Of babies, beaches, and my mom’s wisdom
Turning 65 can bring life’s blurriness into much more meaningful focus
You don’t have to pay to get on the beach in Long Branch if you’re 65.
I learned that on a beautiful summer morning a few weeks ago when my husband and I made the impromptu decision to head to the Jersey Shore. We left early enough to miss the beach traffic and found a spot on the street, avoiding the $40 parking lot fee. Balancing our beach gear, we arrived at the badge booth and stood in the cash line, hoping we didn’t need more than the $20 I had in my wallet. “Are you seniors?” the apparently 12-year-old asked, sipping on her overpriced coffee concoction from Starbucks. “I’m 65,” I said, “and my husband is…”
“You guys don’t have to pay,” she said, still sipping.
“What if someone asks for our badges when we’re returning to the beach from the snack bar or the restroom?” I inquired. “Just show them your license,” she replied, motioning to the next customer. Then, looking us over, she added, “But they won’t ask.”
For the first time in countless trips on the Garden State Parkway for a day down the shore, our badges were free. With heads held high, feeling somehow older and wiser than those around us, we dropped our chairs on the sand, cranked up our umbrella, spread out our towels, set down our cooler, and pulled the sunscreen out from my beach bag.
“The waves look great,” my husband said, taking off his hat and sunglasses. “Let’s go in.”
“I want to relax for a bit,” I told him, scrolling through my playlist for something to soothe my soul. He settled in amicably, grateful for the perfect beach day.
Hopes of quieting my mind were dashed when I found myself distracted by an extraordinary group of girls splayed out on towels in front of us. Forcing myself not to compare my 65-year-old body with the bodies of 20somethings, I couldn’t help but stare covertly through the lenses of my dark sunglasses at their hourglass figures, smooth, glistening, unblemished skin, taut abs and legs, and stunningly stylish (albeit skimpy) bikinis.
I watched as they rose deftly from their towels to swim, then returned from the water like Bo Derek emerging from the ocean in the late ’70s movie “10” to reapply tanning lotion and comb through manes of long, straight hair that would undoubtedly dry naturally, without needing a dryer or flat iron. I’d always been jealous of girls who were lucky enough to be born with hair that grew long and wavy with a soft and silky texture — the same lucky girls who couldn’t possibly identify with someone whose hair required an army to tame. And while I knew that comparison was the thief of joy, I was struck by the teenagers’ lack of self-consciousness, their willingness to reveal their shapely bodies. Did I ever look like that in a bathing suit? Ever?
Diverting my gaze, I honed in on the tiny babies who were sitting or lying on the soft blankets that dotted the sand around us, covered in long-sleeved water shirts. I was overcome by their preciousness. Most of them were being held, facing outward, as they pulled and chewed on strands of their mother’s wet curls or tapped their tiny shovels on their pails. Others were protected from the sun by UV canopies and tents with zip-up doors. Their parents took turns checking on them, passing them rattles, teething toys, and pacifiers.
In their own way, each of the babies were perfect specimens of beauty. It was likely none were ruminating about what they might wear on the beach when they turned 16 or what they might be agonizing about when they turned 65. Babies have the good fortune of living in the wonder of the moment, unfazed by the looks, behaviors, opinions, moods or reactions of others, certain their needs will be met swiftly and lovingly by doting parents, focused only on the immediate need for a warm bottle or a clean diaper.
I consider the reality of being 65. Besides the obvious things people associate with it, like deciding on Social Security benefits, signing up for Medicare, considering long-term-care insurance, reviewing retirement accounts, looking into tax breaks, engaging in new hobbies, or reviewing the details of potentially outdated wills, what did turning 65 mean to me?
After making a mental list of all the things I still want to do that I haven’t done yet, I thought about my late mother and who she was as a wife, parent, aunt, friend, and confidante. She turned 65 on February 5, 1997, the year our middle son was born. Just around the time of her birthday, I’d asked her to be my backup ride to the hospital. Always willing to help, she consented to the job. Since I’d delivered my firstborn two months early, we knew it was possible that my second might come earlier than expected.
By May, everyone was prepared. The plan was simple. If I went into labor during working hours, when my husband might not be accessible, go to Fair Lawn to drop off our 15-month-old at my mother-in-law’s house and swing over to pick up my mother, and then she would drive me to Holy Name Hospital in Teaneck. Three months after her birthday, my water broke. I called Mom and told her to be ready. After handing my son off to my mother-in-law, who coincidentally was celebrating HER birthday on May 5, 1997, it occurred to me that from that day forward, she would be celebrating her birthday with her second grandchild. “Pretty special, huh?” I asked. She was too overcome to respond.
Mom started driving, but she was going at about 45 mph. I was in active labor then, and had no business driving, but I couldn’t help myself. “Pull over,” I told her. “You’re in labor!” she said. “Pull over,” I repeated.
She complied, pulling into Loehmann’s parking lot with her hands gripping the wheel at the 10 and 2 position. Switching seats, we each buckled up while I put the car in reverse, merged onto Route 4, revved the engine, and drove all the way to Queen Anne Road. When we pulled up in front of the emergency room, I instructed my mother to park the car and meet me in Labor and Delivery.
The security guard took one look at me, put me in a wheelchair, and whisked me toward the elevator. Somehow my mother knew where to park, remembered to take her parking ticket with her, and found me in a room upstairs. I was already in a gown, my obstetrician had been paged, and I was on the phone with my husband telling him to hurry up. I remember that day and the details not just because I was going to have another baby — which was, of course, amazingly momentous — but because of the quality time I got to spend with my mother.
As I begged the nurse for ice chips, Mom did her best to distract me with the games we’d played for years while seated in the backseat of my late father’s Dodge Dart. The first was a tapping game where one person would tap the melody and beat to a song we both knew on the other person’s leg. My mother had the advantage, using knowledge gleaned from her excellent piano playing skills. We tapped in earnest, accentuating the cadence of a song each could only hear in her head. When our laughter aggravated my painful contractions, we moved on to the actor-and-actress game. Using the initials of a well-known performer, each would guess who the other was thinking of. The only hint was to share whether the actor or actress was from her generation or mine. When my energy level waned, I asked her how she felt about turning 65. What was different at that age?
She sat pensively, then pulled her chair closer to me. “First, I decided it was time to stop caring so much about what other people thought of me,” she said. “I’d spent so many years wanting to please others, often saying or doing things that didn’t necessarily serve me, saying yes when I meant no. It was time to be more selfish, to trust that it was perfectly acceptable to make decisions and behave in a way that served the two most important people in my life — me and Dad.”
I contemplated this. Did I worry too much about what other people thought and said? Did I often say yes when I meant no?
“And I had to take better care of my health,” she continued. “No one was going to do that for me. I had to watch what I ate and when I ate it. I had to keep up with doctor’s appointments and schedule my annual physicals. I had to do everything I could to stay active, engaged, and involved so I’d be in the best shape possible to show up for Dad and support my growing family.” I considered this too, wondering when the last time was that I’d put my physical and emotional health first.
“And lastly, I discovered that all I really need was a few very close friends,” she said. “There was a time when I was a part of so many friend groups, clubs, and organizations that I’d begun to spread myself too thin. I tried to be all things to all people. Now I focus on the quality of my relationships, not the quantity.”
We looked at one another, thoughtfully, before she made her most powerful point. “You are a beautiful woman inside and out, Deb,” she said, pausing as a memory came to her. “Do you remember what your Baba called you?”
“I was her shaina maidel,” I told her.
My mother nodded. “Baba saw you for who you were. She didn’t see your flaws, the trivial imperfections that you focused on as an adolescent, as a teenager, or perhaps still do as a young mother, preparing to give birth to her second child…” Her voice trailed off.
Breathing through the contractions, my eyes filled with tears. “When she saw you,” my mother whispered, squeezing my hand even harder, “she really saw you.”
I was loved unconditionally, just for being me.
Then the door opened, and my husband and Dr. Gelfand walked in. “Sorry, Deb,” my OB said. “I was delivering a baby at Englewood Hospital when I got the page.”
After examining me quickly, he reached for a yellow gown and surgical gloves while a sweet nurse showed my mom to a private area where she could wait. Dr. Gelfand, who’d delivered our first son in seconds when my dangerously high blood pressure made it necessary for him to be born two months early, looked at me and without hesitation said “push!”
Back at the beach, my husband was calling my name. “Wake up sleepyhead,” he said. Leaving the recesses of my mind, I come back to Long Branch. “I need to use the restroom,” I told him.
“It’s up there on the boardwalk,” he said. My legs were like lead balloons as I trudged through the sand to the ramp. I felt discombobulated. How long had I been traveling back in time? My mother’s voice, my mother’s face, my mother’s laugh, and my mother’s touch felt so real. I considered how lucky I was to have had a mother I couldn’t bear to lose.
The line to get on the beach was long. Since I was just re-entering, I stepped around it. Reaching the bottom step, prepared to hit the hot sand, I was stopped by the badge checker. “Ma’am?” a very young seasonal employee asked. “Your badge, please?”
“I’m 65,” I said proudly, and walked toward my husband’s waving hand.
Deb Breslow of Wyckoff is a freelance writer and college essay coach whose published work highlights topics specific to home, family, medical advocacy, and Jewish causes. For the last three years, she has been contributing personal essays and reported work to the Jewish Standard and the New Jersey Jewish News.