In the genes

YESTERDAY, I began the process of genetic testing to assess my risk of several kinds of cancer. Thanks to medical research, it is possible to have your blood analyzed to determine whether or not you carry a gene that predisposes you to developing cancer. Knowledge is power, and if there’s anything I can do to prevent cancer, I want to know.

Diseases aren’t the only things that can be passed down through genes. I think there are other traits, too, that can be inherited.

Last night, I was talking to my mom and mentioned the testing. Then, the subject of French onion soup came up (as one would expect). I had made some for my mom last time she visited, and she talked again about how good it was. I replied, well, it could have been better, because the cheese didn’t melt the whole way through.

I set a high standard for myself, and if the things I make don’t turn out exactly as I want them to, I’m critical. To a fault, I’ve been told. But I come by it naturally: My Grandma Losch was the same way. As Mom tells it, she’d make a pie that was so delicious it brought tears to your eyes, but she’d usually offer it up with a disclaimer, such as, the meringue is a little weepy. As if that mattered.

I do it too. Perhaps it’s genetic.

And if being a self-critical cook is a genetic trait, so might be the inclination to get crafty. I learned crewel embroidery, needlepoint, and counted cross stitch from my mom. My Grandma Sara always had a needlepoint project in process. And if I’m not remembering Grandma Losch in her kitchen, where she spent a lot of time, I’m picturing her rocking in her rocking chair, her hands busily crocheting something.

So naturally, when I found myself in Michael’s on Sunday, I gravitated towards the yarn, and when I saw a bulky, fluffy skein, variegated in the exact colors of my living room rug, I knew I needed to transform that yarn into a throw blanket. I purchased four skeins and started crocheting last night.

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Sometimes, the idea of a craft project ends up being more exciting than the reality. (Which partly explains the popularity of Pinterest.) Alas, I have not been a consistent finisher of projects. I get super-excited to start, but I don’t always have the self-discipline to complete. When I moved earlier this year, I tossed more than a few incomplete projects, not only admitting defeat to myself but also freeing myself to begin anew.

Could “failure to complete” also be a genetic trait? I believe so, and as proof, I submit a discovery made when going through Grandma Sara’s house after she died. I opened a dresser drawer that contained several incomplete needlepoint projects! I had an AHA! moment right there: I come by it naturally! My own grandma had trouble finishing! This explains so much about me!

I don’t know if Grandma Losch ever failed to complete a project she started. I am, however, determined to finish my blanket project. Crocheting in front of the TV makes me feel less like I’m wasting time than if I sat idly on the sofa. Plus, there’s a certain cool factor when you tuck in for a nap with a blanket you made.

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If you compliment me on my completed blanket (and in writing that, I’m making myself accountable here), I’m almost guaranteed to point out its flaws. Please know, it is in my genes to do so. But do feel free to politely tell me to knock it off and just accept the compliment.

Even more than the genes they handed down, I’m feeling grateful for having had parents and grandparents who took the time to share things with me that, all these years later, still reside in my soul. These are truly priceless gifts.

 

 

The Neighborhood 

It’s 5:30 Friday evening. I got home a little early, changed clothes, and poured myself a glass of wine. The temperature outside has been in the 60s the past couple of days, so I turned off the air-conditioner and opened some windows.

I live in the top two floors of a row of two-over-two townhomes. All the units have garages which back to central parking, around a treed, grassy island.

From my open dining room window, I hear little kids ramming around with what sound like plastic wheeled toys. (Parents, you know that sound!) I hear a mom. From this distance, she sounds like the muffled mumbles of any adult in the classic Charlie brown cartoons. The children are shrieking with glee, yelling rules at each other for whatever game they are making up in the moment. As all good suburban cul-de-sac kids do, they occasionally bellow the warning, CAAAAARRRRRR!

These sounds transport me back almost 20 years, when I had two small kids. When the boys were very little, we lived in a townhouse community, smaller, but not unlike the one I’m living in now. Instead of out back, the parking and island were in the center, viewable from the fronts of the houses. If enough adults stood guard, the kids could ride their large plastic wheeled vehicles around the island.

It was in this way that we met most of our neighbors in the community where we first lived, and again when we moved to a more expansive suburb. Now, some evenings when I drive my car into the parking area, I see orange cones set up, and those signs that say “children at play”, and adults standing around, sharing a beverage, while they keep one eye on the posse of children. I remember the drill: one parent would take a turn, giving the other one a spell, and promise to run the children, hard, until they were tired. This was in an effort to ensure an early (or at least timely), drama-free bedtime. Our measure of success was the low bar of “safe and happy” on those nights and anything beyond that, with regard to the kids, was gravy.

I mostly feel happy that the days of large plastic wheel toys and shrieking children are behind me, but I would be lying if I didn’t add that the sounds I’m hearing now make me the tiniest bit wistful. My little boys were just so cute. And fun! Exhausting too. But remarkable. They were (and are still) a source of pride and joy.

There is a sense of community that parents of similarly aged children develop. I don’t have that connection with any of my current neighbors. Now, I am (probably?) that scary old lady who smiles a little too broadly, and is a little too forthcoming with the unsolicited advice.

When we were in the thick of it, I could barely imagine a day when I wouldn’t find Hot Wheels cars and LEGO blocks and empty chip bags and Capri Sun pouches all over my house. But now here I am, with a 7th grader who needs no toys, rides a “big boy” bike to school, and even puts most of his trash into the garbage cans in the house. His older brothers spend more time now at their dad’s house than at mine, but I see them regularly, and we have completely adult conversations. And occasionally drink a beer together! (What?!)

I remember as my kids were growing up, thinking how each stage is the best, as you get to it. All the stages are special for unique reasons, but the one I was in at the moment always seemed the best to me. Little kids, like the ones I hear shrieking right now, can be exhausting, but their smiles and joy are completely genuine. My favorite age range is still from 7 to 11, but I’m still really enjoying Eli even as an adolescent in middle school. (But I will readily accept your prayers for us both.)

Yes, my life has changed significantly over the past two decades, and I’ve been through many stages. But in this moment, I can say with certainty, as I look ahead to all that awaits, that this is, without a doubt, the best stage yet.

Going up

I USED TO PAY BETTER ATTENTION in elevators. I had to, because with clients in various office buildings around the city, paying attention in elevators was a critical job skill. I'd think to myself, it's Monday, so today you're down 19th from Dupont Circle and your client's on 6. Tomorrow is the alternate Tuesday, so you're west on M Street, 7th floor, and Wednesday it's the one on 17th Street with the grouchy security guard, top floor.

It was a point of pride that I almost never forgot which elevator button to push. I had my act together and was pretty proud of it.

Then last year, I retired my wheeled briefcase and started working in the same place every day. My new office building has touch pad elevator call buttons: You press your destination floor and the panel tells you which elevator will take you there. You don't press a button in the elevator because it already knows. This allows you to kind of zone out during the ride up.

Yesterday I took the day off so I could arrange some long-overdue medical appointments. And so I found myself in a different office building first thing in the morning. As I entered the elevator, another woman was already in there. The 8 button was lit. I pressed 5. The doors almost closed, then opened again, much to the relief of a harried-looking mother with three active kids, between the ages of 6 and 2. She herded her brood into the elevator and instructed her oldest daughter to press 11, which she did.

You know how kids love elevator buttons? Well of course the little guy wanted to press a button too, and he lunged for the bottom row, which included the ALARM button. Mom pulled him back just in time, then shooed her other son out of my personal space, scolding him, "You're being rude." I didn't mind, though. I was thinking about why this one mama had brought all three kids with her to a medical appointment, without a stroller. Had the nanny canceled? Perhaps her husband was out of town. 

The car stopped at 5; no one got out. I looked at the other woman, who had never looked up from her phone. Huh, I thought. She is so engrossed in her phone that she forgot to get off the elevator! Amused, I watched her to see how she would react when she realized she'd missed her stop. 

The doors closed and the car continued to 8. The lady with the phone got out. 

Aha, I thought. She realized she missed her stop and got off at 8 instead. But I was focused on those kids. I thought, if Mom needs help, I will come to her rescue. She sure is lucky she boarded an elevator with me, an experienced mother of three kids!

As the elevator continued up to 11, that's when I remembered that *I* was the one was supposed to get off at 5. I had become so distracted that I managed, in that short ride, to forget which floor I'd pressed. 

Mom was focused on executing her tenacious 1-on-3 defense, but I still wanted to avoid a potentially embarrassing exchange. So I followed her off the elevator, as if I'd meant to get off on the same floor. To pre-empt any questions, I gave her a meaningful look and a nod and said, "It gets better, I promise," and added with a knowing wink, sister to sister, "I understand. Hang in there!" She thanked me and wished me a nice day. 

I waited for the foursome to disappear around the corner before quietly pressing the call button and re-entering the elevator for the ride back down to the fifth floor.