What the Hell

“‘Ohmygosh’ is a good word,” Max announces from the back seat of my car. 

Max is four. His world is black and white, right and wrong, good and bad. Nonetheless I am surprised. His moral pronouncement has no context. Completely out of the blue. He has my attention. 

It is time for a teaching moment.

“Yes, you’re right,” I say. “It is a good word.” I am tempted to explain that the phrase is not one word, but actually three words. But I resist. 

Instead I say, “Max, you you do need to be careful. There is another phrase that sounds almost the same that you should not say.” 

Then I give him a simple discourse of the third commandment, emphasizing a loving Father in Heaven who does not wish His name to be taken in vain.

Max takes it all in. He is serious and silent. 

On the other hand, sixteen-month-old Alex wants to add to the conversation. 

“Vroom, vroom, vroom,” he says from his car seat. 

Alex must have finished his donut, I think. Which gives me about five more minutes before he starts screaming to get out of his carseat.

I quickly take advantage of my five minutes’ peace—I start running through my preflight mental checklist. Note to self: do not plan a flight three hours after Monday morning carpool duty.

Then Max speaks up again. Our conversation is not yet over.

“‘Whatthehell’ is not a good word, Granma. We can’t say, ‘Whatthehell.’”

“Max,” I say, ready for another lesson.

But he is not to be interrupted. 

“‘Whatthehell’ is not a good word to say, right? I don’t want to say, ‘Whatthehell.’ Granma, you don’t say ‘Whatthehell,’ do you?” 

Were he an older child, the cadence of the phrase or the sheer naughtiness of it would have led to his repetition. But Max is only four. He is merely clarifying, and his timing is impeccable, for I cannot laugh. My attention is focused on merging onto 287 at 65 miles an hour. 

After a minute, when I am well established in the flow of traffic, I reply, “No, Max. I do not say those words.” And then add, “I am so proud of you, Max. You know what words you should not say.” 

 

I am curious. Where has he heard that phrase? Not from me. I abandoned cussing twenty-five years ago when my son Daniel was around the same age as Max and parroted my every word. And I know a cuss word has never escaped Pop Pop’s lips. I just can't imagine Max has picked the phrase up on his preschool playground. 

I am about to ask. But Max has moved on. He is now listing all the video games his brother Marshall plays. 

And so our teaching moment has come, and now it has passed. 

Oh, What the hell, I think (but would never say). I’ll just let it go.

Gotta Love NYC

One has to love New York City. One can be whomever one wants to be. And last Wednesday, I chose to channel a disoriented, homeless bag lady on the Upper East side. Or perhaps my inspiration was Vincent Gigante, "the Chin," once the most powerful Mafia boss in the country, who spent thirty years feigning insanity by roaming Greenwich Village in his bathrobe and slippers.

I bought my nice, luxurious bathrobe, like the ones from upscale hotels or luxurious spas, almost as soon as I scheduled my surgery at Mt. Sinai Hospital in Manhattan. Separated from family and friends, I knew my stay might be a tad impersonal, but the expertise of the surgeon trumped the attraction of a more familiar hospital. (Thanks, Dean, for finding a surgeon willing to accept the challenge of doing my surgery laparoscopically.)

So after surgery, as soon as I was able, I donned my bathrobe. I luxuriated (or rather recuperated) in my new, thick, light blue, French Terry, organic cotton bathrobe with two large, cell phone-sized pockets. I dozed away the hours in its enveloping warmth, awakened occasionally by phone calls from my children, as the ebb and flow of the urban hospital swirled around me.

Until discharge time, that is. On the third day, after my delicious green Jell-o and mashed potato lunch, my IV was removed, I signed my discharge papers, and I slowly and carefully dressed in some warm lounge wear and slipped into my new, soft suede slippers with shearling lining. I had only to wait for my Prince Charming to whisk me away.

Alas, there was to be no whisking, only waiting. Scott was caught on the George Washington Bridge. And as I waited, staring at my small suitcase, I realized that my coat was still packed neatly inside it. As the minutes ticked into hours, I calculated the effort required to retrieve it: getting out of my chair, finding someone to lift my suitcase to the bed, bending over it to unzip it, and then rifling through it. And then, I would need to remove my bathrobe and tightly fold it in order to fit it in my suitcase. I waited. I contemplated. Such a simple task. Yet one I could not complete myself. I needed my Prince Charming.

"What do we need to do to get out of here?" Scott asked as soon as he rushed into my room just after my dinner of orange Jell-o.

"Well," I said, "we can call for a wheelchair, or we could just walk out."

"Let's just go," he said, his voice rife with frustration. Manhattan holiday gridlock is not for the faint of heart. He was not in the mood for waiting for transport. He longed for the peace and quiet of home and wanted a streamlined exit.

I looked at my suitcase, longingly. I debated mentioning my coat. Did I want to risk turning my prince into an ogre? No, I decided. Far better to be expedient: I did not need my coat after all, my bathrobe would do. No matter one lapel sported a small reminder of my orange Jell-o dinner.

As I shuffled my way to the elevator, I thought of "the Chin." And the bag ladies. I did not relish playing such a role. But my Prince Charming was not to save my from such ignominy. Far better to play the role of the crazy lady than to have a crazed driver, I reasoned. I did want to sleep in my own bed that night.

In the hospital lobby, I waited. In my bathrobe. For an eternity. Or so it seemed. Such are parking lots and a few blocks in rush hour Manhattan. I felt small as I sat in the broad, multi-story lobby, watching the security guard with the aplomb and authority of a traffic cop direct a melting pot of strangers swirling around me. Doctors and nurses, therapists and technicians, mothers and children, husbands and wives. All hurrying. None seemed to give me or my bathrobe much notice. Until one woman finally met my gaze. She smiled indulgently. 

Finally Scott called. I slowly shuffled out through the revolving door into an historically balmy December evening to the joyous clatter of Fifth Avenue Christmas shoppers and the blare and glare of traffic. And as I slowly forded the coursing stream of pedestrians on the sidewalk to reach Scott's hastily doubled-parked Tesla and the promise of its heated seat, for just a moment, I smiled, a deliciously wicked smile. I could play my part, fulfill my role, I thought. I could embrace my inner bag lady, raise my arms to the heavens, turn round and round amidst all these strangers, and rant and rave.

But my better judgment reigned. And, in fact, I suspected no one would have noticed. After all, New Yorkers take great pains not to notice a naked cowboy who parades around Times Square in his underwear. In truth, my bathrobe and I were just part of the New York City landscape. Gotta love NYC.