Gloria was short-lived, and Dotty would have taken him back in heartbeat, but that’s not the way he rolled. After their divorce was final Annie wasn’t technically a sibling so it was back to two sisters and a brother. 

Dad left mom after she lost a child. He left Dotty after she lost a child. With Mom, there was plenty of ugly guilt and probably a lack of compatibility, but he and Dotty were a good match. It seems he wasn’t attracted to damaged goods. Dotty had lost her kid right after she lost a breast to cancer. Not one to take time for therapy and introspection, soon Dad was on to family number three. This time he managed to find someone pre-damaged. The third wife was much younger, and a pathological liar. Despite claiming she was a virgin, and infertile due to some mysterious medical maladies, we were soon expecting a new brother, although Dad was already a grandfather to my first daughter. 

Jamie was a blue-eyed, curly-haired blonde kid. We saw him a couple times when he was a toddler. We had a falling out with Dad over the shabby way they treated my grandparents, which included inveigling them out of money, though there was little to spare. We eventually moved them from Massachusetts to California to be near us. We were also tired of the insane letters sent to us by his Mrs, always with a grain of truth, but mostly rambling psychotic nonsense. 

We went no contact with Dad for seventeen years, until I heard he had advanced lung cancer. I was planning to go to New York to visit my daughter, so I got in touch and we agreed to meet at the place on East 52nd Street where Lucy was spending the summer. The apartment, formerly owned by Shirley MacLaine, was beautiful. Just before the scheduled meeting time I ducked out to the corner bodega to buy some flowers. I nearly crashed into Dad when I crossed the street. He looked pretty much the same, just an older version of himself, a bit more shaggy with a larger nose than I remembered. He must not have been very far into the chemo at that point, because I wouldn’t have known he was sick. 

With Dad after 17 years

We spent all day talking and it was so good to see him. He said a lot of the things I needed to hear about how many mistakes he’d made and the numerous ways he’d failed his family. We didn’t speak much about the crazy wife or my half-brother, but as he got sicker she kicked him to the curb and he went to stay with one of his former mistresses. Oh, Dad. 

It was so cathartic for me to reconnect that I wanted the same for my siblings. I wanted them to see and speak to Dad before he died and to have him meet their children. I bought him a ticket to California for Thanksgiving. When I went to pick him up from the airport I walked right past Dad without recognizing him. The chemo had done its work. The golden locks were gone, as were the eyebrows. Three months earlier I had known him instantly. Now I looked right at him and couldn’t see him, with his bald head, broken glasses and old clothes. 

Dad stayed with my sister for a Thanksgiving weekend visit. Unfortunately, he ended up in the hospital with pneumonia on Thanksgiving Day. We were hosting a dinner at our house which included my mother and step-father. I put the turkey in the oven and left it for others to mind while Mom and I headed to the hospital to see Dad. It was so strange to be in the ER with both my parents who had been divorced for decades. I remember Dad had white socks on and at one point Mom gave his foot an affectionate squeeze. 

The hospital stay only lasted a couple days, but issues arose when Dad decided he’d like to die on our couch. I was happy to help get him sorted with lodging, but for that he needed money and he wasn’t willing to use any of his pension or social security to help support himself. All of his income needed to be funneled to loony tunes and the kid. We had taken over my father’s parents and cared for them until they died. It was hard to get motivated to do that again for someone so broken and selfish. 

It became clear that I had to send Dad back to New York, come what may. One of my daughters cried at the thought of him leaving. The other cried at the idea of him staying. I was in both camps, and when I took him to the airport I was brokenhearted. I sent him back with some money, new glasses, filled prescriptions and warm clothes to ward off the December cold. I couldn’t figure out what else to do. We said we loved each other and I walked away and began to cry. I cried off and on for the next four hours. I cried so hard I gave myself an ear infection. I never saw or spoke to my father again. He died alone about a year and a half later, in a home for cancer patients in Stony Brook, New York, which was formerly housing for AIDS patients. He was seventy-five. 

My beloved step-mother, Dotty, never remarried and died after suffering from Lewy Body Dementia. My mother hit the jackpot with David and they were happy for over forty years. She died in 2021 at almost ninety-two, after many years of failing health. I have no idea what happened to my little brother or his mother. My two sisters and one brother are now 71, 68 and 65. I am 67. We are still in touch with our former step-sister, Annie, who is also 71.

Two Sisters & A Brother after Jeffie Died

A Human's Work Is Never Done

I was working in the garden this morning, raking the ever present pine needles off the gravel, when I had a bit of an epiphany. I was thinking about yesterday morning and mulling over what happened to me emotionally. It began a couple days ago when Lana was hired for a new job and needed a copy of her high school diploma. A search ensued. I found my high school diploma as well as one from college. I found Allie’s high school and college diplomas and Eric’s diploma from law school, but nothing for Lana. 

During the search process I pulled out photos, family documents, baby books, sentimental notes, birthday cards, report cards and momentos of all kinds. I uncovered photos I’d been looking for and photos I did not remember. I came across precious paperwork about my grandparents and great grandparents. In my paternal grandfather’s file I found the poem my maternal grandmother wrote after my brother Jeffie died at the age of seven. There was also the Thanksgiving sermon my father gave three months after Jeffie’s death. 

Grandma Alice’s  poem left me gutted. I had the biggest, baddest cry. It’s been sixty-five years, but it still feels painful to think about my family’s loss. My father’s words surprised me. It was poignant that he talked about Jeffie in his sermon and I believe the little girl he was speaking of was me. I will share Alice’s piece, and a snippet from the sermon, but back to the epiphany. 

Clearly, the work of a human is never ending. The emotional journey is long and can be excruciating, but compelling, as part of the human process. Growth can be subtle, but so beautiful. I want to feel the feelings and do the work, but it seems life is a constant interruption. It seems that marriage is a constant interruption. My relationship is ever-present and needs a lot of tending. Sometimes I’d like to just put it on the back burner, on a low simmer, and tend to myself. Tend to myself in relation to my thoughts, my history, my feelings.

Our Boy George

It’s been a stressful time at our house for the past couple weeks because our boy, George, a French Bulldog, is recovering from ACL surgery. He has an orthopedic injury because he forgot he’s a Bulldog and chased tennis balls like a Labrador. We live in a three story townhome and George is not allowed to climb stairs for four weeks. We carry his sorry ass up to the kitchen / family room once a day for a hang. He’s not allowed to do ANYTHING and he’s the worst patient. In over two weeks he has only drunk water (actually chicken broth) on his own one time. The rest of the time we’ve had to give him water in a medicine syringe and add a bunch to his food 

Every time we think we have a method for getting six pills a day down his gullet he goes on strike and clamps down that square jaw. Peanut butter worked once, then he turned up his snub nose. Same for pill pockets. For a few days we just forced them down, but it wasn’t easy. This is a dog who literally will bite the hand that feeds him. I’ve put pills down the throats of Dobermans and German Shepherds with no problem. With this guy it’s a fight to the finish. He’s stubborn, but so are we. For now, soft French cheese has won the day. Seems appropriate.

He’s been up at night, popped a stitch somehow and started bleeding. We took the donut off to feed him and he reached up with the bad leg to scratch his ear. Aargh. The sedative makes him snore so loudly that we’ve been taking turns sleeping in the guest room. And by taking turns, it’s usually me that bails. To be honest, Boy George has been a bit of a jerk, but he’s our jerk and we love him. 

Now that I’m writing this I’m wondering if the epiphany is that I’m burned out from caring for the dog. Maybe both things are true, and to quote Robert Frost, we have miles to go before we sleep. This is going to be a long process. The recovery seems long, the marriage seems long, the life seems long. I know how grateful I am for all of it. I am fortunate in many ways and I am so loved. But for the moment, everyone can talk and snore amongst themselves. I’m going back into the hidey hole where I’ve got 1960 on my mind. 

Excerpt from “One Man’s Thanks” by Reverend Lynn Partridge. November 20, 1960:

Occasionally when I come home after having been away all day, which is unusual for me, I find a little girl with flashing eyes who says, “Hi! Daddy. Pick me up.” Sometimes I do, most always, I must admit. And she hugs me, tight and warm, nuzzling beneath my ear. And I am thankful for the young in life, through whose wondering eyes I am sometimes allowed to see a view of life quite startling to me, where the people are all big, the tables the height of one’s head. In that queer world it is a long climb into an easy chair and one meets the strangest creatures eye to eye. And sometimes I remember, in those misty moments, and in this one, too, a son I once had, but no longer do. What I remember is not his talk or quizzical way, but his courage and his bravery. As he lay, irreparably battered on the so-clean table of the hospital room, he did not know what would become of him, and yet he did not cry out, but smiled and talked. And I am thankful that I had the strength and the wisdom, too, not to scare him with death. When it came to him, as it must to all, it was as natural as it can be, not horrible as it may. And I am thankful, too, for the strength and honor, if such I have, to be a worthy father to a son such as he. 

Doug, Wendy, Priscilla, Jeffie

Grandma Alice with Doug, Priscilla & Jeff

Poem by my mother’s mother, Alice Freehafer

He’s gone

Gone awhile, yet not so long

That finding some discarded truck,

Or crumpled sock, or handmade toy

Quickly stops a busy foot,

And fills with wonderment and joy

A tired and aching heart.

For here again is that dear boy.

His spirit fills the room. 

Here is a truck that was pushed aside

To make way for a thought still untried,

Here is a sock rolled up in a ball

Because feet bare are best of all.

Here is that hastily hand made toy

Made by the hands of our dear boy.

Brief

Brief is the moment,

And then the ache,

And the emptiness of the room.

Then being the woman that you are,

You slowly pick up the broom.

He’s gone

Gone awhile, yet not so long,

That in the bustle of the day

A casual phrase from casual lips

Rocks a rollicking room.

His words, oft heard

Now yours from a flippant tongue.

A pause, a glance at an unmasked face,

Or simply rattle on.

Whatever is done, the fact remains

That again he was very near

Near? 

Near to a heart, yes,

But near to a hand

As spaceless infinity

He cannot be gone!

He cannot be gone!

He’s here in every room. 

He’s out in the yard climbing a tree

Or sliding in the snow.

He’s hopping out of the school bus now

Or in the car to go.

He’s standing beside the Christmas tree

His eyes bright with the glow,

Snipping and pasting and griping away

When rain continues all day.

And then the heat of summer here with fish and dust galore,

And thousands of bugs just waiting for

A jar with a holey lid.

Then leaves begin to change and turn

And nuts fall all around.

And there he goes to find a box

To gather them off the ground.

He cannot be gone!

He cannot be gone!

Oh, God

He’s gone

It’s true…

Words, words, painful words

Why do I write as I do? 

Certainly nothing comforting here

To help you when you’re blue,

Except to tell you that another heart 

Remembers and is aching,too.

If only my faith could help you now,

There are many things I’d say.

I’d say the loving God I feel

Is with your son today.

Loving, so tender, warm and true

As to make it Christmas the whole year through.

But these words probably cannot help

Knowing you as I do.

He’s gone

Yet he will never be gone.

He’s here.

He’s there with you.

Just as he filled the page I write

He seemed to be born anew.

But memories fade I’ve heard you say;

I say they only soften.

But memories aren’t the thing you know

It’s his spirit pure and true.

It’s the qualities that made him Jeff

That no other child could do.

This is the challenge that faces us now,

Not fluid memories.

Follow the example your son has set

And he’ll always be near to you.

Bravery and loyalty, love and trust

To be true to him, follow we must.

Vitality and eagerness and creativeness

Craving for learning and happiness.

These are his stars and to keep them bright,

They must be born anew in our hearts each night.

These are the things that will help him grow

As each new day we start. 

To try we’ll give him a purpose in life

Rather than oblivion in the dark.

And so this Christmas when we hear,

Of a babe in a lowly manger

And how he’s born anew each year,

And how wandering men bowed low in fear

Yet followed his radiant star.

Remember that Jeffie’s little star

Can glow with a lovely light,

And he, too, can be born anew

On this beautiful Christmas night,

And be with us and be with you,

Not just tonight, but our whole life through.

  

*************************************************

My parents, my grandparents and my brother are all stars in the sky now. Sometimes I feel their spirits.

George is doing slightly better and turns four years old today.

I’ve found Lana’s diploma and have almost cleaned up the chaos created by the search. 

The search

No Kings

Yes on Proposition 50. Obviously. It only gets implemented if Texas does its dastardly gerrymandering. These are not normal times, and we can’t act like they are. If you live in California, for the love of humanity, please vote in the special election. 

It could be the waning light or the full moon, or my dog’s impending surgery, but things feel fraught and raw right now. We are also coming up on the one year anniversary of the election, which is the same day my daughter, Lucy, was diagnosed with breast cancer at the age of forty- two. She told me when she was picking up my grandson. I was paralyzed with fear and numb from shock. The election returns were coming over the transom, the tv was on, but it sounded like so much babbling to me. 

I sat on the couch literally unable to move. I was home alone because Eric was working at the polls. Finally, I called Lucy’s biological father because the oncologist would need family history. It wasn’t reassuring. That side of the family has so much cancer. Even a male cousin died of breast cancer because it wasn’t diagnosed in time. 

Fortunately, Lucy’s prognosis was good, they caught it early, but it was still hard on everyone. Lila and Finn were five and eight and Mommy had surgery Christmas week. We got through it all and Lucy was a trooper, as usual. The radiation was no fun, but manageable and now Lucy is back working hard, as she does. It’s possible I may not have properly processed this chain of events, but I’m so grateful for the excellent medical care she received and that life is normal again for my grandkids. 

Usually I can stomach the news, but right now it feels overwhelming. Ukraine. Gaza. A judge’s home exploded with her family in it. Our cities are becoming militarized. Innocents are zip tied and abducted from American streets. Little kids are shot to pieces. There have been over 300 mass shootings already this year. As Shannon Watt says: when there are guns everywhere we aren’t safe anywhere. 

Every time I open a container of food or medicine and have to peel off the tamper resistant packaging I become so frustrated. In 1982 seven people in Chicago were killed after using cyanide laced Tylenol. An entire industry evolved in response to those incidents. Of course we don’t want American citizens to be poisoned or killed! Clearly there was no financial
incentive to keep the status quo. 

Perhaps we were able to reign in the lobbyists. Our congress people weren’t bought and paid for so directly. Citizens United opened the financial tap and it has only flowed more fiercely. Thanks to that 5-4 Supreme Court decision in 2010, corporations were considered “people” and able to wield disproportionate influence and political power. 

In the San Francisco area we have had some cruel Octobers. The Loma Prieta earthquake hit the Bay Area on October 17, 1989. The Oakland Hills Firestorm began October 19, 1991. Polly Klaas was kidnapped and murdered in October 1993. The month started to feel cursed and I began to dread it. 

Perhaps I’m feeling sensitive and blue because I’m halfway through Fredrik Backman’s 448 page novel, My Friends. Backman has such a gift for simultaneously exploiting human brightness and darkness that it’s challenging to keep up emotionally. People are shit and treat others like shit. People are beneficent and treat others with beneficence. Back and forth. 

These times are cruel, draining, frightening. When Jane Fonda and Joan Baez say these are the scariest times they’ve ever lived through, it makes them feel even more scary. There are all the normal irritations and tediums  of daily life and then everything else on top of it. I think about Trump and Netanyahu and wonder how many people have to die and how much of this Earth has to be destroyed so two guilty, corrupt men can keep themselves in power and out of prison. And by the way, I still hate gas powered leaf blowers.

Brown Eyed Boy Of The World

Photo by Torrey Fox

It was a late November afternoon and the setting sun was reflecting off the windows in the hospital waiting area. I was getting more and more anxious. My baby was having a baby and it had been hours since I’d had any news. My daughter and son-in-law were on the same floor, really just down the hall but I could hear nothing. The last update was around mid-day when Allie texted saying they thought she’d be able to start pushing soon. That was hours earlier. I reached out to everyone, looking for ways to ease my mind. Was Allie ok? Was the baby alright?

This baby was my fifth grandchild and I’d never felt this nervous before. Three of them had been preemies so there had been no time to be anxious before the births; just plenty of time after. This baby was full-term, my daughter was huge and it was all baby. It was the Sunday after Thanksgiving and the photos from the holiday showed a beautiful woman who was more than ready to be a mama. I texted my son in law’s mother asking if she’d heard anything. No, she had not and she was also on pins and needles.

At 3:24 I sent Denzel a message: You guys ok? Nothing came back. At 4:49 pm, just when I was about to jump out of my skin, I got the best text I’ve ever received. Denzel wrote this: He’s here. Then: And healthy. It still brings tears to my eyes to think of it. I wrote back: I’m over the moon. I waited a few minutes so they could tend to Allie and then went to meet my new grandson. When I walked into their hospital room music was playing and the baby was skin to skin on his father’s bare chest. The baby name had been under wraps the entire pregnancy. We had extracted some clues, and did a lot of guessing, but we were nowhere close. Allie told me his name was “Zay”. It was the first time I’d heard this name, but since then I’ve heard it several times. They were smart to keep it a secret. People, and I consider myself a person, have so many opinions, and they’re not afraid to share them.

Zay Ramon Allen was absolutely perfect. He was strong and lively, his color was good, and his hair! My side of the family has never seen a newborn with such hair. Long, black, beautiful silky hair. Looking at Zay’s face after he was born was eerie. He looked so much like Allie as a newborn. They have the same cheeks, chin and downturned mouth. The top half of his face looked more like papa, especially the slightly puffy eyes. When Denzel was born his eyes were so puffy that his mother refused to believe he was hers. The nurses brought Denzel to Casandra and she said, “That’s not my baby. That’s an Eskimo!” The photos prove her point. Fortunately, the swollen-face stage did not last and he grew into a very cute kid and a handsome man.

Zay and I had a little hang after he was born. We had a chat and I told him some things. One of the things I told him was that his mom and dad had loved each other for a long time and they had been waiting for him. We all had been waiting for him and we already loved him so much. I held his hand while he got a shot and wailed, then settled down.

Those newborn days seem so long ago. Zay is now a 16 month old toddler running all over the place. His life has gone exceedingly well, thus far. Before the age of one, Zay took numerous 
airplane flights, including two trips to Europe. At seven months he went to a wedding in Tuscany with his parents and his other grandmother. At nine months Allie and I took him to Stockholm which is where his maternal grandfather was born. In Swedish the term for mother’s mother is “mormor”. One day we were having “fika” at The Hotel Diplomat Cafe when a handsome Swedish man (don’t get me started on how good-looking the Swedish men are) looked at us and asked, “Mormor?” Yes, a thousand times yes. I am Zay’s Mormor, aka Gigi, even though I don’t have a drop of Scandinavian blood in me.

While we were in Stockholm I thought a lot about my former in-laws who met on the street in that very city. I also thought about how my immigrant ancestors arrived in Massachusetts in the 1600’s. I have a relative, Martha Carrier, who was hung as a witch in Salem. We’re also distantly related to both Taylor Swift and Jeffrey Dahmer. Go figure.Allie’s father is half Swedish and half Norwegian and he is the immigrant ancestor. Denzel is African American with a grandmother from Panama. Our big, beautiful melting pot, embodied in one tiny person. 

Zay is obsessed with tennis and loves "reading". He's extremely strong, but has a sweet disposition and gentle demeanor. In addition to European jaunts, Zay has cruised the East Coast and spent a lot of time in museums. He’s usually among the first to catch any of the great exhibits in San Francisco. He loves his meals and snacks and afternoon naps and outings in the car. In fact, Zay lives the life of a senior citizen.

My first four grandchildren all have bright, blue eyes. Zay’s eyes are brown like his Dad, but they look so familiar to me. I look in his eyes and I see my mother and her mother and my sisters and my brother who died long ago. I am the only one with green eyes and I was hoping Zay would take after me, but his eyes are just right for him. The hair is always going to be a thing for Zay. People notice it and comment on it and want to touch it. It’s not black person hair or white person hair, it’s Zay hair. The smooth, silky hair has given way to a gorgeous cap of tight curls. It’s quite dark, but in the sun there are lovely copper glints.

More time has elapsed, as time is wont to do. Our sweet boy is now careening towards two years old. His second birthday will be on Thanksgiving. Zay’s childcare has been a group effort. When Allie went back to work I began caring for him on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Allie worked from home on Mondays, while also running her business. Denzel has him on Wednesdays and on Fridays his parents trade back and forth.

This week they toured a preschool and it sounds like he will begin in a few months. I felt a little sad thinking about ending our Gigi / Zay days, but preschool will be good for him. He’s ready to be with other kids his age. The school is excellent and diverse. Except for his father, most of the faces he’s seen around him are white. When we’re out in public and Zay sees a black person he just stares at them. He needs to know more people who look like Dada.

Grandmothers In Love

I hope Zay has a little brother or sister. Siblings are important. I will share in caring for him or her, until they are ready for preschool. By that time I will be around 70 years old. I have been helping raise kids since I was 13. I had my first child at 23. I have a degree in developmental psychology and I ran a licensed home daycare. I have been a nanny, a babysitter and a live-in au pair. I took care of kids as babies who are now in their fifties. Raising children has been the longest, strongest thread woven throughout my life. I am ready to be relegated to after school pick up and special occasion Gigi.

I have dedicated my life to supporting others and helping them succeed. I have three daughters, a step-daughter and five grandchildren. I’ve had three husbands. My kids are all successful people and I am proud of them, individually and collectively, but with my eldest it’s easiest to see how I wouldn’t be who I am if not for her, and she wouldn’t be who she is if not for me. Our circumstances were fragile, and it was my first time being a parent. We succeeded through grit and will and perseverance and love. It’s my time. If not now, then when?

Life is fleeting and ephemeral and all the cliches. We don’t know how much time we have. I still work, and probably will for quite a while. I do some volunteering and that’s important to me, but I’d like to get back to writing. I’ve been so disconnected from it and my concentration skills have been sabotaged by the internet and the pandemic and the politics of our time. And the grandchildren.

It’s been an intense nine year run with the grandkids. Three of them were born prematurely, at 31, 32 and 35 weeks. It’s been dreamy and tedious and made my spirit soar. At times it almost broke me. I will never forget the winter day that I tried to get Finn into his car seat after ski lessons. He yelled at me: I hate you, my crazy stupid grandmother and I’m going to split your head open with an axe! He said this while wearing head to toe camouflage. We’ve moved past that and Finn has settled down, but that moment was hard to shake, as much as I know it wasn’t personal. It rarely is.

Zay's grandfather is so eager for Zay to talk. His verbal skills are snowballing. He’s saying new words every day. There’s no stopping it. I’m not in such a hurry for the words. Kids say the cutest things, but I have had words hurled at me that I didn’t need to hear. He’ll get there. Just give him time.