Ten

“Four is my favorite number,” Max declares. 

I have suspected as much. He has just celebrated his fourth birthday two weeks before.

“Is it because you are four years old?” I ask.

With gravitas, he slowly nods his head. It is clear that a number so tied to his identity is a serious matter.

I smile. Four is such a delightful age. Especially on Max. He asks questions, much deeper than he realizes: “Granma, why did you need a new kitchen?” (Truth is, I don’t. ) He is anxious to help or comply: as soon as Pop Pop mentions how important running outside is, Max races up the basement stairs, runs to the kitchen, slides open the door, and begins running around the house as fast as his four-year-old legs can. And he has an unshakable confidence about the way the world should be: “Granma I fixed your snack basket,” he says. With the help of a chair, he has plucked the goodies from my upper cupboard shelves that I have hidden because of their mess factor and added them to my carefully curated snack basket. (A woven  basket his great-grandmother used to collect eggs on the her expansive Virginia farm when she was not much older than he.)

What a gift for Pop Pop and me to have Max all to ourselves every morning for an hour and a half before we take turns driving him to preschool. It is the official year of Max, the middle child. We do not need to compete with video games, YouTube, or Netflix for his attention, as we might with his older siblings. And he does not need to compete with his siblings for our attention. 

This age discussion has Max thinking. He asks, “Granma, how old are you?”

Hmm, I think. When I was young my father made a point of teaching me (and often reteaching me) that it was impolite to ask a lady her age or her weight. But that lesson is better taught another day: I do not want to stymie the glorious, unabashed life of this four-year-old. 

Instead I ask, “How old do you think I am?” Always such an intriguing question with children.

“Ten,” he says, without hesitation. Then he adds, “Ten is big and and when you’re ten, you’re an adult.”

No need to dissuade him. Max is intrigued by numbers and ten is his current favorite. Ten minutes is how much longer he wants to play. Ten hours is how long he had to wait his turn. Ten days until Halloween or Christmas, whichever holiday he is discussing. To Max ten is not a cardinal number, it is a nebulous concept, as broad as tomorrow is to a toddler or infinity is to his math whiz sister Adella. Is ten his favorite because it is close to the outer limit of numbers he can comfortably count? Or is it because Adella will soon be ten? Regardless it pleases me that my grandson thinks first that I am young and second that I am an adult.

Soon Max disappears downstairs to the bowels of the basement to watch Pop Pop on the treadmill. Max enjoys watching Pop Pop on the treadmill. Especially on days like today when Pop Pop finishes his run and lets Max have a turn. Which today leads to their discussion of numbers, which Pop Pop shares with me when he emerges from the basement, sweaty and smiling, followed by Max.

Pop Pop reminded Max of the rules before his turn. Max must always wear his sneakers on the treadmill. He can only use the treadmil with an adult present. And he can never go past two, a safe, steady pace. 

“But Pop Pop,” the ever observant Max protested. “It says six when you were running. I want to go to six.”

“Oh, no,” Pop Pop said in what I only imagine is his mock incredulous voice with a slight lilt of suppressed laughter that he uses whenever a grandchild seeks to push a boundary. 

“You are not yet old enough to go at six. When you are older, maybe in a year, after you have another birthday, you can run at three. Then after more time, maybe another year or many more, you can run at four.”

“And when I am bigger I can go to six like you Pop Pop,” Max joined in. He gets the point.

Then he added, “When I am even older, I can run at ten like Granma. Granma goes at ten.”

Pop Pop laughed. “Well,” he said. “I don’t know about that. I am pretty sure that Granma can’t run at ten. Maybe she can swim ten laps for every six that I can swim, but I know I can run faster than she does.”

Max stood resolute, unconvinced. It would be like saying that his beloved Spiderman cannot shoot webs and swing his way among skyscrapers to rescue the downtrodden. To Max I am a superhero. It doesn’t matter that I have been hobbling around for six weeks due to a bit of nerve damage following surgery and that I am only now approaching my pre-surgery walking speed, more like a three. He thinks I can run at ten miles per hour.

After hearing of their conversation, I am tempted to revel in Max's adulation. But there is no time. It is time to go to preschool. 

“Max, I’ve got to go put my pants on so I can take you to school,” I say. Gone are the pajama bottom dropoff days of Adella and Marshall, true dropoff days, when I waited in a queue of cars for a teacher, unaware of my attire, to open my car door, and let my little cherub out. Now I must exit my car to drop off Max at his preschool playground.

Max follows me into my bedroom. Modesty, be damned. As I swap my Christmas polar bear flannel pajama pants for a pair of joggers, he asks, “What size do you wear Granma?”

Perhaps I should have given him a version of my father’s lecture on a woman’s age and weight after all, I think. “Well,’ I say, “I wear a large.”

He persists, “But what size are your pants?”

“A large size,” I say again. No need to fill him in on all the details

Then he says, “I know, Granma. Your size is a ten.”

Oh, if only, I think. That ship sailed some time ago. And then he regales me with his logic. He is four and wears a size four. Marshall is seven and he wears a size seven. Because I am ten, then surely I must wear a size ten. Gotta love this child, I think, who has an undersized view of his oversized grandmother.

Soon we are in the car, counting off the few miles to preschool. We pass one stoplight, two stop signs, three fields with well over ten large rolled hay bales, and four grazing horses. Then Max announces, “There are headstones at my school.”

“Yes,” I agree. “That’s because your school is in an old church, and they often bury people at churches.”

“No,” he replies. “It is my school.”

“Well,” I say, “Your preschool is in the basement, and it is a church upstairs.”

“No,” he insists, “it is a school.”

“Well, maybe,” I counter, “On Sunday it is a church.” 

He finally concedes. Then he adds, “And the headstones are for the hundred Zombies that Marshall has killed.”

So it seems I am not the only superhero in the family. I did not realize Marshall was also a Zombie slayer. I am curious what tales Marshall has told about his old preschool.

“Or maybe it was just ten Zombies,” he adds.

I chuckle, then ask, “And do you suppose that maybe, just maybe, those Zombies are pre-e-e-ten-n-d-d-d?” I say, hoping to make the answer obvious by drawing the word out. “Or real?” I barely whisper. 

“Real,” he avows, shouting. 

This time I concede by silence. I suppose it is inevitable. What else is he to believe when he has an Uncle Daniel and a Pop Pop who spent a road trip calculating the Zombie-free Safe Zone–the distance required to outrun the Zombies in order to be safe should their escape car breakdown on a freeway during a Zombie Apocalypse. (6.2 miles--Don’t ask me how they arrived at that figure. Not sure. And it should be noted that calculations fail to factor in the possibility of any Zombies lumbering up the freeway off-ramp against the flow of traffic.)

Regardless, there are no Zombies active today, and we get to the preschool safely. I park in the spot furthest from the Zombie graveyard. We exit the car, Max, fresh-faced and bright-eyed with his shiny, new backpack and clean back-to-school sneakers, and me with my slightly combed bed-head hair, puffy eyes hidden behind sunglasses, wearing loose, large-sized joggers, ragged t-shirt, baggy sweatshirt and the suede slippers I forgot to change out of before I got into the car. 

Together, Max and I walk the path to the playground gate for dropoff. 

I relish the moment. Basking in the warm autumn air, listening to the sweet chatter of preschoolers, and holding the trusting clasp of Max’s hand. 

I smile contentedly. For I know that for the first, and perhaps the only time in my life, I am a perfect ten.

Where Babies Come From

 

“I know where babies come from,” Max announces to Pop Pop on their way to preschool.

“Oh?” Pop Pop asks, game to listen. Max is in that delightful childhood stage when he is always ready to ponder a “why” and ever willing to create his own explanation if his trusted adults do not provide a satisfying answer.

“You see, Grandpa,” Max says, “There are some people who have babies and don’t want them.”

Not exactly what Pop Pop is expecting, and he wonders where Max is going with this explanation.

“And when no one wants those babies,” Max continues, “they give them to other people.”

So somewhere Max must have heard someone explain adoption. Which begs the question, which Max is ignoring. Where do those adopted babies come from?

Then comes the bombshell.

“Uncle Daniel did not want Alex, so he gave Alex to Mom and Dad.”

And there we have it—Max's first version of the “You’re adopted” taunt for his baby brother Alex. 

Is Max subconsciously feeling usurped as the baby in the family by Alex? (It has been four and a half years.) Or inspired by a political era rampant with conspiracy theories, did Max conveniently forget his mother’s last pregnancy and her visit to the hospital when Alex was born? Or was he simply taken in by a classmate's story of his own adoption? Hard to tell. But I, indeed, can testify that Alex is not adopted, for my mettle as a granny nanny was sorely tested by wrestling Chrissy's three cherubs in my home for thirty-six hours while she and Christian awaited Alex's arrival at the hospital. (Pop Pop oh-so-conveniently happened to be on a business (?) trip to Israel.)

Pop Pop does not try to dissuade Max of his birth theory. As of yet, Alex is too young to absorb the false adoption tale, which Max truly seems to believe. Pop Pop figures Max’s parents might provide a more accurate, age-appropriate discussion. 

I, on the other hand, feel most deeply for the dear, sweet, besmirched Uncle Daniel whose status as the favored, single, fun, unimpeachable uncle is now seriously in question. Alas, we must wait until Easter to see how Uncle Daniel will magically restore his character.

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.

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.”