Spit Gel

When I look at Greer, I feel the force and fancy of her grandmother.  Kathy, my wife Patricia’s older sister, is present in the essence of our niece Kristen’s baby girl, who wears her name,  Greer Kathleen, like a multicolored polka dotted romper. 

Our broken hearts heal just a bit when we hold Greer close. She leans in, relaxed in the crook of my arm. She watches everything, so attentive; I can almost see the synapses forming in her baby brain. Her small chin is determined, her blue eyes so bright. She smells like the promise of apple blossoms and summertime. 

How lucky am I to breathe her in, when her grandma cannot; I exhale a moment of grief, then take a steady breath, grateful for this baby girl.

My sister-in-law, who left the planet far before we were ready, faithfully convened the Keaney family at the Jersey Shore every summer for years at a house that did not survive Hurricane Sandy.  On this Memorial Day weekend, Kathy’s oldest daughter, Kristen graciously steps in to fill those awesome sandals; she gathers us at her comfortable home in the suburbs of New Jersey for her childrens’ birthday party.

Our nieces, the Shala Sisters, Kristen, Katlin, and Karen, have grown to be such kind, funny  enterprising, creative young women. They pitch in and they support each other in substantive ways. Their mom, Kathy would be pleased to see them in action, surrounded by loving partners and friends. 

Greer is busy as a honeybee; she scoots about, holding a stuffed Micky in each small fist, focused and intentional as she fetches a third Micky from inside a tepee. When she catches a rolling yellow ball, she quietly squeals her delight. Low-key, yet energetic, she makes her way to a small ladder in the kitchen where she pulls herself up to a standing position. She bounces gleefully, up and down in place.

Later, she will applaud herself, clapping her tiny hands together because she remembers or doesn’t remember this feat. She is so pleased. Pleased much of the time, she is a delicious  piece of pleasantness.

She is passed with reverence, among the women in her world: her supremely competent multitasking mom; her dedicated grandma Maryanne, whose daughters Meghan and Erin delight in their contented niece; her great aunt Maureen, who fills the room with her big heart and keen mind; her cousin, Stephanie, Mo’s sweet and smart daughter, who scooted down the green hillside in Vermont, much in the same way that Greer now moves; and the bubbly 80-year old cousins, Margaret and Theresa, who still speak with lovely lilting  Irish brogues, even though they emigrated from Leitrim as teenagers.

Celebrating  Level 1, her first year,  Greer, carried amongst partygoers, takes in the crowd with poise and equanimity. Her big brother Nolan Stanley, entering Level 4, a whip-smart and willful guy, plays with the rough and tumble boys he loves from across the street. He manages to navigate all the excitement, sometimes taking a moment alone, or touching in with his reassuring mom and dad as he approaches melt down.

At night I read to Nolan in bed as he gently touches my curls. We both appreciate a good book. 

At his birthday breakfast the next morning when he turned his head, his profile reminded me of his Grandfather Stan, Kathy’s husband. Stan the Man also left the planet before he could meet his grandkids. I miss my steadfast brother-in-law, whom I called my beloved unlikely friend. Nolan is so fortunate to have such a devoted dad, Ryan, and a wonderfully patient grandfather Rich, to help him become a good man.

This family has endured huge losses and has enjoyed enormous love. When I am surrounded by the Keaney women, by my wife, her sister, our nieces, now our great-niece, I appreciate all the intelligence, creativity, humor, and kindness possessed by these women, who all share the same rare mitochondrial maternal DNA, Haplogroup X1. Their capacity for happiness and sadness, their strength and goodness of being, their connectedness, their perseverance, and ability to enjoy a good laugh inspires me.

One afternoon, I watched in amused horror as Nolan generously spit into his hands and rubbed a mess of saliva into his hair announcing that he was using “Spit Gel.”  “Where did you learn this? You use only a little spit and even that is disgusting,” I opine. He is unfazed, not a hair out of place.  

When his Aunt Katie arrived for breakfast wearing a lovely off the shoulder black and bright flowered print dress, he asked, “Why are you naked?”  This kid is going to be something, I think.

Three generations, I don’t know where the time goes; I came to New Jersey over thirty years ago for the christening of Patricia’s middle niece, Kaitlin. When a priest asked Pat, the godmother, to renounce Satan at the ceremony, I looked at her in utter dismay.  What kind of mishugenah question was that?  

Now here we  are, attending a party for the new generation. How can this be? But I am comforted by this clan — the continuity, the flow of it all, the recognition of my dear departed relatives in the shiny faces of Greer and Nolan.  Stan and Kathy did good.