My Bubby. That’s “grandmother” in oldy-worldy-Jew. To know her is to understand why my mother is the way she is---strictly NN. Not Nice! My poor mother didn’t have a chance with a mother like hers, and I do forgive my mother many things because of what I can only imagine was a very difficult childhood. Furthermore, my mother is fully capable of suing me, so I’m going to forgive her lots of things-until she’s dead.
Bubby never has a nice thing to say about anyone or anything. As a grandchild, I’m relatively (pun intended) immune to her negativity. She’s a 92 year old in a nursing home, and I speak with her maybe once a week if she’s not completely high on whatever sleep aids they have her on. That being said, she’s shared a few thoughts with me that I wish she hadn’t but do make for good blogging.
When I called her to tell her that Asher was born, Bubby asked, “What is his name?”
“Well, Bubby, first I want you to repeat after me. ‘Oh,what a beautiful name!’
She followed my instructions perfectly. Not only did she tell me that she liked the name but she also told me she knew an Asher once whom she liked very much. Sadly, I neglected to give her the same instructions for Levi.
“Leeeee-vi?? No, I don’t care for that name. Why couldn’t you call him Brent?”
Brent? What kind of Jewish name is Brent? Figures coming from a Jew who named her children Karyn & Kent. Kent? Honestly.
“I know your husband’s name was Bernard, Bubby, but I never knew him, and my brother Benjamin and I are both named after him already.”
“You could call him Eeeeee-li instead!”
“We’ve already named him, Bubby. We’re going to stick with Levi”
“Well you could always change his name.”
“We’ll keep that in mind. For now, his name is Levi”
I recently sent her photos from my 40th birthday party so that she could see me with a few of the family members she might remember from my father’s side. I told her how Gabriella surprised me with a day of beauty-hair, make-up and a personal shopper at Saks. Her only comment was “It doesn’t look like you had your hair done at Saks.”
Then there was the conversation she had with me about my sister’s 8 year old son. “That Joshua. He may be smart, but I feel sorry for him.”
“Why is that, Bubby?”
“He’s so funny looking!”
“No he’s not! He’s very cute. He’s got a grown-up face that he’ll grow into, and he’ll become even more handsome as he gets older.”
“Such a mother-hen. Maybe you could speak with your sister about her hair. It’s too short.”
Can you imagine having a mother who never censored anything she said and just spat negative, judgmental comments at you at every turn? You’d grow up to be, well, like my mother! I know what you’re thinking. Yes, it’s in me, too. I do my best to suppress it, but it slips out every now and then. At least I’m aware of it. Isn’t admitting that I have a problem half the battle or something? Back off! I’m doing my best. And you want to know why I don’t want to have any daughters.
Bubby never has a nice thing to say about anyone or anything. As a grandchild, I’m relatively (pun intended) immune to her negativity. She’s a 92 year old in a nursing home, and I speak with her maybe once a week if she’s not completely high on whatever sleep aids they have her on. That being said, she’s shared a few thoughts with me that I wish she hadn’t but do make for good blogging.
When I called her to tell her that Asher was born, Bubby asked, “What is his name?”
“Well, Bubby, first I want you to repeat after me. ‘Oh,what a beautiful name!’
She followed my instructions perfectly. Not only did she tell me that she liked the name but she also told me she knew an Asher once whom she liked very much. Sadly, I neglected to give her the same instructions for Levi.
“Leeeee-vi?? No, I don’t care for that name. Why couldn’t you call him Brent?”
Brent? What kind of Jewish name is Brent? Figures coming from a Jew who named her children Karyn & Kent. Kent? Honestly.
“I know your husband’s name was Bernard, Bubby, but I never knew him, and my brother Benjamin and I are both named after him already.”
“You could call him Eeeeee-li instead!”
“We’ve already named him, Bubby. We’re going to stick with Levi”
“Well you could always change his name.”
“We’ll keep that in mind. For now, his name is Levi”
I recently sent her photos from my 40th birthday party so that she could see me with a few of the family members she might remember from my father’s side. I told her how Gabriella surprised me with a day of beauty-hair, make-up and a personal shopper at Saks. Her only comment was “It doesn’t look like you had your hair done at Saks.”
Then there was the conversation she had with me about my sister’s 8 year old son. “That Joshua. He may be smart, but I feel sorry for him.”
“Why is that, Bubby?”
“He’s so funny looking!”
“No he’s not! He’s very cute. He’s got a grown-up face that he’ll grow into, and he’ll become even more handsome as he gets older.”
“Such a mother-hen. Maybe you could speak with your sister about her hair. It’s too short.”
Can you imagine having a mother who never censored anything she said and just spat negative, judgmental comments at you at every turn? You’d grow up to be, well, like my mother! I know what you’re thinking. Yes, it’s in me, too. I do my best to suppress it, but it slips out every now and then. At least I’m aware of it. Isn’t admitting that I have a problem half the battle or something? Back off! I’m doing my best. And you want to know why I don’t want to have any daughters.
