In her own little way, Izzo helps‏

2/10/09

Hey all.

And so it was a week of remembering and mourning for the Nalbandyan family, which turns out to be even bigger than I thought it was ( -- though our wedding should have made that click years ago.)

From the very nice, very sad service on Wednesday night at the big church where Hamlet and I were wed to the funeral and after-meal that had, literally, 31 (including Izzo) people packed, shoulder to shoulder, along a makeshift two-room-long table at Tatik and Papik's condo the next day. And then Sunday, another visit to the cemetery, followed by an official meal of salmon, lamb and vodka, along with all the other traditionally tasty items that get served banquet halls like the Marquis.

Izzo was there for much of it. There because these were our babysitters doing the mourning, and who else was going to watch her (with Kit working like crazy every day and all)? There, also, because Tatik and Papik requested she be. And so, I'm glad she was. Even though she didn't understand the exact nature of all the get-togethers, she was in fine form.

In fine form from a distance for most of the time, that is. I told Hamlet I hoped people didn't think it rude that we brought along a toddlerbaby to such a serious, solemn setting. Not at all, my always reasonable husband reasoned: "We didn't have babysitters, and beside, you basically just ended up babysitting her away from us the whole time, anyway."

This was true.

After sitting quietly for five minutes next to Papik at the church on Wednesday, she got squirmy and so she and I bailed for several walks around the big church. I brought her back in to check out the singing a little later, and there we stood in the back, Izzo at first listening intently and soon signing along, as she does, in miniature hymns. But once everyone took a seat and the priest began his sermon again, we had to leave. Leave and go to the car, where we sat in the backseat and read and re-read and re-re-read "Madeline," about the little girl from Paris who gets her appendix out -- and becomes the envy of her peers. (Izzo made me promise her that for her 12th birthday, we'd got to visit Paris. Really, this was her idea. And after some serious arm-twisting, I agreed.)

We put down the book and headed back to the long stairway when we saw people start streaming out. Ignorantly, expecting Hamlet and Robert and Tatik and Papik to be coming out in the midst of the mourners, instead at the back of the line, as the most immediate family members, I brought Izzo up to the top of the stairs, where one sad-faced person after another emerged. And so, after just having said goodbye to Perdui Nalbandyan, the next thing everyone saw was Izzo Nalbandyan in her mother's arms, following the flight of the resident dove and offering a big, oblivious grin of a greeting to everyone who passed. Er, stopped and pinched a cheek or gave a kiss or stroked a head or tickled a belly of tapped a nose and told Izzo how hamov or poopoosheek or just plain beautiful she was. And then, most of them would echo those thoughts to me, "Mirjam, your daughter is so beautiful." "Mirjam ... ," "Mirjam ...," "Mirjam ..."

And, shucks, I hardly recognized any of these folks who all knew my name. (Later, again, my reasonable husband reasoned: "Well, it's obvious who you are. You were the only white person there.")

Neither Izzo nor I attended the funeral at the cemetery on Thursday morning, though. Kit was ill, and so, again, we had no babysitter. So my daughter and I took a walk around the neighborhood instead, and thought a lot about the family just up the road at Forest Lawn in Burbank, saying goodbye to the sweet, gentle mother, grandmother and great grandmother. Also thought a lot about my grandparents, about getting a little package of photos in the mail to Amo real soon (which I actually accomplished) and about going to visit Grandpa and Grandma's graves in Orange County soon with Hamlet and Izzo ...

... but we did catch up with everyone at Tatik's, where Izzo sampled all the food in front of her and brought a few smiles to otherwise teary, drawn faces. Eventually, we all went up to Bobo's room to try to nap and keep Gigi still, alternately, simultaneously. Izzo didn't fall asleep, though, until an hour or so later, in her carseat on the way home.

And then, yesterday, a drizzly, dark Sunday, we all met up again at the cemetery, where Izzo ran and ran, with Momomom, and sometimes Daddy or Tatik, in pursuit. Just before the priest was set to get going, though, Izzo decided she wanted to run on the rocky surface nearby. Naturally, she tumbled. Skinned her little knee a bit. So I banned that section of land. Which didn't go over well. And so Izzo was officially in a bad, complaining mood. Until the priest started singing. That caught her attention. She stopped her reckless, whiny rollicking, grabbed my hand, and quietly led me toward the group so we could stand, at attention, and listen. And so we did. Until some uncles (and/or second uncles twice or three times removed) noticed we were there and started trying to make friendly faces at Izzo, thereby freaking Izzo out. The more they tried to entertain her, the more she freaked.

All this freaking happened, of course, in a matter of seconds, which was all it took to find her laying in Daddy's backseat, about 30 yards away, getting a dirty diaper changed and ready to read ME "Madeline" a few more times.

After that, it was off to the hall for a quiet meal and a few toasts by Smbat, the grandfather of 3-year-old Lizzy, who tried desperately to give Izzo hug after hug after hug. But Izzo, so good at hugging the big people, still isn't sure what to do when offered hugs from littler people. And so it was more of a wrestling match between two little dolls in the middle of the fancy, dining floor than an effective play date distraction, but that was fine. Eventually they'll figure it out.

And it did lead to this exchange between Smbat and Lizzy: "Lizzy, be careful, Izzo is very hungry and she will bite you!" Lizzy, knowing better: "She's no dinosaur!"

Meantime, Hamlet's cousin Suro tried to talk us into getting Izzo into modeling or acting, because he could set up an account where she'd make the money and we'd control it. Or something. And I thought, Hey, if we get laid off, that sounds like a fine back-up plan. But I wasn't real worried about that last week, not after all of the family's saying goodbye serving as a sure reminder of what, in the end, is really, really important.

And so I'm glad Izzo got to hang around, because, in her little way, she seemed to help everyone forge through the sad, tough week.


Love you all.

Us