There we were the other night with Poppy and the kids. Jeff had been feeling stressed and guilty that we were leaving for the holidays. His dad would be all alone in his special home. Granted, he's never, ever alone in his special home. In fact, in his home he is surrounded by people just like him. They are old (very) and content (sometimes) and confused (always). The lie around on sofas or shuffle around the hallways. They mumble and stare off into space. They make unintelligible comments to the kids and like old movies. They are sweet and tired and have lived a long, long time.
While we spend a lot of time with the gang at Rosetta Assisted Living, we rarely visit with Poppy outside of his cozy confines. But Jeff decided we needed to take him out for an early Christmas dinner (even though he's a Jew). An early Christmas dinner for an 89 year old Jew at Noodle Express with a three and six year and their ten year old dog. Just to keep things extra exciting. Just to solidify that this was, indeed, a family trip.
After we maneuvered Pop into the car we drove, slowly down the road to the nearest restaurant. The car was unusually silent. Even Lucy didn't do her usual backseat whining. The vibe was anticipatory. Anxious. Anything could happen.
So there we were, finally eating our noodles. Eliana had done a great job keeping everyone entertained while we waited (PopPop does not like to wait. Instead of wait, he'd rather just shuffle out. Or around. Or something like that). She was telling us about her dream, wild and vivid, involving penguins and masks and crazy chases in the snow. Sol and Pop began to dig into their bowls. And that's when we realized it. Jeff, at the head of the table, was helping the two males on either side of him, his young son, his old dad, get their noodles on their forks. He was passing them both extra napkins and refilling their fountain drinks. He was making sure that they ate their chicken and had one more piece of brocolli.
At one point I stood up -- probably grabbing more napkins -- I stood behind Pop and put my arms around his neck. I said, PopPop, do you know how much we love you?
Yes.
And it was a clear yes. It was a heart-filled yes. I was filled with that same feeling I have with my own kids. How even after a long, full day, after meltdowns and rush-arounds, after slogging through homework and teeth brushing, my children know with their whole selves, with their whole hearts, that we love them. Absolutely. It's our one and best truth.
We finished up our shoyu, our stir fry, our MSG quota satisfied. I took care of the kids while I heard Jeff say, Come on. Take a step. Two steps. There you go. You got it. Dad, look at me. We are going to the door. You can do it. Walk with me to the door.
Just like he used to say to the children.
They moved, Morty and his loose leg shuffle, hunched back, clenched grip on his son's hand. They made their way slowly to the car. Slowly up the big step into the truck. Slowly with the seat-belt.
After we dropped Mort back off at the home, Whitney Houston's, "Greatest Love of All" came on the radio. Jeff, in his relief, in his wonder, in his thank-god-we-got-through-that relief, started singing along. Like, hard-core. In case you don't know, my husband is not one to sing along to anything. Definitely not Whitney. I started crying happy tears. The kids were just sort of shell-shocked by how weird their parents are. And we drove down the snowy, winter roads, back up the hill to our house:
I believe the children are our future. Teach them well and let them lead the way. Show them all the beauty they possess inside...
