A Mother's Hands

A Mother’s Hands

Lately, I have noticed a change in my hands. More and more when I look at them, I see my mother’s hands. I wonder if I will be worthy of such hands.

I remember my mother’s hands. I see them changing my baby brother’s diapers as he wiggled. I see them tickling his elbows and knees. I see them washing a mountain of dishes after feeding six hungry children. I see those hands washing faces, scrubbing knees, and brushing hair. I see them folded in prayer.  

I feel my mother’s hands too. I feel them patting my back when I choked on the penny I had so foolishly swallowed. I feel them soothing my arms and legs with cool water as I burned with fever. I remember the pull as she smoothed my unmanageable hair into the ponytails I’d begged for.  

Those hands held me close. They soothed my feelings and healed my hurts. They lovingly corrected my errors, taught me life lessons, and washed my socks. A mother’s hands teach her children about the world and love is their primary lesson. I hope that my hands continue this legacy.

As I age, I wonder if I will see my Nonna’s hands. Her hands packed up meager belongings and immigrated to a new world. Her fingers embroidered beautiful tablecloths and handkerchiefs as she struggled to learn English and keep house for her brothers. Her hands made a home for her children in America. They worked long hours cooking in her husband’s restaurant and, when he became ill, those same hands worked in a chocolate factory, hour after hour, banging the frames to knock out the molded candy.  

I remember Nonna’s hands cutting up zucchini and garlic, chopping carrots and celery, kneading the pizza dough and throwing it joyfully into the air, then expertly catching it. I watched them rolling the pasta-stick shaping each delicate piece. Her hands folded mountains of clothes, crocheted mittens and slippers, massaged aching muscles, and pulled dandelions to cook for a special treat.  Once, when I lay very sick, those hands spent hours chopping ice with a hammer to cool my throbbing throat.  

Of course, I had two grandmothers. I see Nana's hands brushing the crumbs from the table, washing the greens in the sink, passing the pasta, weeding the garden, illustrating a story and lowering the hems of my dresses as I grew. My father’s mother sewed beautiful clothes with her hands. Nana dreamed of sewing my wedding dress but her hands fell still too soon.

When I think of these things, aging hands seem a blessing. I wonder if other parts of me will come to resemble my mother. Will I develop eyes that see only good in others? Will my ears strain to hear the joy in the hearts of my children? Will my feet hurry to help and my arms yearn to carry the hurts away and surround those hurting with love?  Will my heart grow more tender and full?

My mother’s hands held my children and my children’s children too. The memory of my mother’s hands still comforts and caresses. She holds us still. 

Getting the Sweet Out

Getting the Sweet Out

News Flash: Sugar is bad for you. Caught you with that one, didn’t I? Of course not. For many years, beginning with our parents warning us to cut out the candy to scientists telling us that sugar “feeds” cancer, we’ve been told to avoid sugar. But, oh that sweet tooth!

Human beings have a natural craving for “sweet.” In ancient times, people tested foods for safety with their taste buds. If it tasted bitter or foul, put it down. I bet that apple in the Garden of Eden was very sweet. Hmm, seems to be a clue in there somewhere.

Apples are good for you -- as are other fruits which contain the natural sugar fructose. But the processed foods we eat today include too much sugar. Sugar is composed of two types: fructose and glucose. Glucose is metabolized by every cell in your body, but fructose can only be metabolized in the liver. If you are an Olympic athlete, your liver has no problem with fructose. But if you are a couch potato or weekend warrior, fructose in your liver goes straight to fat. This fat affects your liver almost like alcohol. Your liver gets drunk on sugar.

Too much sugar has some other alarming effects. It raises your risk for obesity, diabetes, and heart disease. Sugar is addictive. Test rats will starve themselves drinking sugared water rather than eating readily available food pellets. Sugar contains no vitamins, minerals or other nutrients. To top it all off, sugar makes you hungry. It turns off the “enough” button in our brains and makes us overeat. 

We are “drunk” drivers in the supermarket lanes; chocolate cupcakes, the glazed donuts, sugary cereals, and super-sized candy bars beckon us to refill our sugar tanks. In the regular American’s diet, sugar is ubiquitous. How can we get the sweet out of our diets? We need to think AA – Aware and Avoid.

Be aware: Read EVERY label. If it says “added sugars,” such as high fructose corn syrup, put it down. Many packaged foods contain added sugars. Even those listed as natural or organic should be avoided. Most juices and bottled drinks contain loads of sugar. When buying foods or eating out, stick to foods that are as close to nature as possible. Eat the apple instead of the applesauce. 

Creamers have sugar. Sauces have sugar. Crackers have sugar. Condiments have sugar. Canned veggies and fruits have sugar. Foods labeled “healthy” have sugar. If you haven’t made it from scratch in your own kitchen, suspect that sugar has been added.

What about that sweet tooth? Save it for the occasional dessert, candy on holidays, and celebrations. Give your liver a break. It is hard to replace — in fact, impossible. Keep it lean and in top form. Be aware. Avoid sugar. Get the sweet out and the healthy life in.  

Better Than a Kiss

Better Than A Kiss 

On my right knee, a two-inch scar reminds me of a day, many years ago, when my grandparents were coming to visit. When their taxi pulled into the driveway, I raced across our brick patio to greet them. Crash! Blood flowed, cries followed. After calming me down, and bandaging my cut, my mother “made it all better” by giving my knee a healing kiss.

A mom’s healing kiss is magic. Children believe that their parents can heal all of their hurts. Parents teach us many good things. Their words and actions shape our lives — and our values and beliefs. Good parents are mindful of the influence they have on their children, but sometimes, even the best intentions, have unintended consequences.

In her book Mind Over Medicine, Dr. Lissa Rankin raises an interesting question: When we rush to “heal” our children, are we undermining their abilities to heal themselves? Dr. Rankin writes, “Many of us were programmed to have disempowering thoughts about our health at an early age.” We were unwittingly taught to rely on outside sources, doctors, medicines, and even a mother’s kiss, for healing causing children to believe that they “have little or no power to help themselves get well.” 

Rankin suggests an alternative approach. While never withholding medical treatment when really necessary and offering comfort and kisses, she recommends teaching children that their bodies are “self-repair mechanisms.” Instead of programming children to look to the outside for healing, teach them to reach for inner power first: “Imagine if parents programmed impressionable young subconscious minds to believe that we have self-healing superpowers to fight disease and activate health, instead of teaching us that illness must be treated by dosing us up with medication every time we get sick and hauling us off to the doctor’s office for a shot. Imagine how optimally healthy our subconscious minds would be.” 

Having a healthy outlook on life heals many hurts. Children who are raised to feel healthy, empowered, and able are more likely to be well, confident, and capable adults. A child who believes she can get up after falling down is more likely to do so. A child who experiences success after failure is more likely to try again. A child who is trusted to do it by themselves will be more likely to reach higher and work harder.

I loved my parent’s healing kisses and gave many kisses to my own children. Children need to know that their parents love and support them. We must also teach them that they have their own “superpowers” which will support them through whatever life brings their way.  

Kisses are healing. Believing that you have inner resources is healing too. Help your children find the “superpowers” they need to make life “all better.” 

Lights Out!

Lights Out!

“To bed, to bed, said sleepy-head. Good night, good night, turn off the light.” My father chanted this every evening when ushering his children to bed. We went to bed early. I remember many a summer evening lying in my darkened room listening to my friends still playing outside. 

My parents knew that children need a lot of sleep. So every evening, they drew the curtains early and tucked us in. Recent studies support my parents’ early-to-bed policy for young children. Young children need ten to twelve hours a night for optimal functioning. But many children resist going to bed.

In an article in The New York Times, Perry Klass, M.D.  reports on a sleep study conducted at the University of Colorado with children ages three to five. They found that children’s eyes are more sensitive to light and that exposure to bright light in the hour before bedtime causes children to resist sleep: “Just a short exposure of bright light may suppress melatonin and shut down [its] sleep-promoting effect.” In other words, exposing children’s eyes to bright light before bedtimes triggers wakefulness, not sleep.

Researchers found that bright lights wake up the eye and the brain. They suggest turning down the lights an hour before bedtime to trigger melatonin and sleepiness. Children often get out of bed to ask for water or a bathroom visit. Bright light at this time can trigger wakefulness too. So parents should limit light inside and outside of the bedroom at bedtimes to make sure that children get to bed and stay there. Nightlights should be kept low to the ground away from eye level. 

Screen-viewing also triggers wakefulness. Watching TV or playing video games can keep children from falling asleep.  A bedtime story read by a parent or soft music playing in the bedroom induce sleepiness. Regular bedtime routines are vital. Children should go to bed a “regular consistent bedtime, even on weekends… early enough so that they get all the sleep they need.” 

To promote sleep, calm them down, don’t rev them up. Have a regular bedtime routine to help your children prepare to rest.  Turn down all the lights. Clean up both bodies and rooms. Put on the pajamas. Snuggle up with a good book. Tuck them in and kiss them goodnight. Then exit with the intention of preparing for bed yourselves. Let children know that everyone needs to sleep. It is an important part of family life and vital for good health. Let the whole house be ready for “sleepy-time.”

My parents knew that “sleepy-heads” were not productive or pleasant so they made sure that we got the rest we needed. They also needed restful evenings (after all they had six children) to be a couple in love. Set your clocks and turn down the lights for consistent bedtimes for your children. 

Happy children and happy parents sleep long and well.  

Missing Cousins

Missing Cousins

Recently, I attended a memorial service for one of my cousins. Many spoke of his generosity, his commitment to helping others, and his love for his family. His cousins remembered adventures they had shared. Laughter mixed with our tears. Cousins share a special bond.

We spent a lot of time with our cousins when we were young — and we had lots of cousins! Since we moved often, my siblings and I lodged with cousins while our parents packed up old homes and unpacked in new ones. We ate together, played together, attended church and school together, and slept together. 

By age three, I was the oldest of three. One March, my mother’s sister was visiting with her three children (oldest aged four), when a blizzard struck. We hunkered down sleeping in playpens, on couches, and doubling up in cribs. I barely remember the storm but I will never forget holding my cousin’s hand as we drifted off to sleep.

Every summer, we created a village of cousins in our bungalow community near the Great South Bay. Often, strange children would knock on the door claiming to be cousins. We absorbed them quickly into our plans as we dug for buried treasure, wiggled our toes in the sand to find clams, fished for blowfish in the bay, gathered beach grass, sailed across the seas in beached boats, and sat around the fire as the sun set. We listened to grandparents, aunts, and uncles, and great-aunts and great-uncles tell family stories. Their shared memories became ours.

I spent time in each of my close cousins’ homes. I will never forget the epic nosebleed I suffered when spending a week with one set of cousins or the never-ending game of Monopoly played when staying with another set. One imaginative cousin created epic stories told in the early morning hours as the sun rose. I searched for rainbows and watched the sun go down with many others.

Children of my generation share many memories with cousins. As I said, we had lots of them. My children and their cousins share memories too. But I worry about the latest generation’s connections to their cousins. As families separate for jobs and opportunities, many children live far from cousins. How will they connect?

My own cousins live far from me now. We stay in touch through new technologies but our adventures are separate now. Nevertheless, we share a special bond. We share our joys and sorrows. Our tears mix with our laughter. I hope that this latest generation of cousins, though separated by miles, will find ways to make memories too. 

Memorial services are times for memories. Our shared memories shaped the people we became. Author Justin Cronin wrote: "As long as we remember a person, they're not really gone. Their thoughts, their feelings, their memories, they become a part of us.” 

Cousins never forget cousins. My cousins are a part of me. Our memories hold us close.

Merry Mess

Merry Mess

Regan plopped down on a desk to take inventory. Her feet hurt, her head was swimming and whatever she had eaten at the party tickled her stomach in a most disagreeable way. Paper, ribbons and crumbled cookies decorated the floor. The tree was a shambles — ornaments ripped from its branches in the mad rush out the door. How could such chaos reign at an alcohol-free party? Regan resolved to find a new job in the new year.

Regan flipped the music from holiday favorites to calming jazz. Gathering her last shred of energy, she began to clean-up. Many willing hands helped decorate but not one remained. She didn’t blame them. Dismantling is less compelling than creating. 

The trash can and recycling bin soon filled. Now for the tree. It was a small one and Regan started to drop it back into its box lights and all. As she picked it up, something fell from its branches — an envelope, covered in glitter.

“To Ms. Cranmer.” Opening it, Regan found a hand-drawn card. The cover showed a boy with wild hair, huge eyes, and a smile as bright as the star on the tree. 

Inside she read, 

“You make me happy. Love, Doug.”

Doug.  How he tried Regan’s patience! 

A dreamer. 

A forgetter of gloves. 

A waster of paper, a dropper of markers, a dripper of glue. 

He doodled, he hummed, and he never remembered to raise his hand. 

His smile and the smiles of his classmates were worth all the trouble and mess. 

Regan glanced at her screensaver, a quote from Shirley Jackson: “Am I walking toward something I should be running away from?” 

Tucking the card into her bag full of heartfelt first-grader gifts, she knew the answer. 

LMC

12/22/17

The Third Hand

The Third Hand 

When I was growing up, I always had hands to hold. The first two hands were the hands of my parents. The third hand was the hand of my brother Joe. 

Joseph arrived seventeen months after I did. I have no memories of life without him. Even though he was followed by four more siblings, his presence was most constant in my life. He crawled into the cradle the day I moved up to a crib. He jumped into the crib when I climbed into the youth bed (the kind with rails) and took my place there when I moved again to a “big girl bed.” 

Joseph was a quiet kid — in direct contrast to his older sister. He didn’t say much because I took care of most conversation. Leading him by the hand, I herded him away from danger as he wandered happily along in his cloud of imagination, a wistful smile on his face.

My family moved a lot. My parents held our hands most times, but often we were asked to hold the hands of grandparents, aunts, and uncles. The transfers went smoothly for me because my other hand was always firmly fastened to Joe’s. We took home with us wherever we went. No need to be homesick. We had each other.

Joseph and I moved through grade school and into high school with me still blazing the trail and Joe helping me clear it. Even though we had different interests, I sang in the choir while Joe played in the band, Joe loved baseball and I left the room when the game came on; we shared values and experiences which held us together. We still do.

As I grew, I held other hands. Four more siblings, Paul, Maria, Carla, and Michael, rounded out our family. Our hands intertwined in happy and not-so-happy times. One by one we let go of our parents’ hands and each other’s as we stepped out into the larger world. We grasped other hands as we formed families of our own. 

So many hands join us together now — spouses, children, nieces and nephews, grandchildren —their grip holding hearts close. Our hearts hold us together in times of joy and sorrow. Love binds us.

There is only one requirement for holding hands. You must reach out. Babies do it in the cradle. Toddlers do it when they take their first tottering steps. Young adults drop parents’ hands for a while but eventually, they reach back to hold tight to Mom’s and Dad’s. We reach out with heart and hands to lovers, friends, and children. When hands fall away, we hold memories of them in our hearts. 

Joe’s hand is far away now but I hold it in my heart. I hold my father’s, my mother’s, my siblings’, my husband’s, my children’s, and my friends’ whenever I reach out to others with love. 

Many hands go unheld. Hands are for holding. Hearts are for loving. Reach out and grasp both.