Far Away on a Blue Ship

How I often find them when I pop in for a visit

Yesterday when my 88-year old mother woke up from her afternoon nap, there was a stranger in the bed next to her. He was about her age, she said, and she had never seen him before. Startled, she drew back. He started talking to her, and told her that he felt very lonely here in the United States.

"I didn't like it at all," she said. "He scared me."

"Did he have an accent?" I asked.

"Yes," she replied. "He was spooky."

"What kind of accent did he have?" I asked.

"A Dutch accent," she said. "I didn't like it at all that he was there."

"A Dutch accent? Could that have been Daddy?" I asked. My dad, who was born and grew up in the Netherlands, was sitting beside us on their bed listening intently.

"No," she responded decidedly. "It was not Daddy."

"What else did he say?" I asked.

She stopped, hitting a wall. She does that quite often these days, unable to process through her train of thought to explain something.

"What did you do?" I asked, trying another tack.

"I waited until he went to sleep, and then I snuck out of bed and went to find someone. I didn't like it that he was there. It was spooky."

My dad was anxious to tell me his side of the story.

"I was in the TV room," he said, referring to their apartment's second bedroom. He's always too hot, and my mom is always too cold. So he retreats to the TV room wearing only his underpants on these hot August days, turns the air conditioner up high, and stays somewhat comfortable while my mom snuggles under the blankets in their bedroom.

"I heard the door shut," he continued, "and I went out to see where Mama was. She was down the hall, heading out with her four-wheeler."  That would be her walker. "I got some clothes on as fast as I could, and took my four-wheeler and went looking for her. When I stepped out of the elevator in the lobby, she was there." I knew that must have been literally painful for my dad. His back was not having a good day yesterday.

"I went to find some help," Mama interjected. "Daddy wasn't here."

"I was right there in the other room," he said.

"What other room?" Mama asked.

"The TV room."

Mama looked confused.

"I was telling Mama about this poem earlier," my dad offered up. "It goes like this:" and then he launched into a string of lyrical sounding sentences in German.

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"I went far away from home on a blue ship, and I want to go back home," Daddy translated. I know his facial expressions well enough to see what was coming. He had been feeling homesick for the country of his birth. An apartment in an assisted living center in southern California can't compete with his happy childhood memories of Holland.

"Mama," I said. "Do you think your brain might have slipped a bit, and you weren't recognizing Daddy? There wouldn't be another man with a Dutch accent here. It sounds like Daddy had been talking to you about the same things."

"But I wasn't in bed. I was in the TV room when she saw the man," my dad pointed out quite logically.

"No, it wasn't Daddy in the bed," insisted my mom. "I didn't know this man. It was spooky." She looked distressed.

"Well, I'm right here," said my dad to my mom, putting his arm around her. "You don't have to go looking for me. I don't want you to do like that classmate of yours who left the assisted living center and walked all night until they found him in Redlands. Mama, I will never leave you." He held her tighter and joggled her a bit, like he was trying to jostle her out of her scary alternate world.

She smiled, the worry lines easing in her forehead.

"We're always here, Mama," I said soothingly. "If something or someone is scary or confusing, just look around the apartment for Daddy. He loves you, and I love you too." I patted her on the knee.

And as is her custom these days, my dear sweet Mama with her Alzheimer's just let it go and became herself again, interacting with us quite normally during my visit. While she used to fret over confusing and incomprehensible things until she worried herself into a tizzy, she now just lays aside the perplexing memories once she's talked about them, trusting them to us without having to understand them.

Oh, how I wish I could spare them this journey. This blue ship will not be bringing them back home.

The Pitter-Patter of Little Feet and Oma's Identity Issues

Almost three weeks ago our kids added Levi James to our collection of grandchildren. Levi James is Number Six, and Number Five, his older sister, calls him by his whole name, "Levi-James." So we do, too.

I find myself quite bemused by this whole phenomenon of parents and children, not having birthed and brought up my own children. My role thus far with children has been limited to babysitting, leading children's choir, and teaching. To be fair to myself, I have tended to be a kid-magnet, i.e. they typically look at me, are drawn to me, and come and interact with me. I like children and they like me, which is probably a good thing, considering my profession as a teacher. But I haven't actually known what it is to be a parent with a little piece of my heart walking around in the body of another human being, never to be fully let go.

I have pondered this. As much as I love my husband's children and would like them to be my kids as well, I will never be fully theirs nor will they be fully mine. I have had to realize that they are not even quite as much mine as my students are mine. The dynamics surrounding this are complex and revolve around matters of choice, emotionally safe boundaries, and tippy-toeing around their histories and dynamics with their parents. I didn't change their diapers, didn't see their first steps, didn't watch what made them happy and sad as children, didn't see the development of their personalities and quirks, didn't shape their values and didn't participate in their stories. When it comes to the "remember when" conversations around the table, there is a bond there, and I'm not part of it. I can wish it were different, but that is what it is. I'm second-string where I would rather be first-string.

With the grandchildren, however, I am there in my own first-string place. I am Oma, and have always been Oma. I've held each one when they were babies, have been there for many birthday celebrations, have changed a few diapers (that's still something I'd rather hand off to Grandpa), have had them over for sleepovers and have cuddled them out of a few tears. But I'm still figuring out my identity as the pitter-patter of little feet continues to increase.

Third culture kids tend to wrestle lifelong with their identity, and I am no exception. Who am I to my grandkids? Who is Oma? My boss, of good German stock, claims that "Oma" can only refer to a portly older German lady in a cotton dress and apron with her stockings rolled down to just below her knees, and sensible brown shoes. He has announced, mercifully, that this does not describe me.

"Oma" is whoever I am, and like all third culture kids, I am whatever my environment calls on me to be. As I reflect on that, I realize that my environment mainly just calls on me to be there. That's pretty much it, Be There. And that is a revelation that bears more thought.

But I also notice that I become more engaged with my grandchildren as they develop language. I suspect that this is a case of my "teacher" identity kicking in. "What are you thinking?" "Why do you think such-and-such?" "How will you solve this or that problem?" "Why do you think the character in this book is doing this-and-that?" "Look over there at that whatever-thing-it-is. Let me tell you about those..."  Those conversations are my favorite ones, the ones where I am fascinated by how they learn. I find that I care much more about how my grandkids think and the choices they will make in life, than what cute little shirt they're wearing today, when their nap time is, or whether they have their peas and carrots for dinner (or dinner at all, although thus far I haven't missed making sure they get that).

Sometimes I go all introspective and wonder if I am deficient as an Oma. I wonder if God actually knew what He was doing when my life turned out to be one in which there would be no bearing and rearing of children. Perhaps I wouldn't have been a good mom. Perhaps what I'm good at is being a teacher and working with the mind and character, so God kept me from getting tangled up in what I'm not good at. Or perhaps, as some folk have implied to me from time to time, there is something missing in my own character because I haven't borne and raised my own children. Perhaps my grandkids' other grandmothers who tend toward the "motherly" ways--sewing cute costumes and playing dollies with the girls and picking just the right kids' presents and putting on snazzy children's parties--are better grandmothers than I am. Perhaps my accomplished career-woman self (which I am rather fond of) precludes knowing how to be a really good mother or Oma. These are some of the thoughts that wander through my head from time to time as I ponder my ongoing identity issues.

But then, maybe that's just the way life turned out, random and unplanned. Perhaps it doesn't have any deeper meaning. Perhaps my identity should be left to itself without introspection, without getting tied up in a knot thinking about it. Perhaps I could just continue enjoying those times as the Oma of this growing collection of sweet grandkids, should just continue loving these great stepkids (and their spouses) that I was gifted with when I married my dear husband. Perhaps this is the period in life to soak in the blessings of caring for the needs of parents who are in their long, slow decline, and to revel all the more in my career-woman self who is fascinated with leadership and organization and new academic programs and hiring really good faculty. Perhaps I should simply be thankful for my life the way it turned out, at face value. One's life can only hold so much, and this is my much.

Levi James, you certainly got yourself a funny Oma. But I can promise you this: she'll cuddle your sweet little self and wipe your tears away, and she'll probe your thoughts and have interesting conversations with you, and she'll watch your your emerging character and choices in life with great interest, ... and I betcha you'll like her.