Not long ago, I went out to a
delightful dinner with my
twin teenage grandsons.
They don’t look alike and have
very different dispositions, but
that night they did agree on one
thing…I was a “super” grandma.
I was extremely flattered that they
were so generous in their description
of me.
I was in a very playful mood
and tried to get an idea of what
they thought made me a “super”
grandmother. Did they mean
“super” as in “Superwoman” or
as in “a grandmother who was a
notch above all others?” I wasn’t
ready for what they described as
a Superhero grandmother who
fought crime and turmoil with
my special powers and abilities.
Magical lariat, anyone? I was
thinking, a little old Jewish grandmother
whose special power was
to make chicken soup and make
you feel better.
Nope! This conversation went
on and on until I reached the
point where I almost thought I
could climb up my magic lariat
to get to my apartment. Why did
I need the elevator? What a question?
Actually, I barely made it to
the elevator that evening because
of my non-magical hip. How does
one sprain a hip by sitting in the
hot tub? Don’t ask!
As a kid I loved listening to and
reading about Superhero adventures.
Do you remember “Faster
than a speeding bullet?”
More powerful than a
locomotive!
Able to leap tall buildings in a
single bound!
Up in the sky! Look!
It’s a bird!
It’s a plane!
It’s Superman!”
and Clark Kent stepped into a
phone booth, stripped, took off
his glasses and became Superman.
Today phone booths are almost
non-existent and now someone
might even charge him with indecent
exposure. Life then seemed
much simpler. Well, looking back
it seemed that way. By the way, how
could a pair of glasses and a Purim
costume make such a difference in
appearance?
How could I compete with such
“Super-ness?” I didn’t come from
a planet on the far side of the sun.
I did come from Staten Island
which is funky enough to make
me an alien. Everyone says, “You
come from Staten Island? You’re
the only one I know from there!”
Really? I can’t believe it either. My
parents probably took a wrong turn
somewhere.
In comparing myself to
Superman, my first superhero,
Kryptonite was his weakness and
of course you know my weakness
is cheesecake. Life stops on a
dime when I am presented with
a piece of this delicious delicacy.
I would even give up a date
with Paul Newman. Oy! Too late!
Okay, Superman’s faster than a
speeding bullet. I’m faster than a
speeding matzo ball. He’s more
powerful than a locomotive. I’m
as powerful as a three glasses of
prune juice. (What else did you
expect?) He’s able to leap tall
buildings in a single bound. I’m
able to get on and off a bus. That’s
as much as I can hoist myself off
the ground. Don’t laugh. If you
can’t find a cab, you try traveling
around the world without being
able to get on and off a bus. It
works! Superman is a man of
steel. I’m a woman that’s soft,
loving and full of compassion.
That makes me strong enough to
face whatever I need to.
Now Superwoman, on the other
hand, wears magical jewelry. I
could live with that. Forget the
“magical” for a moment. Have
you ever met a woman who didn’t
like jewelry? Well, Superwoman
has some kind of tiara that serves
as a boomerang. With my aim I
could easily harm myself. Anyway,
where does one find a place to use
a boomerang? She has a bracelet
that repels bullets. I have a bracelet
that calls 911. I like mine better.
She has a magical lariat that
helps her capture people or climb
up and down. I have a magical
cube that I get into. I always meet
people there. Who has to capture
them? They’re always so pleasant.
This cube has a wall of buttons
and when I press one it takes me
up and down. Some people call
it an elevator. She has magical
shoes that make her walk fast
and able to leap. I have magical
shoes that I bought at Eric’s Shoe
store and I’m happy that they help
me to stand up. What’s with this
leaping business? The last time
I leapt I was jumping rope in a
school yard.
My message to any of us who
think there’s more to being “super”
I’m sure there is, but for all of us,
the connection from today to the
past for our grandchildren is the
most important “super” thing we
can do for them. I love listening
to them, kvelling over their
achievements, and trying to be
nonjudgmental. They in turn give
me their energy, youthfulness and
purpose. We are essential to each
other’s lives in our unique ways.
By the way, what does your
grandchild call you? Mine call
me either grams or grandma. No
matter what your name is to them,
whether it’s a name we all know
or not, listen to the love behind
it as they call you. “Souper” or
“Super,” whatever you want it to
mean, that’s what you are!
(I owe my matzo ball and prune
juice comments to Vicki Mazel.
Oy, what a lethal combination!)
THE “SOUPER”
GRANDMA
22 NORTH SHORE TOWERS COURIER ¢ April 2020