Bea Lewis

It seems so complicated - the part about getting along with our adult children - or our wish for them to be nicer to us.

 So, with the help of Dr. Holly Katz, clinical director of the Center for Group Counseling in Boca Raton, FL., I've devised a ten point plan for intergenerational harmony. And guess what? Much of what they want from us - we want from them. 

What Parents Want From Their Adult Children :

1. To be treated with respect.

2. To show respect to our new spouse or partner when your mother or father dies ( or divorces) 

3. To forgive the hurts we caused you.

4. To not expect too much from us , 

5. To appreciate what we've given you.

6. To not compare us with friends who have generous parents. 

7.  To love us for whom we are today with compassion for our limitations.

8. To not hold us responsible for your happiness ( or lack of it) 

9. To believe we did the best we could ( at the time we did what we did) ) 

10. To be there in our time of need. 

 What Adult Children Want From Their Parents:

1. To be treated like a grown-up.

2. To show respect to our partner or spouse.

3. To forgive the hurts we caused you. 

4.To not expepct too much from us.

5. To feel we  made you proud.

6. To not compare us with our siblings or your friend's "successful" children.

7. To love us for who we are today, not for who you want us to be.

8. To not hold us responsible for your happiness ( or lack of it) 

9 To understand we have busy lives and obligations.  

10. To be there in our time of need.      

There are days that I wish my daughters lived closer to me ( like maybe in the next room or even back in my womb.) Those are the days I feel lonely and need the connection to them - to have them be by my side so I can reach out and touch them, know that my nearness to them will keep them safe and secure.  On those days my heart actually aches from wanting them by my side. (Could be the lyrics to a love song, maybe?) 

Just the other day, when I was getting some lunch in Panera's, a little eatery near an elementary school on Boynton Beach Blvd. when  I notiiced a group of young mothers at a table enar by having lunch with their first grade children. My heart sprung a leak - it was crying to have my daughter Kimberly sitting there with her young daughters who are about the same age. For the moment I wondered how they were doing and what they were having for lunch. For the moment I wished they were sitting there in Panera's and in my fantasy I walked over and said hello and sat down and had coffee with them and asked them what was happening in their school that day. Just for the moment.

To ease my sadness, I opted for a croissant instead of whole wheat toast to go with my salad ( no dressing) When I left, my heart still sniffling  from wanting so to be with them, I went looking for my car. I coulnd't remember where I had parked it. Or for that matter, which car did I take- the red one or the SUV?  The midday sun was out in full force and the sweat trickled down my face as I walked up and down the aisles. The more I looked, the more I couldn't remember. That's when I had a change of heart about my daughters living so near to me.

What if, Kimberly was really there and we walked out to the parking lot and she would ask where I was parked and I wouldn't remember?

Where did you park, MOM? I could hear her say in my head. The tone of her voice would be like WHERE DID YOU PARK< MOM??? It would have a little edge to it, like are you getting so old you don't remember where you parked, or maybe it would sound like HOW COULD YOU NOT REMEMBER WHERE YOU PARKED THE CAR? HOW CAN I EVER LEAVE YOU ALONE ANYMORE?? 

Then I found my car. The red one. It was just where I left it. I got in, turned on the air conditioning and radio. Wrapped myself in the seat belt and suddenly I felt so much better. because living with the old folks  who also can't remember where they parked their car - is where I should be. 

And Kimberly is living where she should be - among young  families who have so much in common - like never forgetting where their cars are parked.   

My long-time friend, Sally, and I were having a leisurely, relaxing lunch at a restaurant on Atlantic Avenue in Delray Beach, FL. when all of a sudden Sally turned from laughing to almost crying and asked my opinion on an issue, she said, with which she was struggling.. 

I'm not sure whether I should get a Mother's Day card for my soon to be ex-daughter-in-law, you know, the bitch from hell. 

Why not, I asked? What can the harm be?

If my son sees the card  he might think I am siding with her in their nasty divorce proceedings.  Sally didn't have to explain as she and I go back to the days our children were little; I was at her son's bris. She didn't have to give me any details as to how pained she was over her son's marriage breakup or  her daughter-in-law's vicious behavior.  

I don't think your son would think that way; he knows you want to keep a pleasant relationship with your daughter-in-law  for the sake of seeing the two adorable little girls.  You could explain that to him, I suggested.  Too many grandparents don't get to see the grandchildren when there is a nasty  divorce. Daughters-in-law often will hold the kids as ransom. you don't want to risk that. A Mother's Day card is a simple way to keep connected, to let her know you still want to be the grandma in the picture without siding with her. . .

 The solution , I suggested, was to select a card that said Happy Mother's Day with a picture of a flower or something as nondescript as that.  Good idea, agreed Sally and off we went to a card shop down the block. 

We looked through rows and rows of Mother's Day greetings - some were gooey sweet, others were silly or too cutesy. Some thanked G-d for their wonderful mothers, a few were written in other languages.

Here's one in Polish, I said, surprised to see such a card in a town where either English or Spanish is spoken.  "Why would I get her a card in Polish; she won't understand it,'' said Sally. "WE know that. She doesn't understand very much, does she?"  Sally gave me that look which says "you are a little bit crazy,'' but we both had a good laugh which  lessened the tension Sally was feeling.   

After a good 20 minutes of looking through and carefully reading every card, Sally chose the card with a picture of two little girls playing a garden on the front cover and the inside just says "Happy Mother's Day.''   Perfect choice, I thought. Acknowledging the mother of her granddaughters without running the risk of alienating her son.

Do we always have to walk on eggshells, Sally asked. We've spent almost a half hour looking for the right card, not to mention the many sleepless nights I 've had deciding what to do. 

Sorry about the sleepless nights, I said. You're not the only one struggling to send the right card; it must be universal. Why else would there even be a card written in Polish?  

(PS. Sally is not the real name of my friend. I changed it, fearful her daughter-in-law might see this blog. I didn't  want to have sleepless nights worried  the young woman would get angry at me  for making her problems public. It's enough Sally walks on eggshells; I don't need to join her.)  

Laurie just left a message on my telephone voice mail, asking for a holiday recipe she loved so much growing up. "Please e-mail me the Passover mandelbread recipe,''

I was so thrilled she wanted to recreate some of the dishes I made while she and her sisters were growing up.

I scurried through my old recipe file, many of the recipes there were ones I had published in Newsday when I was a food writer a million (or so it seems) years ago.

Her request came at a particularly bad day: a very good friend died, he literally dropped dead in the street.  He was someone younger than me who seemed in perfect health. That scared me because I'm never sick. Like a teenager, I feel invincible.

So Laurie asking for a recipe made me feel no matter what will happen to me someday, my mandelbread recipe will continue to be made - and hopefully, the grandchildren will be told that this is what grandma made every Passover.

Food can serve as a link between generations. The aroma whafting through the house can set a memory in motion - good or bad. With that Passover mandelbread on my children and grandchildren's Passover seder table, I know I will be remembered, long after I am gone.  

I don't have good memories of Passover growing up. My mother died when I was six - and the following year  my dad took my sister, Evelyn and me, to a communal seder for German immigrants someplace in Manhattan where you had to climb up a long, dark staircase to get to the catering hall.  Many of the people there had the tattoos on their arms from when they were in Nazi concentration camps. It was so depressing. No one seemed to be smiling.

I remember the awful smell of brisket  as I entered the very large dining hall, with long tables stretching from one end to the other.  I remember fearing I would vomit, keeping my lips tightly sealed as a protection. To this day, brisket evokes an unhappy Passover memory and I have never made it. I don't even have a recipe for it.

I guess, it's not only the aroma of the potted meat simmering for hours that evokes a sad memory, but the connection of that aroma with the loss of my mother.

But cooking for Passover should not only be about looking back, it should be about enjoying the present and making memories for the future. That reminds me, I have all the ingredients in the house to prepare the Passover mandelbread for this year's seder, but I forgot to get the chocolate chips. How can I expect a happy memory be made without them?