Each time I talk with one of my longtime friends, I reflect on the subtle ways they each influenced the kind of mother I became. When we moved to the Brooklyn house where my kids spent their early years, I mentioned to my first husband that I’d need to make friends in our new neighborhood. The next thing I knew, a woman appeared in my front yard pushing a stroller with a little boy in it and said in a melodic Italian accent, “You husband say you look for the friends. He want you to walk with me and Giuseppe. Come.”
That was over twenty years ago and Maria is my friend to this day. Her old-world European wisdom and deep devotion to her large extended family was a compass for me as a new mother from a small family. It was from Maria that I first heard the English translation of an old Italian proverb. Talking about a dysfunctional family we knew where the parents were as difficult as the children, Maria gestured expressively while speaking in her native tongue and then repeated it in English for me: The fish, it smell from the head.
betty taught me the Irish brand of wisdom. In a house perpetually filled with children, friends, and laughter, I learned not to pick up every crumb that falls, not to correct every mistake. People are more important than things betty would remind the mob of children playing in the basement when a squabble broke out over a toy. She shared memorable quotes from elderly relatives over in Ireland. Recounting a visit to cousins where she wasn’t offered any refreshments, Grandmother Bridey remarked in her brogue, “To be sure, we were there all day and they never noticed we had a mouth on.”
Ancient biblical secrets of child rearing were imparted by my friend, Caryn, who was born in New York but relocated to Israel in her teens. A former soldier in the Israeli army, Caryn moves between English and Hebrew fluidly and often found the latter more efficient in conveying information to her children to make her point more emphatic.
Once when our four kids were all under ten, we descended on a department store on a school vacation day. The store was mobbed with seasonal sales and shoppers and Caryn’s youngest was in no mood to be there. In response to his relentless wail of “What are we here for? What are we here for? What are we here for?” Caryn turned to him and snapped sharply, “Tachtoneem!”
He shut up immediately. Impressed with the militaristic sound of the word, I said, “Wow, I have to remember to use that, it really works. What does it mean?”
Caryn responded with a shrug. “I just answered his question. He wanted to know what we were here for. I told him underwear.”
I started to laugh but then noticed that it shut my kids up as well. So for years to come, whenever they got on my last nerve I would bark tachtoneem! at them and they quieted instantly. I never told them what it meant. I figured any port in a storm. Do you think that was wrong? Then I have one word for you: melafefon!
Look it up.
Daughter’s Featured Fotos give us Things to Look At In The Meantime
name tags gone wild
UFO truck
tights in the subway, part 2
reminder