Jewish Post, Indianapolis, Marion County, 22 December 1972 — Page 16

THE JEWISH POST AND OPINION

Friday, December 22, IV/^

visiting with rhoda haupt

man

One Woman's Viewpoint God Love Grandchildren!

I wonder if you have any idea of how attractive even the December sleet and snow appears when one looks out from a window on the twelfth floor. Of necessity, my mobility has been curtailed and I have not been going out during the day, unless it is to be taken to the doctor’s office. Look, I’m not complaining. It’s good to be going there instead of having the laboratory send someone here for the blood tests and the cardiograms. The last technician (?) who came to the house, began by announcing that she didn’t have the least idea how to use the machine they had given her. Such a pronouncement does not establish much confidence in the customer. I was fearful, therefore, that the tracings she took would be so unusual that the doctor might conclude that I’d had a relapse. I hate to kill a good story, but I must mention that the tracings appear to have been adequate. WELL, NOW THE VISITING technician is a thing of the past and I go downtown like a person. The only catch is that I have to be taken and brought home, but in the office building, while Herbert is parking, I become anonymous. No one knows that I have been ill. And in the doctor’s office I’m just one of the patients who have not very interesting aches and pains and have come down to complain about them. The building in which our doctor has his office is the same one as that in which our children’s pediatrician used to office. I think it might even be the same floor, but there the similarity vanishes. When the children waited in THEIR doctor’s waiting room, there was resentment and dread: Why should I be here and what will he do to me? With the people at my doctor’s, there is merely resignation: what will be, will be! I DON’T MEAN TO downgrade a visit to the doctor. It is the high point of the month for me. The days of a convalescent are rather dull. Uneventful as they are, I feel mightly grateful for each new one. It may be tough to get old, but I certainly do not dig the alternative. I don’t know exactly how to classify my present status. I’m not an invalid but I’m not allowed the privileges of someone in perfect health, either. It’s sort of a twilight zone and the leisure is beginning to pall. That is why outdoors looks so great. I was speaking with our number 2 grandson, Danny, who has lived all of his SVa years in Southern California and has to experience an eastern winter. “Is there snow where you live, grandmother?” he asked. I told him that there was and that furthermore, it was bitter

cold out of doors.

“I wouldn’t mind,” he told me. “I would make a snow hut

to keep warm in.”

I DON’T KNOW HOW one keeps warm in a snow hut if one is not an eskimo, but I didn’t want to turn him completely against the climate in which his mother grew up, so I let the whole matter of life in an igloo pass without further comment. Then, too, winter does not look too bad when you see it from inside the house. You soon forget the force of the wind and cold when you are not exposed to them. Strangely, I miss them. It may very well be that what I am presently experiencing is “getting better” pains. Each step in the process, you have the next step in mind. When you are confined to bed, you think of sitting up in a chair. When you attain that, you yearn to walk about as you please. Now I am dreaming of going out without escort — without benefit of companion. I’d like to walk and take a bus and go down to shop, even in this pre-holiday crush. I’d like to go to meetings and resume my work. While I am confident that this blessed state will soon come to pass, it cannot come too soon for me. And if it is still winter when I emerge from my cocoon, I’ll take my grandson’s suggestion: I’ll make a snow hut to keep warm in!

By HELEN COHEN Did you see the Lichty “Grin and Bear It” cartoon? The

g r andparents are babysitting with two hyp eractive y o u n gsters in a room badly cluttered with toys. Grandpa says to grandma, “They got some idea that

asking us to sit with our grandchildren makes us feel ‘needed.* All I get is the feeling of being

‘used’!”

Ardent advocate of family

Helen

togetherness that I am, I still agree with grandpa. SURE ONE WANTS to be with grandchildren, enjoy them as they grow up, even help. But tired older folk being handed little whirlwinds for an entire afternoon or evening doesn’t come under the heading of “help.” If young parents can afford it, babysitters are for hire, except occasionally if grandma really wants to pinch hit. If they can’t afford it, then one of the parents better stay home or pool resources with neighboring parents to take turns. This should hold true whether grandparents live with the

family or not. Say they live together. Sure grandma and grandpa will help around the house, financially and otherwise. They don’t expect to be waited on, do they? BUT THE REAL responsibility rests with the little one’s parents. Not only is it not cricket for young parents to frequently plan evenings out, much less a weekend or vacation away, but they can expect grandma and grandpa to leave home whenever the spirit moves them, including the winter down in the sunny south. Grandparents did their tour of duty raising their own. Help with youngsters, yes. Saddled inconsiderately, no.

Just Between Us

Ever Hear of Nanny's Day?

By HELEN MINTZ You have to hand it to the English people. They really know how to

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live. Take “nannies” for example. Few i n s t itutions have survived the downfall of the British Empire quite as successfully as the “nanHelen ny.” She is more in demand now than ever

before.

If I had been well advised when I was deciding on a college career, I think I might have chosen that. For $2,500, and two years training at a “nanny school,” I could have been part of the elite. Instead of the uniform I now wear to care for my family, (hand-me-down dungarees and a sweat shirt retrieved from a rummage sale) I might have been measured and outfitted at Harrods for a distinctive $135 cus-tom-tailored uniform. I might have been coveted and soughtafter by some “aristocrat,” other than my husband, to bring

up his children.

IMAGINE AN OIL SHEIK who needed me to run the nursery attached to his harem; or a European millionaire, an African president, or an Indian rajah living in a remote mountain palace. No such luck. My “aristocrat” planted me on Frederick St. in Oceanside, whereas in Colorado, a rich rancher would have had a second swimming pool installed,

just for me.

Just to show you what a rigorous training course it is, I bet•you thought there was only one way to fold a diaper. For me, it was always the MPLE ISRAEL • CONG. AGUDAS ACHIN TH EL • SHAAREZEDEK • B,'NAI JACOE TH MEDRISH HAGODOl iTH ELOHIf* SHEI SFARD ^CON^ ^ SH r OLOIv ■ERETH ISF flANUEl

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wrong way! Had I trained properly, I’d known there were 23 different ways of folding and fixing the average diaper. Big deal. One area doesn’t need such variations and anyway, who’s to know. YOU? 1 can assure you, the baby won’t tell. To be a nanny, you have to be traditionally and loyally undisclosing about your small charges. How different from a mother. As a mother, I’m traditionally and loyally disclosing every last thing the baby does, to whoever cares to listen. It won’t make the “best seller lists,” but I’m sure my mother and mother-in-law would buy a

copy.

TO BE A NANNY, you must be trained and groomed with the patience and thoroughness of a crack army regiment. So does a mother, but patience and thoroughness wears thin by dinnertime. She’s glad to let “good

old dad” take a “crack at the regiment” while she puts her feet up, and takes two Bufferin. To be a nanny, you have to learn about diet and nutrition. To be a mother, you have to know McDonalds hamburgers and french fries are available when you are. I may not be “Mary Poppins,” but my “aristocrat husband” thinks I’m doing a good job. Me, and the legions of mothers like me, have received their basic training at the boot camp called “early marriage.” Let it be known that we are molding and succoring generations of Americans to carry on the tradition of Mother’s Day. Would we have it any other way? Not really. You never heard of Nanny’s Day, did you? Helen Mfntz can be reached at 3408 Frederick St., Oceanside, N.Y. 11572.

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