Fam. Friends.
From his facebook profile:
"Hamlet is gonna miss his grandma. RIP Perdui Nalbandyan. At least you won't be in pain anymore."
We expected Saturday to end with a few empty wine bottles, a grip of dishes in the sink and the fading arc of the stimulating conversation Momom was sure would've resulted from bringing together a few of our interesting, good-hearted friends -- after a Lakers, win, of course. Instead, it ended at Tatik's house, where the Nalbandyans gathered last night to mourn the passing of Daddy's tatik, Papik's mom, Izzo's great-tatik ...
From his facebook profile:
"Hamlet is gonna miss his grandma. RIP Perdui Nalbandyan. At least you won't be in pain anymore."
We expected Saturday to end with a few empty wine bottles, a grip of dishes in the sink and the fading arc of the stimulating conversation Momom was sure would've resulted from bringing together a few of our interesting, good-hearted friends -- after a Lakers, win, of course. Instead, it ended at Tatik's house, where the Nalbandyans gathered last night to mourn the passing of Daddy's tatik, Papik's mom, Izzo's great-tatik ...
Folks came and went throughout the evening, from both sides of the family. Armenian coffee without sugar, because there was nothing sweet about the occasion. The least-decadent cookies available from the Armenian bakery down the street, and nobody really touched them. Grown-folk talk, mostly, from what I could tell. Talk of arrangements. Talk of what photos to use. All of it relatively hushed, but I don't think the language allows for exact quiet. Still, it was Robert's job to keep Gigi calm upstairs. We kept Izzo up there a lot of the time, too ... even though that probably wasn't necessary.
Izzo was light last night. Oblivious, probably, to the reason for this get-together, she delighted in delighting so that Melo commented, "You know, she's always smiling." Indeed, I nodded, "Always."
She "jumped" with Smbat. She cuddled with everyone else. She entertained herself and her onlookers by trying to beat her record for climbing up the stairs over and over again, sliding down, like Momom likes, on her tooshie, each time. She smiled and smiled and smiled and passed it along. She even found poor Papik a few times for a babytalk peptalk: "Koobykoobybobocancah!"
Hamlet's grandmother was a soft, sweet, pixie-like woman who still was dying her hair convincingly black when I met her, oh, eight or nine years ago. She was a wonderful, accomplished cook -- everyone in the family told me at least a few times. She spoke no English but I have to say, my realest Welcome To The Family moment came from her. After observing me, an outsider and maybe a seemingly unlikely match for Hamlet, for most of that first Christmas Eve, she approached me, reached up and cupped my cheeks in her delicate hands and spoke. A cousin, Nana maybe, stopped to listen, and then smile -- and then translate: "She says she thinks you're very beautiful."
I remember being startled. I don't think of myself as beautiful, really, especially not in a condo full of Hamlet's amazingly attractive relatives. But more, that she, the matriarch of this beautiful clan, thought so ... in the next couple years, she'd drop off gifts for me. Funky fun shirts she found around town and stuff. And so I knew, ya know, I was in. I was cool. And that was a big deal.
She started to lose her memory over the past few years, so that when we'd show up she was unsure who was whom. And she got sick too, sicker lately. A few weeks ago, we visited her in the hospital where Izzo was born and where now her great tatik was was bed-ridden and disoriented and had lost, forever, her appetite.
Difficult. Difficult.
And so, in a hard way, the family is relieved that her suffering is through.
Difficult.
...
... and, secondarily, Hamlet had another reason to be down. An hour and a half or so after learning his grandma had passed, he watched his favorite Laker, Andrew Bynum, go down in a heap, writhing and pounding on the ground and screaming out because his knee had, again, bent the wrong direction, gruesomely indicating that it might be a repeat of the injury that ended his season against the same team almost exactly year ago, that it could be an injury that makes the difference between a title and almost winning one again, and worse, that it could be something that diminishes the young center's so-so-so promising career. On TV, you could see it, how absolutely crestfallen all of the Lakers were -- and their grandmother's hadn't just passed.
All this a day after Hamlet and I both received word that between our two companies some 800 folks are going to be laid off next month, to cap a week in which 100,000 Americans lost their jobs.
Could've used a nice dinner party to lift spirits a little. We're almost afraid to plan it again, considering what went down on the day we tried it the first time, but we will anyway, I think ... and in the meantime, we've got Izzo being Izzo to keep things light.
....
"Boo-boo." "Bobo."
When she was in the bathtub one night last week, I told Izzo the little red bruise on her knee was a boo-boo. So, since then, she's been very proud of showing off her boo-boo, never mind that half the time she rolls up the pant leg of the wrong knee to display the mark that's now basically disappeared anyway.
Bobo, in Armenian, means bugger. Or, if it's coming from Izzo, it means Robert. As in Uncle Bobo. C'mon now, that's great.
...
When I produced the vacuum yesterday, Izzo not only didn't freak the heck out, didn't ball herself up in a tight knot of terrified screams, she followed me around the rooms to watch. And then, at my suggestion, she stepped up and helped me push the thing. Even applauding herself for a job well done when the machine went quiet.
In fact, Izzo was an angel as I cleaned the place all morning. She helped dust here or there, but most of the time, she either danced to the music coming from the computer speakers -- she'd run over and start high-stepping, tap-dancing, head-banging and pirouetting (simultaneously) whenever a song that caught her ear began. Particularly Raya Yarbrough's "You're So Bad For Me" and Daddy's "Dadada." When she wasn't dancing or literally helping, she was staying out of the way, emptying her sweater drawer into a heap in her bedroom or trying on all of Momom's undies in our room or reading her favorite magazines in the living room, entertaining herself thoroughly the whole time I was occupied.
....
Izzo LOVES reading. Even more than I would've hoped or imagined. And she's pretty good at it, in her way. She's sitting in her high chair right now eating some breakfast Cheerios, drinking juice and reading the "Everyone Poops" book. (Yeah, yeah, perhaps that doesn't seem like ideal mealtime reading, but this was her idea ... and think about it, in the natural, what-goes-in ... scheme of things, it does make sense?)
But yeah, she sits there and having heard the story enough times, she knows the key words, so she turns the pages and says what she sees: "Poop! Poop! Gorilla! Poop! Good girl! Poop! Zebra! Poop! Poop! Poop!" So it's like she's reading. Same with a few Dr. Suess books: "Buzzz. Splat! Hisssssss! BANG!" Or "I like them. I like them." But yeah, I feel bad because she wants to read more often than I can accomodate. She's constantly coming up to me with a book and wanting to get on my lap and read, which is such an utterly scrumptious, amazing experience, every single time. But, darn it all, most of the time we're getting ready for work and Tatik's. Or making dinner. Or folding clothes. Or cleaning the apartment for a dinner party that's not going to happen. Thankfully, though, those "Not right now, Izzo"s haven't dissuaded her in the least. And for all the Not Right Nows, there have been as many "OK, Izzo, let's do it!"s as I can muster, and happily, happily so.
....
These are a few of Izzo's favorite things:
Boxing. (The sport, as a fan, not a participant.) (But still...)
Elmooo!
OK, there's more, there always is, but Izzo's about done with her seven readings of "Everyone Poops" and equally done with her Cheerios, and I promised a pre-Super Bowl visit to the new jungle gym at the park.
So. We're off. Heavy-hearted but thankful and loving every moment and all of you.
Health and good things and lots and lots of love.
Us
Izzo was light last night. Oblivious, probably, to the reason for this get-together, she delighted in delighting so that Melo commented, "You know, she's always smiling." Indeed, I nodded, "Always."
She "jumped" with Smbat. She cuddled with everyone else. She entertained herself and her onlookers by trying to beat her record for climbing up the stairs over and over again, sliding down, like Momom likes, on her tooshie, each time. She smiled and smiled and smiled and passed it along. She even found poor Papik a few times for a babytalk peptalk: "Koobykoobybobocancah!"
Hamlet's grandmother was a soft, sweet, pixie-like woman who still was dying her hair convincingly black when I met her, oh, eight or nine years ago. She was a wonderful, accomplished cook -- everyone in the family told me at least a few times. She spoke no English but I have to say, my realest Welcome To The Family moment came from her. After observing me, an outsider and maybe a seemingly unlikely match for Hamlet, for most of that first Christmas Eve, she approached me, reached up and cupped my cheeks in her delicate hands and spoke. A cousin, Nana maybe, stopped to listen, and then smile -- and then translate: "She says she thinks you're very beautiful."
I remember being startled. I don't think of myself as beautiful, really, especially not in a condo full of Hamlet's amazingly attractive relatives. But more, that she, the matriarch of this beautiful clan, thought so ... in the next couple years, she'd drop off gifts for me. Funky fun shirts she found around town and stuff. And so I knew, ya know, I was in. I was cool. And that was a big deal.
She started to lose her memory over the past few years, so that when we'd show up she was unsure who was whom. And she got sick too, sicker lately. A few weeks ago, we visited her in the hospital where Izzo was born and where now her great tatik was was bed-ridden and disoriented and had lost, forever, her appetite.
Difficult. Difficult.
And so, in a hard way, the family is relieved that her suffering is through.
Difficult.
...
... and, secondarily, Hamlet had another reason to be down. An hour and a half or so after learning his grandma had passed, he watched his favorite Laker, Andrew Bynum, go down in a heap, writhing and pounding on the ground and screaming out because his knee had, again, bent the wrong direction, gruesomely indicating that it might be a repeat of the injury that ended his season against the same team almost exactly year ago, that it could be an injury that makes the difference between a title and almost winning one again, and worse, that it could be something that diminishes the young center's so-so-so promising career. On TV, you could see it, how absolutely crestfallen all of the Lakers were -- and their grandmother's hadn't just passed.
All this a day after Hamlet and I both received word that between our two companies some 800 folks are going to be laid off next month, to cap a week in which 100,000 Americans lost their jobs.
Could've used a nice dinner party to lift spirits a little. We're almost afraid to plan it again, considering what went down on the day we tried it the first time, but we will anyway, I think ... and in the meantime, we've got Izzo being Izzo to keep things light.
....
"Boo-boo." "Bobo."
When she was in the bathtub one night last week, I told Izzo the little red bruise on her knee was a boo-boo. So, since then, she's been very proud of showing off her boo-boo, never mind that half the time she rolls up the pant leg of the wrong knee to display the mark that's now basically disappeared anyway.
Bobo, in Armenian, means bugger. Or, if it's coming from Izzo, it means Robert. As in Uncle Bobo. C'mon now, that's great.
...
When I produced the vacuum yesterday, Izzo not only didn't freak the heck out, didn't ball herself up in a tight knot of terrified screams, she followed me around the rooms to watch. And then, at my suggestion, she stepped up and helped me push the thing. Even applauding herself for a job well done when the machine went quiet.
In fact, Izzo was an angel as I cleaned the place all morning. She helped dust here or there, but most of the time, she either danced to the music coming from the computer speakers -- she'd run over and start high-stepping, tap-dancing, head-banging and pirouetting (simultaneously) whenever a song that caught her ear began. Particularly Raya Yarbrough's "You're So Bad For Me" and Daddy's "Dadada." When she wasn't dancing or literally helping, she was staying out of the way, emptying her sweater drawer into a heap in her bedroom or trying on all of Momom's undies in our room or reading her favorite magazines in the living room, entertaining herself thoroughly the whole time I was occupied.
....
Izzo LOVES reading. Even more than I would've hoped or imagined. And she's pretty good at it, in her way. She's sitting in her high chair right now eating some breakfast Cheerios, drinking juice and reading the "Everyone Poops" book. (Yeah, yeah, perhaps that doesn't seem like ideal mealtime reading, but this was her idea ... and think about it, in the natural, what-goes-in ... scheme of things, it does make sense?)
But yeah, she sits there and having heard the story enough times, she knows the key words, so she turns the pages and says what she sees: "Poop! Poop! Gorilla! Poop! Good girl! Poop! Zebra! Poop! Poop! Poop!" So it's like she's reading. Same with a few Dr. Suess books: "Buzzz. Splat! Hisssssss! BANG!" Or "I like them. I like them." But yeah, I feel bad because she wants to read more often than I can accomodate. She's constantly coming up to me with a book and wanting to get on my lap and read, which is such an utterly scrumptious, amazing experience, every single time. But, darn it all, most of the time we're getting ready for work and Tatik's. Or making dinner. Or folding clothes. Or cleaning the apartment for a dinner party that's not going to happen. Thankfully, though, those "Not right now, Izzo"s haven't dissuaded her in the least. And for all the Not Right Nows, there have been as many "OK, Izzo, let's do it!"s as I can muster, and happily, happily so.
....
These are a few of Izzo's favorite things:
Boxing. (The sport, as a fan, not a participant.) (But still...)
Elmooo!
OK, there's more, there always is, but Izzo's about done with her seven readings of "Everyone Poops" and equally done with her Cheerios, and I promised a pre-Super Bowl visit to the new jungle gym at the park.
So. We're off. Heavy-hearted but thankful and loving every moment and all of you.
Health and good things and lots and lots of love.
Us
No comments:
Post a Comment