Oh, Baby!

Our grandson, Willem Paul, arrived Monday morning, a little early, but fortunately healthy and ready to take on the world.  It hardly seems possible, but the experience is even more wonderful and exciting than our friends said it would be.  I received photos via computer to share before he was two hours old.  At three days old, Willem had his first New York cab ride, going home from the hospital.  Pastrami sandwiches, a Yankees game and the Staten Island ferry can’t be far behind.  I wonder if he will think and talk with a Yogi Berra accent as in “Dis milk is good” or “I like dose graham crackers,” or “Dese diapers are dirty.”

Willem might be a New Yorker but he has received a ton of greetings from his “peeps” in Ohio, Indiana, Tennessee, Michigan, Wisconsin, North and South Carolina, Illinois, Florida and Mexico.  There have been

lots of questions such as “Who does he look like?”  At this age, I think most babies can look like anyone and everyone, depending on the camera angle.  Several people see a resemblance to Willem’s Uncle John’s baby pictures.  Someone said he looks like Paul but also noted he has hair – a definite contradiction since the babies on Paul’s side of the family (and mine, too) are always bald. When David was a baby, my dad called him “Slick.”  Still, looking for family resemblances in babies seems to be a favorite pastime.  Once, when David was about a year old, the woman in front of me in the grocery store check-out lane turned aroundand said, “That baby looks just like my dentist.”  (Yes, she was a patient of Paul’s.)

Another big question for us as grandparents is, “What is the baby going to call you.”  We know grandmas,grannys, mimis, grandpas, pas, papas, poppys and many variations. A high school friend sent her good wishes along with the most original grandparent names, Mamie and Ike.  When Cindy chose to be “Mamie,” her children’s name for their grandmother, Bill’s choice was a no-brainer.  Unless Willem has other ideas, I plan to be “Nana,” like my own two grandmothers.  (See my March post, “A Tale of Two Nanas.”) Paul hasn’t decided for sure, but a friend’s grandsons call him “Bob” so Willem may wind up calling at least one of his grandfathers “Paul.”

The most important question is, “When are you going to see him?”  We have plane tickets and plans for a

six-day visit with Willem in mid June –plans we made several months ago based on a June 1 arrival date.  I am a responsible person –the kind of person who keeps commitments, follows through on promises and doesn’t cancel out at the last minute.  This week, I am scheduled to fill in for Paul’s office manager, attend an Acclaim awards event, play in two golf leagues including one where you get a zillion demerits if you don’t show up, get my hair cut, go to the Playhouse, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.  

However, I still remember how nice it was when both my mom and mymother-in-law lent a helping hand when David and John were new babies and Paul went back to work. To be honest, I’m also dying to see Willem in person; so, I told  David and Megan I was available if they needed me.  When they took me up on my offer, I started canceling things as fast as I could dial the phone.  In fact, even though the idea of ever skipping a high school or college class used to send my anxiety levels to the danger zone, I would skip anything and everything for an opportunity like this.  Well I might not skip a dinner date with Paul Newman, but, anyway, he’s dead now so I’m not in a big rush to see him.

It’s just as well I’m leaving town because my mind is clearly not in Cincinnati. Wednesday I spent a long time

looking for the steno pad containing all my to-do lists and finally found it under my arm.  I wondered why my bike shorts were so uncomfortable on Sunday’s ride until I realized I was wearing them inside out and backwards.  Before I leave on Tuesday, however, I guess I should practice diapering and review my Dr. Spock so I can be a competent Nana. Then again, maybe I’ll just wing it; and, if I leave my reading glasses at home, they probably won’t ask me to help cut Willem’s fingernails.
P.S. The photos are all courtesy of David and Megan 

What Did I Have I Don't Have Now?

My six year love affair with golf has hit a rough patch, and the relationship seems to be deteriorating.  Now, I’m not saying it’s on the rocks, but it’s certainly on the pebbles and I don’t mean Pebble Beach.

It all started with a brief, early flirtation  in the late 70's when a friend and I took a few golf  lessons and tried playing on one of the public courses.  In the end, pregnancy and post pregnancy forced us to constantly recalibrate our golf swings and led us to forsake the golf course for the racket club which also had a nursery.

 I renewed my acquaintance with golf when Paul and I joined a golf club six years ago. Things started slowly between us, and we had no unrealistic expectations.  I played with a congenial group of beginners, and we encouraged each other.  It was a good day when I scored below my maximum of 11 strokes on every hole, although we were an upbeat group and referred to an 11 as “a double thumbs-up.” The day I called my dad to tell him I’d broken 80 for nine holes was a real milestone.

The relationship, like any other, has had its ups and downs – lovers’ quarrels you might say.  Many times the troll who lives inside golf holes has put out an invisible hand and stopped my perfect putt on the rim of the cup.   I've hit out of sand traps, creating sandstorms ala Lawrence of Arabia and turning my sunscreen-coated body into human sandpaper. (Sandblasting doesn’t make your teeth whiter.)   I've tried to hit over ponds, lakes and streams, sending countless balls to sleep with the fishes ala Lucca Brazzi in “The Godfather.”  Seduced by the occasional magnificent drive or incredible putt, I learned to ignore those little blips.

After lessons and lots of play, my game improved to the point where I sometimes reached my goal of a nine-hole score below my age.  When a beginning golfer with a high handicap starts playing well, the reward is more gifts and prizes than any male admirer could ever provide.  The usual flowers, jewelry and candy (in the form of chocolate golf balls) came my way along with visors, socks, golf gloves, glassware, gift certificates and a lovely, salmon-colored shawl.  This propelled the affair into the “hot and heavy” stage; and I found myself sneaking out to the golf course or the driving range 4 or 5 days a week - sometimes, more than once a day.   At my peak, I scored a 49 for nine holes, a marvelous feat for me, even though the husband of one of my friends said the odds of  a player with my handicap scoring that well were about the same as the odds of me being eaten by a shark on the golf course.

The romance started to fade after I came back from three intense days at a great golf school playing more like

a chimp than a champ.  Now, the game has turned on me like a snake, without so much as a warning rattle.  I can’t hit far, I can’t hit straight and sometimes, I can’t hit at all.   I’m not telling my current handicap because you probably wouldn’t believe it; and, anyway, my brother says handicaps don’t go that high.  Now, the only thing I do well is trick shots like driving the ball into a rock wall so my tee shot winds up behind me or ricocheting the ball off of an out-of-bounds marker, forcing my cart partner to take cover.

Can this relationship be saved?  Well, even though I feel betrayed and discouraged, I’m not ready for a total break-up yet.  I still enjoy the beauty of a golf course, the friends I’ve made through golf and the weekly golf league lunches.  I also have a cute, new golf skort that I want to wear this summer; and, at this point, I’m perfectly positioned for the leagues’s “Most Improved Player” award.  Plus, a woman I met on the Woodson Bend golf course at Lake Cumberland told me about a new golf game that sounds promising.  “I play Best Ball,” she confided in her soft, sweet, Kentucky drawl.  “I hit it and, if it isn’t my best ball, I hit it over again.”

 If you want to know how I really feel, click the following link  for a musical postscript  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UG66GQUvvns