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.

For Love of the Game

I should have known better, checking my DuoLingo app in front of Jim, my five-year-old grandson. But my mind was muddled after spending six hours on a flight from Newark to Seattle, and I simply could not remember if I had completed a language lesson that day. I did not want to imperil my 121-day streak. So I checked it.

Jim sidled up next to me, staring at my phone. Not unlike most children his age, Jim is fascinated with any app that looks the least bit like a game. Perhaps if I had left it at checking my streak. 

But my hubris got the better part of me. I just had to check my league status. The night before I made a jump in the leaderboard, to the Obsidian league, the penultimate DuoLingo league. I had just barely eked in, completing just enough short lessons in order to earn just enough points to land in the top ten users who advanced. I knew last week’s achievement was probably my glass ceiling. So I just wanted to see that big, black gem and do one last mental victory lap before I settled into a week of caring for Jim while Justine and Nathan headed for a conference in Chicago.

“What’s that, Granma?” Jim asked.

“Oh, it’s just Granma’s DuoLingo,” I said. I hoped a quick, short answer would satisfy his curiosity.

It did not.

“Huh?” he said. 

“Well,” I started in. “You remember that Granma and Pop Pop used to live in Japan when we were young, right? You see, we were missionaries, and we used to speak Japanese everyday. Well, that was a long time ago and I’m getting old and I’ve forgotten how to speak Japanese, so I am using DuoLingo to try to relearn it again.”

“But what’s that?” he asked, pointing to the large black Obsidian gem at the top of the screen. 

So much for my explanation. The black gem was all he cared about. 

“That’s an Obsidian gem,” I said. “It tells me what league that I’m in. A league is a group of 50 people from around the world who are all learning another language. We all get points for doing lessons and we compete against each other. If you are in the top ten on Sunday night, you get to move up to the next league. I’m in the Obsidian league.”

He looked at the list of names and point numbers beneath the Obsidian gem. Then he asked, “Which number are you?”

I scrolled down. I pointed to my screen name “Baka,” the Japanese word for fool. I had adopted the moniker as a tribute to my grandson Marshall, his interpretation of the word grandma when he was two years old. Although he had come upon that nickname by babbling, the word had an uncanny way of reminding me of my place in the universe at the precise moments I needed reminding. 

Baka stood at 48. The number was in red. I was one of the five players in danger of being demoted to the Pearl league at the end of the week. But the week was still very young, six days to go.

“You’re not doing very well Granma,” Jim observed.

Clunk went my hubris. Obviously he did not recognize my achievement. Just being in the Obsidian league, surrounded by 49 other such worthy people, was an honor.

“You need to do something,” he urged. He was concerned.

“Well, I guess you can help me practice some more,” I said. 

I opened up a lesson on clothing, and for the next few minutes we did a lesson together. If the sentence to be translated was in English, he would read it to me, and I would point to the correct Japanese kanji from the word bank, which he would select. If the sentence to be translated was in Japanese, I would say the translation out loud and he would select the appropriate English words from the word bank. Because Jim is a new reader, he enjoyed the challenge. And he enjoyed seeing the green bar across the screen if my answer was correct. If I were wrong, a red bar appeared, and Jim would say, “Awww,” but then add, “I know you can do it next time, Granma.”  

I had my grandson, whom I had not seen for several months, nestled in my arms on my lap. He had a game with buttons to push. This was nirvana. At least until we finished our first lesson. 

“Let’s see where you are now,” Jim said.

We checked. I had moved up two slots. Still in danger of demotion, but two steps closer to safety.

Jim was still very concerned. “We’ve got to do some more, Granma,” Jim said. Moving up the leaderboard took more effort than he had imagined.

We did a few more lessons, and slowly I moved up, out of danger of being demoted. Jim was encouraged that I was making progress, but still very anxious. I felt like a fool for having sucked my grandson into this little competition. 

Soon, however, it was time for a bath, books, scriptures, and prayers. Reluctantly, we stopped.

After Jim was in bed, I pulled out my phone. Thanks to him, I was sleepless in Seattle. I kept hearing him say, “Granma, you’ve got to do better.” So I hammered out several more lessons before I finally fell fitfully asleep for a few hours. Then because my body was still on East Coast time, I awoke at 4 a.m. and began again. I was still doing more lessons when Jim came into my room, rubbing his eyes with one hand and carrying a box of checkers with the other. 

“Look, Jim, look,” I proudly said, waving my phone screen. “I’ve moved up. I’m at 27.”

He took my phone. He adroitly scrolled up to the top. Then he looked at my quizzically, trying to determine if his Granma was trying to pull the wool over his eyes. He would have none of it. There was no fooling Jim. He knew 27 was a very long way from first place. 

“But look how far you are from the top, Granma,” he said. 

And it was then that I realized what my husband’s genes had wrought. Jim was no more willing to let my DuoLingo slide than his father had been to go to bed at night as an eighth grader in his quest to better his academic nemesis or to let a shuttlecock land out of bounds in a friendly game of badminton in his high school gym class, a dive that required a trip to the emergency room. What was I to expect from the only child of my most competitive child? Jim was a competitor. 

I like to think of myself as a warm and fuzzy mother (and grandmother). I encouraged cooperation and love. When my children were adolescents, a friend remarked she wished her children could be more loving like mine. And my children were loving and kind. Nathan and Chrissy were so solicitous of each other, they were once mistaken for boyfriend and girlfriend. Nonetheless, my friend was not privy to our family’s underbelly. Despite my gentle efforts, our Stornetta clan was still a wee bit competitive. 

I first realized this when five-year-old Nathan came to me in tears after a game of Monopoly, Jr. with my husband. When I asked Scott why he had not let Nathan win, he did not understand my question. There was no such thing as a friendly game, whether it was Monopoly, Jr. or a game of basketball. My thumb injured at the hand of my husband in a family basketball game had proved that. Whether it was hurling puns in an effort to outdo each other or quickly entering words in our nightly family New York Times mini crossword puzzle, we competed. And like his father Nathan, who holds the family crossword record at 12 seconds, Jim was used to winning. 

Even though my first morning was a snow day (Who knew there was such a thing as a snow day in Seattle?), our day was anything but languid and lazy. That day and that week as well was defined by games. There were checkers, Chinese checkers, Connect Four, soccer shoot-outs, and Mario Cart. And always DuoLingo. Oh, our days were filled with many more things than games--cuddling and chatting each morning and cuddling and telling stories to each other every night, waiting at the bus stop, checking the mailbox, walking the dog, watching Aladdin (and  just a few other shows), shopping at Costco, reading Dog Man and Matilda, baking cookies, and dining at the only three fast food enterprises on Mercer Island. (Cook dinner? Not me. I was on vacation, after all.) But the undercurrent was competition. 

And what a delightful competition it was. Jim was so joyfully transparent, as only a five-year-old can be. At checkers, Jim was intent, strategic, and rule-conscious, not unlike his father. He played with a confidence that allowed him to win easily and graciously lose. At Connect Four I was amused to see Jim’s internal battle between natural instinct and good sportsmanship. There were always a few brief moments of unabashed glee whenever he trounced me (more times than I am willing to admit) until his well-rehearsed manners kicked in. 

Then he would say, “It’s O.K, Granma. Keep trying. You can do it. Maybe next time you’ll win.” 

And I would smile, a proud granma smile, at the politely parroted phrases he undoubtedly had heard from his parents. 

Jim the negotiator emerged during our soccer shootout in the basement when I astonished us both by my knack for kicking the fluffy, plush soccer ball just so in our makeshift goals. Each time I was on the cusp of winning a match, he quickly renegotiated the number of points necessary to win, from 10 to 15, 15 to 20, and then 20 and 25. I chuckled at how nimbly he negotiated. This was not his first rodeo. But, of course, after a few games, his ability to negotiate was moot, for he had learned to anticipate my moves. 

Then there was the exasperated expert who quickly tried to school me in the finer art of playing Mario Kart on his Nintendo Switch. He did not realize I had long since honed my ability to game with a reliable, convenient inertia learned while playing Halo with his Uncle Daniel almost twenty years ago. Jim raged with intensity as his cart raced along the course competing not just against me but also against ten other animated drivers. When he did glance over at my screen, he would urgently try to goad me into action with a quick, “C’mon granma. You’re losing.” Alas, I was always destined to be last, for I was only holding the remote, occasionally pressing a button, just hoping I would not crash. 

But it was our game of Chinese Checkers that I found the most gratifying. Given Jim’s prowess at checkers, I had assumed I could play to win. Yet just as I was to drop my last peg in the final hole of my home triangle, winning the game, a petulant Jim emerged. It seems I had not understood the nuances of Chinese checkers with him. As he explained it, I could not put my winning peg in until he was ready to put his winning peg in on the other side of the board. The old “everybody is a winner” ethic of Tee-ball. So as my final peg danced around the board until we both could win, I smiled. In changing the rules, my ever-competitive son had learned to concede to the fragile ego of his ever-competitive, typical five-year-old. There was yet a bit of the warm and fuzzy me in Nathan. Perhaps he remembered his tears when he lost that Monopoly, Jr. game to his ever-competitive father. 

Amidst all these games, DuoLingo was ever present. Every morning and every evening Jim checked my status. We did a few lessons together every day. At home, at the Subway, even at the bus stop. When he was asleep or at school, I slaved away at those lessons, earning point after point. I did not want to disappoint my grandson. I had never worked so hard at this casual little hobby. 

But before I knew it, my week of games with Jim was drawing to a close. It was Sunday morning, Nathan and Justine were home, and thanks to Jim’s persistence, I was in sixth place on the DuoLingo leaderboard--a position not entirely satisfying to Jim, but highly satisfying for me. It was good enough to get promoted to the Diamond league. There was nowhere else to go. I went to church smug.

Two hours later, as we were leaving the church, I once more checked my status on my phone, almost as an afterthought. I was shocked. I had been sniped. I was no longer in the top ten. And the minutes were ticking away. Only two hours until Judgment Day.

As soon as we got home, I sat down and started working.

Soon Jim was looking over my shoulder. 

“Can I help you, Granma?”  he asked.

“Wel-l-l-l . . . ,” I hesitated. 

The minutes were ticking away. The calculus was difficult. Seven hours until I left for the airport. Only an hour and a half until the week’s competition closed. Would I regret not spending my final moments with my grandson? It might be months until I saw Jim again. Yet could I really sacrifice a week’s worth of effort in the final hour? After all, wasn’t I really doing it just for him? 

And so I abandoned my DuoLingo buddy. Perhaps a little too quickly. I felt like a devoted mother wearing a newly dry-cleaned suit who shoos away her toddler with sticky, gooey hands: guilty, but necessarily expedient.

“Jim,” I said. “In just a minute, you can help me.” My guilt was slightly assuaged. 

But that minute soon turned into ten. Then twenty. The time crunch made me jittery. I kept making mistake after mistake. I kept losing hearts. Which meant I had to go back and earn more hearts in order to keep playing. Which meant my progress was very slow. 

Finally, I pushed my way back into the top ten. I checked the time. Twenty minutes left. And yet, only a few points separated me from demotion. I looked around. Jim was no longer waiting to help. I frantically continued. I worked up until the last minute. 

“Yosh-,” I shouted, when time ran out, thrusting my arms up into the air, clenching my fists in a victory salute to a crowd of no one but myself. I was in the Diamond league. 

“I did it. I did it,” I yelled a few seconds later, lest anyone had not understood from enthusiasm the Japanese equivalent of an exuberant “all right.” 

I looked around. Justine was esconced in the living room couch, rapt in a book. I could hear Jim downstairs waging a soccer battle with Nathan. Even Ruthie, the dog, tucked neatly in the crook of Justine’s arm did not look up nor her wag to acknowledge my triumph.

Victory was sweet, but, oh, so solitary. And hollow. 

And for just a brief moment, clarity echoed in that hollowness. Maybe I was not simply succumbing to Jim’s goading. Maybe it was not just Stornetta genes. I was only a Stornetta by marriage, but in my moment of truth, maybe I was inherently just as cutthroat as those bearing the Stornetta name by birth. A fissure cracked in my Rameumpton tower carefully built over three decades by my own personal cult of motherhood and the otherness of my in-law status. I was one of them. I was a Stornetta.

I felt sheepish and remorseful. I had abandoned my game buddy in a clutch. So I made efforts to atone in my remaining five hours. I helped make dinner. I helped clean up. Then I cuddled intently with Jim as I read Dogman to him one last time. 

And yet, despite my epiphany, despite my repentant heart, remnants of my pride lingered. I still could not let my DuoLingo achievement go unnoticed. I needed someone else to know. After several chapters, I casually mentioned to Jim that I had indeed made it into the Diamond league. 

Jim demanded proof. “Let me see,” he said.

I showed him my phone.

“But Granma,” he said, after looking at the screen. “You were only number 8.” 

Alas, not good enough for my grandson. I was tempted to remind him that even the medical student who ranks last in his or her class is still called a doctor. Despite my ranking, I was in the Diamond league, nonetheless. But I did not have the time to explain the analogy. It was time to bid adieu. Instead I got my suitcase, hugged him, oh so tightly, showered him with kisses, and said good-bye.

Soon I was settled into my aisle seat, readying for a long redeye flight destined to be a bit more comfortable than usual given the vacant center seat. I congratuated myself. All in all Jim and I had spent a thoroughly pleasant, mostly successful week together. He did not miss the bus once. Not once did the puppy Ruthie have an accident in the house. I had navigated the unfamiliar roads of Mercer Island and her neighboring environs in an unfamiliar car without incident or accidents. There were no temper tantrums. Just quality Granma-Jim time. My brief descent down the rabbit hole of DuoLingo competitiveness was an anomaly, a few hours ill-spent. I nestled into my pillow, pulled up my coat snug and warm around me, and basked in the memory of a week well spent.

And then as my coat shifted, my phone slipped out just a tad from my coat pocket. I stared at it for a minute, tempted. Well, I do need to put my phone into flight mode, I thought. I pulled it out. My thumb flicked the phone screen on and then hovered over the Settings icon. But the mesmerizing googly eyes of Duo, the green DuoLingo owl mascot, beckoned. I could not resist, I could not put my phone to sleep without checking my status just one more time. The Diamond still pulsed brightly.

Postscript:

I somehow never got around to posting this pre-pandemic post. I returned from Seattle on Martin Luther King Day 2020, just as Covid was percolating. What changes a year has made. I was so happy to have gotten in a trip to see Nathan, Justine, and Jim in before the full force of the pandemic released itself. 

A few things have changed on my DuoLingo app in this past year. The leaderboard was changed from 50 to 30. Not sure if that makes it harder or not. I have also learned a few tricks to make using the app easier, the most important being that one can repeat past lessons to rack up heart points. Had I known that then, my week playing in Seattle might not have been so intense. 

My streak at DuoLingo now stands at 573 days. I am still debating what number is right one to call it a day. I have had a few more obsession fueled days. A year ago, on Easter weekend, the app added lessons on Katakana characters, which allowed me to quickly do enough lessons to obsess enough to finish the week in first place in the Diamond league. After that pinnacle, my obsession has subsided. I did maintain my Diamond level for an entire year, but then I got distracted. This MLK day, I slipped back into the Obsidian league, where I am content. Each week I practice just a bit of Japanese to remember a few phrases, but not nearly enough to approach fluency.

 

Too Much Tuna

“Do we have any tuna?” Scott asked me six weeks ago.

This is the question my husband asks me every few years when he is considering our food stores and wondering whether we will survive the Zombie apocalypse. He does not particularly like nor dislike tuna, but it is a good reliable standby for apocalyptic times, provided you have a can opener.

“There are three or four cans on the lazy susan in the kitchen,” I reply. I am tempted to add, “In the exact same place as when you asked a few years back the last time you were checking our storage.” But I refrain.

I listen from the family room as he rummages for the next several minutes. First in the kitchen, then the pantry.

“Are you sure?” he asks. "I don’t see any.”

Even with a compass and a map, he would still be lost foraging in our shelves. It is so fortunate that I am the designated food-gatherer in our clan.

I put him out of his misery. I walk to the lazy susan and pull out five cans. 

“Hmm,” I say. The cans have long since expired. I guess it has been a few years since Scott checked our tuna stores. Tuna is something he likes to stock, not something he eats.

But every few years I buy tuna for Scott. I do not eat it either. In my home in the sixties, I had two sandwich options for lunch: peanut butter or tuna fish. And tuna salad was my mother’s go-to quick fix meal for her family of six. (Yes, this was before the existence of the household microwave.) I do not hate tuna. I just ate enough to last a lifetime. I do not feel compelled to eat it.

So a few weeks ago, to please Scott, I bought tuna at Costco. I showed him the shrink-wrapped set of eight cans of Kirkland Albacore before storing them. He was satisfied. He has his tuna. He is prepared.

Last Saturday morning, the day we have designated to batten down the hatches and shelter in place, Scott asks, “Where’s the tuna?” 

I do not have the heart to make him forage. I set my computer down, get up off the couch in the family room, walk into the kitchen and pull out the shrink-wrapped set and put it on the kitchen counter.

Then I resettle myself on the couch. 

“And if one were to make tuna salad for a sandwich, how would one go about it?” Scott asks. 

This sort of question, the type that conveys a learned helplessness in the kitchen, is usually a telegraphed request for me to make him a sandwich. I look up from my computer. 

“Did you just want me to make you a sandwich?”

“No, I want to make it,” he says. His tone is insistent.

I am surprised. Is he assuming I will go first in this latest apocalypse, I wonder, and that he needs to know how to make tuna fish salad sandwich. Or is he simply embracing social distancing from me. 

“It all depends,” I say. “First, you start with the basics, the tuna and mayo. Then you can add whatever you like. A little chopped celery for crunch. A little chopped onion for a bit of bite.You can freshen it a bit with a little lemon juice. Or you can make it sour with pickles or sweet with some pieces of apple. Whatever you want. You could even make a tuna melt.”

“I think I’ll keep it simple,” he says.

He rattles in the refrigerator for the mayo. Then I hear a slight swoosh as the can opener pierces the can and then the grating as the cogs grind against the tin of the can. I do not look up from my computer. My mother (and grandmother) ear has been trained to monitor progress based on sound. I hear a second swoosh. And then a third.

“Wait a minute,” I say. “What are you doing?"

"That’s way too much tuna,” I warn. “A single can makes two or three sandwiches.” 

“You can’t possibly eat that much,” I declare.

I have raised the ante by invoking the phrase used by three generations, echoing a no-nonsense waitress in Hawaii who used the phrase when she refused to serve my father a third pineapple and macadamia nut ice cream sundae.

He opens a fourth can and asks, “How much celery should I use?”

We have ordered the grandkids away in our exile. I know no one will join him for lunch. I know I do not want a tuna sandwich. I know he is making all that tuna salad for only himself. I am perplexed, why so much tuna.

I cannot really focus on my computer screen. I hear the mayonaise glop into a bowl, then wet smooshing as he stirs the mayonaise and four cans of tuna together. 

“Don’t worry. I will eat it all,” he promises. Two pieces of toast pop up. I look over to see him spreading a thick layer of tuna on the toast. He takes a big, self-satisfied bite.

I look at that large, square plastic container of tuna salad. I am curious to see how long it will be until he cracks. 

On Day 2 of our exile, he eats thick tuna sandwiches for lunch and dinner, and for snacks, he dollops tuna onto crackers with great gusto. 

At dinner time on Day 3, he weakens.

“You said there was a way to make a tuna melt?” he asks.

This is not really a question, but a small plea. Not quite the concession I am looking for--that his eyes were bigger than his stomach.

“Would you like me to make you one?” I ask. I try to sound supportive, to scrub any sense of triumph from my voice. “So you really do need me in that zombie apocalypse, after all,” I want to say.

“Would you?” he meekly asks. 

So I make him a tuna melt. Two thick pieces of multi-grain bread grilled to crispy, golden brown perfection. The bread crunches when I slice the sandwich crosswise, a fresh tomato slice escapes and melted cheese slowly oozes down mountains of tuna. I can almost feel its warmth just looking at the sandiwch. It is a damn fine tuna melt. I am almost tempted to take a bite. 

On Day 4, I make Scott two more tuna melts, one for lunch and another for dinner. They do not look nearly as sumptuous. We have run out of tomatoes. I have deliberately overstuffed each sandwich, and when I flip each over in the pan, I am careless with the tuna that escapes. I all too eagerly scrape these tidbits of fried tuna into the trash. I want to be rid of the tuna. I am reminded of Dorothy Parker, who supposedly defined eternity as one ham and two people. Too much tuna surely must be a close second. I am glad we did not buy a ham for our exile.

“Well. . . ,” Scott says on Day 5. He is between Zoom calls on the big monitor he has set up in the dining room.  

I do not make him ask. I know what he is thinking. It is lunchtime, after all.

“Did you want me to . . .?” I ask.

“Would you . . . ?” he asks sweetly. 

Do I note a slightly penitent tone, I wonder.

“Maybe you’d like something else for lunch,” I suggest. “Our larder is stocked for an apocalypse, after all.”

“No,” he says. “I need to finish that tuna.”

“Do you?” I ask, knowing full well he will not let any of that tuna go to waste. His parsimonious ways are legendary.

“Then, I will make you a tuna melt,” I declare. “And we will celebrate the end of the tuna.”

Then I add, “But . . .”

He looks up. “But . . . “ he repeats. 

“I want you say it,” I say. 

“Say what?” he asks coyly.

“You know,” I say. “Admit it. It was too much tuna.”

He laughs. I laugh. Uproarious, full-bellied laughter. So much, we cannot contain it. Each time we settle into soberness, we catch each other’s eyes and laughter explodes, cascading out all over again. Perhaps an apolcalypse is not the end of the world, I think, as long as we have each other to laugh with.

Scott does not say it, he makes no concession. But his laughter satisfies me. I make the last tuna melt.

He does not devour it. He eats it slowly and deliberately without much relish. He is determined to finish his tuna.

He has been true to his word. He has eaten all four cans of tuna over our four and a half days of exile. 

“Dear,” I say, as I watch him take his last bite.

“Yes, dear,” he replies.

“I was wondering . . . .”

“Yes,” he asks.

“What do you want for dinner? . . .  Tuna, perhaps.”

A Legendary Day

“Marshall’s cheating,” Adella  yells out. “It’s not fair.”

It is only seven o’clock in the morning. I do not have time for arguments. Arguments explode, creating bruised egos. And bruised egos need to be coaxed back to normality. These two cherubs need to eat breakfast, get dressed, comb their hair, and get out the door by 8:15. 

Will this altercation pass, I wonder. Or do I need to address it head on? 

My question is soon answered. Adella will not let it drop.

“I’m not playing with you. You’re not following the rules!”  

They are playing with Marshall’s Pokemon cards, and I am pretty sure there are no rules. Unless Adella, the alpha, first-child, has made up some arbitrary rules that Marshall, the diplomatic second child, must follow. I am pretty sure that despite all her seven-year-old erudition, even Adella has no idea what the real rules are for playing with a deck of Pokemon cards. 

“But who will play with me?” Marshall asks.

There are so many things I need to do: finish washing some dishes left from last night, empty the dishwasher, clean off the kitchen table, help Marshall and Adella with their morning tasks, make myself presenable, pack my swimming bag, and maybe if there is any extra time, pack my suitcase for a flight to Seattle that afternoon. 

But his plea is so plaintive. And I realize if I do not take the time to play with Marshall, we will never get out the door. Playing Pokemon is a stitch in time. I turn off the faucet, wipe my hands, and head for the family room.

“I will play with you Marshall,” I say. 

“You have to sit here, Granma,” he says pointing to a spot next to a black folder he has placed on the carpet as a playing mat. He sits opposite me.

Drats, I think. Sitting criss-cross applesauce on the floor greatly limits my ability to multi-task. I cannot help but wonder if this is part of his plan. Does he know how much effort it takes me to get up off the floor?

“You get four cards and I get four cards,” Marshall directs.

Well, maybe there are some rules, I think. I simply need to figure them out quickly enough to lose as quickly as possible so I can get back to my tasks. 

“You put down a card. I put down a card and we see who wins,” he says.

Simple enough. Except that I am unsure what criteria determines who wins these battles. 

He puts down a Mewtwo with 130 HP. I deliberately chose a Wartortle with only 70. 

“You win Granma,” Marshall says genuinely excited, his diplomacy shining.

And I am reminded that he is only four. Marshall can only count to 20. He still says “One zero” when he sees the number 10. He has no idea that 130 number is greater than 70. 

He puts my winning cards to the side of the mat. “Let’s do it again,” he says as he lays another card down.

It is a fire Pokemon. Perhaps he is using card type to determine which card wins. Surely a Vulpix, a fire pokemon, will destory a grass Pokemon, I reason. I play a Bulbasaur.

But in Marshall’s world, the Bulbasaur wins.

“You win again, Granma,” he says, overjoyed, as he places my winning hand to the side, atop my previous hand. 

This is not going as planned at all. I am never going to lose at this rate. So I abandon reason and settle in. 

He puts down another card. I randomly pick another one. It looks weak. But who am I to judge?

“You win again, Granma,” Marshall squeals for a third time. Is he trying to make sure I win as much as I am trying to make sure I lose, I wonder.

We each have one card left. Perhaps I will bring this game to a quick finish by winning. I can only hope.

But not to be. Marshall decides we need more cards, so he picks up the discarded cards and hands half of them to me. Clearly the rules of this game are fluid. 

The redistribution of the cards works in Marshall’s favor. He rallies, winning three battles in a row. And just as I think he is about to win the game, he announces, “We need more cards.” This time, he gets up and runs downstairs, searching for some of his secret stashes.

Is it worth the effort in getting my sluggish, grandma body off the floor, only to have to sit back down again, I wonder. I decide to give Marshall a few minutes.

And as I wait, in-between reviewing my stymied to-do lists, I reminisce about my son Daniel. Twenty years ago, he had a Pokemon poster with all 151 Generation 1 Pokemon on the bedroom wall next to his bed. Daniel earnestly tried to school me at bedtime, teaching me all the Pokemons’ names, their types, their strengths and weakenesses, their stages of evolution. Daniel was a third child, so I confess that most nights I often employed the tried-and-true parental skill of feigned interest: I repeated names and words just enough to appear to be listening. So, despite Daniel’s constant drilling, I never really got beyond mimicking Pikachu’s stoccato lilt when saying its name, and recognizing that Charizard, the Pokemon on his most valued card, had evolved from a Charmander and Charmeleon.

Who knew I would live to rue my inattention? That a fad that I thought had long since passed would be new once again. 

“I found some more cards,” Marshall says as he runs back holding up two more cards. “And this one is legendary.” He hands me the other, non-legendary card.

“Legendary?” I question, hoping for clarification. But there is none. 

“Yes, legendary,” he says as he plays it.

Where has he learned this word, I wonder. From Adella? Or a friend at preschool? I look at card. Is it truly legendary? I can see nothing that distinguishes it from any of the other cards. 

Alas, its legendary status does not help it, for my card beats it.

“You win, Granma,” Marshall shouts. “You win the game.” 

He celebrates. He is truly happy for me. I am just baffled. Clearly he is a second child, I think. Adella never would have let me win the first hand.

“Let’s play again,” Marshall says.

And I am caught. I have no choice but to play again. How can I not? What self-respecting grandmother could walk away? Marshall needs his turn to win, his turn to shine. 

Then I wonder, is this all part of his plan. Does he let me win because he knows I will not be able to walk away? Is this his strategy to keep me playing? Surely he must be bound for a career in the diplomatic service in a post-Trumpian world. Or am I getting ahead of myself? My world view must be a bit askew if I am attributing such subtle, sophisticated machinations to a four-year-old.  

Nonetheless, we play another game, much like the first. We play several more hands. Never am I able to discern any pattern to the winning hands. And just when I am certain he will claim victory this time, he throws his hands up and enthusiastically shouts, “It’s a tie. Granma, we tied.” 

This time I cannot allow his winsome wiles to derail us. We have miles to go. I need to be proactive, to squelch any tugs at my heartstrings.

“That was fun,” I say and before he has time to suggest a third round, I add, “But we can’t play any more. We must hurry to make it to your swimming lesson. ” 

So we send Adella off with Pop Pop and we scurry out the door into the car, legendary card and all. And as we debate whether one stops or goes at red traffic lights (our ritual every car ride), I briefly glance back to see him admiring his legendary Pokemon card, holding it up to the car window. Because my part of our debate is rote, having learned it over many drives, I have time to ponder today’s Pokemon game, indeed, a game for the ages. 

Not only was Marshall able to entice me to begin the game, but he was also able to entrance me to continue. Is it an innate trait in the wiring of a second child that enables him to elicit my grandmaternal instincts?  After all, cuteness in babies, and puppies for that matter, is an evolutionary trait according to a recent study out of Oxford University that concluded “cuteness helps infants to survive by eliciting care-giving,” Is Marshall a highly evolved, cute second-child eliciting attention?

Or has the constant tug-of-war for adult attention with his elder sister pushed him to learn this behavior? His mother tells me that he has long since learned to concede to Adella as he vies with her for the best car seat, the remote control or the opportunity to explain something to an adult. Not able to command attention as quickly or as completely as a first-child, has he learned the dance of acquiescence and negotiations, and the subtleties of charming adults?

“Granma, help!” Marshall wails, ending my ruminating. “My legendary Pokemon--it’s gone.”

His joy, delight, and diplomacy have evaporated. Just tears and raw emotion. He is distraught. I pull over. I stop the car and turn around to assess. That legendary Pokemon that he had been balancing on the lip of the weatherstripping that does not quite hug the car window has slipped down into that narrow space between it and the window. It is gone. 

I get out and go around to open his car door. I roll the window up and down several times, hoping the card will somehow magically appear. (Is it not legendary, after all?) It does not. It is forever lost to the abyss of the car door innards.

“I’m sorry I can’t get it,” I say.

Marshall is inconsolable. “Maybe you can get Pop Pop to smash the door in. Then we can get it,” he suggests through his sobs.

“I don’t think we can do that,” I say. Despite its legendary status, I suspect the value of this Pokemon card is not equal to the expense of destroying a car door. “Maybe I can buy you a new legendary Pokemon,” I suggest. “Will that work?” 

What I do not say is that his tears have kicked my grandmaternal instinct into high gear. I am ready to buy him a hundred legendary Pokemon. Provided they are as inexpensive as I think they are.

He nods through his sniffles, satisfied that his grandmother can make his loss whole.

And I will. After swimming lessons. That is, if I can figure out just what a legendary Pokemon is. Oh, if I’d only listened to Daniel all those years ago.