Alexander Hamilton: Before We Rapped We Read

Hamilton with his nemesis Burr

Every year on January 11th, or, if that glorious day falls on a weekend, the nearest weekday, I read just one book to every class at Alexander Hamilton Elementary School, "Duel! Burr and Hamilton's Deadly War of Words", by Chicago author Dennis Brindell Fradin (sadly attempts to lure him to Hamilton School have been unsuccessful). January 11th, Hamilton's birthday, is celebrated with great gusto at his namesake school, in fact the founding father himself has visited almost every year (quite confusing to some younger children who were almost certain that he was dead).

Before there was a healthy school, there were cupcakes for every child, and a school wide birthday sing along lead by the choir or the music teacher or a willing guy with a guitar (thankfully for my children this celebratory task was never assigned to me). My self designated role on the greatest day of the year has always been to read about Hamilton and to talk about his accomplishments and his shortcomings. To remind children that while what he might be most well known for, until recently, was his tragic death, that his list of achievements is long, and often overlooked.

Three things that students are expected to know:

1. He was never, ever a President,
2. But he was the first Secretary of the Treasury, and
3. His face is on the $10 bill; one of only two men to never serve as President honored in this way.

Older students get to listen to me blather on about his leadership in the creation of our system of finance (and his advocacy for reasonable public debt), his want of a strong Federal government, his role in the compromise to unify the states and locate the new capital in northern Virginia, and his mad writing skills, most notably found in that page turner, The Federalist Papers.

We do not discuss his indiscretions, poor decision making skills or Maria Reynolds.

Talking with children about history is fun and interesting. When you create stories, rather than facts, it's engaging. Of course when you create awe inspiring musicals that sing, dance and rap the story it's even better. Teaching children history is important because some day it might be cool to know exactly who this founding father without a father really is; students at Hamilton School already do (I hope).

Kindergarten classes are spared the tragic and sad story of the duel. Conversations with young classes focus on the idea of honor and the long held belief, and hope, that Hamilton shot into the air.

July 11th marks the anniversary of the duel, fought in Weehawken, New Jersey 212 years ago. 

Books We Love to Read

Duel! Burr and Hamilton's Deadly War of Words, Dennis Brindell Fradin and Larry Day
Alexander Hamilton: The Outsider, Jean Fritz
Aaron and Alexander: The Most Famous Duel in American History, Don Brown
The Duel: The Parallel Lives of Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr, Judith St. George

Merry Christmas She Said

She smiled warmly when I stumbled in, "Merry Christmas" she said, in deeply accented English.

It was after 11:00 pm and I had spent the past six hours making a two hour trip, weather delays trapping me on the ground in a city I did not want to leave. There were no more than five of us on the plane, the last flight from Kansas City to Chicago, on Christmas night. It was snowing, in both places, perfect for Christmas, unless your Christmas is to be spent flying from one winter wonderland to another.

My dad took me to the airport. Even with an early dinner we had to leave before Nana's Christmas cake, a brandy soaked tradition. It was to be the last Christmas for my 90 year old grandfather, the year he repeatedly asked where he had tied up his horse. It was a Christmas that all seven kids had made it home, when my grandmother was still able to cook, my dad still able to carve the turkey and a family all together for one last precious time. Waving good-bye was like leaving the ghost of Christmas everything; taking me away from my family on Christmas is unthinkable, stepping onto a plane scattered with strangers, like torture.

Frustrated that I drew the short straw, that no one else, not even the other clerks and paralegals who weren't traveling, offered to be there on the day after Christmas, I moped and pouted with the time I did have with my family. I was angry at my horrible boss, the one who removed his glasses and used the end piece to clean his ears whenever we met to discuss medical records or boring depositions. The one who callously said "you know I'm Jewish, I could work on Christmas day" when I asked if I could at least come in late the next day; my need to repeatedly quote him not really enveloping the spirit of Christmas.

Because my father flew frequently, often three or four days a week, he was familiar to almost everyone at the American Airlines counter in Kansas City. Having Dad deliver me to the airport meant a seat in first class as they often extended this courtesy to his daughter when available. On this night, given that I was one of five people flying, my seat in row 3 was secure. He waited with me until they finally boarded, the two of us sitting in the lonely and cold airport, the bar closed and the place deserted. I encouraged him to go home, but secretly hoped he would stay, scared to be alone and wishing that maybe they would finally just cancel this flight and strand me, helpless and unable to get to work. The plane had to be in Chicago, the flight would go, even if we had to wait all night.

Two hours later they called the few of us remaining to board. Leaving home was difficult, saying good-bye to my father who was my Christmas constant, horrible. The plane was de-iced, we pushed back from the gate, and O'Hare closed to incoming flights. We waited. I buried my head in my mixed nuts, not at all interested in small talk with the nice flight attendant who was probably not exactly where she wanted to be either. I questioned all the decisions: grad school away from my family, the terrible job at the hideous law firm, the one that made me cry almost every day as the bus approached my stop. My dad suggested I quit, find something else, but I knew I was learning, more about what I did not want to do than what I did, and the miserable pay was better than nothing at all.

After almost two hours of waiting we took off. I cried when the wheels left the ground.

O'Hare was deserted, as quiet as I had ever seen it. My lone bag spun on the carousel, as lost as I was. I threw it over my shoulder and made my way out, heading to the taxi stand rather than the train as Dad had given me cab fare, not wanting me to spend the remainder of my night on two trains and a bus getting home. I stopped in the restroom before leaving.

She smiled warmly when I stumbled in, "Merry Christmas" she said, in deeply accented English. Merry Christmas said the woman who had spent her Christmas cleaning restrooms at the airport, away from her family and friends, working at a job I have always considered to be among the worst imaginable. My day of self misery was over; "Merry Christmas" I said to her, and thank you.

Dammit Allyson It's Mother's Day

He would have said, "God dammit Allyson, it's Mother's Day".

And I would have said, "but Dad it's your birthday".

And he'd guffaw and lean back in his chair, "yes, and it has been for  years. Go, celebrate with your family, you're a mother now, more important than being a daughter".

"But Dad..."

"Although I really don't know about you celebrating Mother's Day, as far as I can see you should just celebrate Father's Day twice. Seems to me that husband of yours does all the hard work."

But he didn't say that, although I know that he would have.

Happy Birthday Dad, Happy Mother's Day Me.

And Dad, Jack does all the laundry.

 

It's Always a New Year

Last night we had crab cakes, 15 years ago we had crab dip, or at least I did.

It was our first New Year's Eve spent together. Jack and his roommate were throwing a party and I was included, in the planning, in the inviting, in the preparations.

I bought a new outfit and made crab dip. They flushed the toilets and bought a keg.

The guests arrived, including everyone they had ever known, and some woman the roommate had met only the night before. My guests, all three of them, arrived wearing clothing at about the time many of the other guests began to lose theirs.

The crab dip was delicious, and a big hit with the one person I saw eat it. "Did you make this?", and I eagerly nodded. "Figures, it's good though". This was the longest conversation I had all night.

I've lost track of the all the eves in between crab dip and crab cake, but this one is always the one that counts. This year, crab cakes for four and a snowy night in Michigan. Cheers to those who make a new year worth celebrating.

Merry Christmas

Merry! Merry!

No Need to Bring a Camera

Into the big tote bag went the old plaid beach blanket, bug spray, hand wipes, and the blanket that is on the sofa, in case it got cool, but not a camera. You can't take pictures of fireworks, I didn't need it.

And so this is my picture, of the four of us on the grass in front of the church, sitting on the bluff above the beach, watching the annual firework display. It's an unseasonably cool night, cool enough that I have on jeans and my favorite gray cardigan, the girls are both wearing striped pullovers over their summer play clothes, and Jack is wearing shorts with a navy fleece. We are layered on top of one another, on the beach blanket: Jack and me on the bottom with Kate to my left, her head on my chest in hopes of muffling some of the sound, and Mary to my right, in between us. She is clutching a bag of popcorn that her dad bought from the Lion's Club tent, just across the grass. The blanket they brought, one given to us at our wedding with my name misspelled on the embroidery, is across our feet.

The old tote bag, that has taken us to the beach and back so many times, is now folded behind my head, a pillow as I lay back, and from my vantage point I see all three of them, the people I like best in the world, as an amazing array of fireworks blows up beyond them, over the water.

No need to bring a camera, this is my picture. Enjoy a wonderful Independence Day with those you love, and fireworks.

Everyone at the Kid's Table

Absent anyone from an older generation and Christmas dinner feels a bit like playing house. Five adults, four children, a delicious dinner and a lovely setting but somehow, it still feels like we are all sitting at the kid's table, with the grown ups in the next room.

Dinner at my cousin's beautiful suburban home, served on our great aunt's china but when I'm the oldest one at the table, I find it hard to believe that we can actually pull this off without help.It's getting more familiar, and it's not that we are all terribly young, hugging either side of 40 all around, but even now, it's hard to believe that my youngest cousin is able to throw such a party. Understand, it's hard for me to imagine that I could be old enough to have a cousin old enough to remember to buy hand soap for the bathroom but I am, and she does.

There are no empty seats at our table, we are full with love and laughter and holiday merriment, but there is a candle in the window and always room for one more chair, one more friend, appropriate generation affiliation not required.

On to the business of 2013, happy new year!

The Music of Family

Kate's only complaint, when staying in a hotel room, is sharing a bed with her sister. I sympathize; having been Mary's first accommodations, carrying her for nine months, I too have suffered from the incessant kicks and blows of a slumbering Mary. It's not uncommon to find her in the morning, feet on the pillow, snoozing peacefully, having completely flipped during the night. Years ago, in Dallas, I woke up to find her right foot under my chin, her left foot across my mid section. Frequently she sits up, appears to look around, and flops down, head first, in whatever direction she is facing. Pray that she has not turned to face you in this moment of alertness. She is a lovely and kind child but a wild and reckless sleeper; no one wants to bunk next to that.

And yet there I was, the night before Thanksgiving, in a beautiful downtown Chicago hotel room, wide awake while Wild Mary thrashed next to me. In the next bed lay Kate and her father, peacefully sleeping, completely unaware of the scene being played out in our lovely and very dark room.

By this time the street outside had quieted, the sounds of the city taking a break before the big day. But in our room the music was just beginning: from Kate, whose 11:00 pm nosebleed had landed me in the bed with the Wild One, a deep and loud breathing, forced from the earlier nasal incident, all from her wide open mouth, breaths more like exhausted sighs. And in the horn section, her father and his rhythmic snoring, accompanying Kate's breathing as if they had been playing together for years. Next to me lay the conductor, orchestrating this great movement with madly waving arms and legs, a rhythmic feast for the senses, assuming those in the first row were wearing protective gear.

Two days later I was home in our kitchen, cooking our second, but first at home, Thanksgiving meal, when I realized that I was singing along with Snow Patrol, "This is All I Ever Wanted From Life".  Having just celebrated the day when I am told to count my blessings, it occurred to me that perhaps this was it: awake in a stuffy yet well appointed hotel room at 2:00 am, listening to the symphony of my family, with Mary's foot in my ear; was this all I ever wanted from life?

You know I believe that yes it is, that and a little bit of sleep thrown in here and there.

June 17

Happy Father's Day

Button Up Your Overcoat

The woman behind the counter smiled and I pointed to my coat from the rack behind the desk. The unseasonably cool, and foggy, weather had necessitated a coat on an early May day that should have been warm and sunny, as my footwear indicated: flip flops and freshly manicured feet. She held my coat as I slid in and then, rather than let go, she smoothed the arms, pulled the front together and said, "it's cold out, let me help you", as she buttoned the three buttons on the front of my coat.

An intimate gesture from the woman who owned the nail salon, someone I had known for several years but whose name I had never taken the time to learn.

"Thank you, that was so nice", I stumbled. I pay people to rub my feet and massage my shoulders but this simple gratuitous act knocked me, so briefly, out of the role I have been cultivating for seven years.

Walking back to the train, snugly buttoned in my old trench coat, I realized that it had been a very long time since I had been on the receiving end of the calm and nurturing act of mothering.

Somewhere along the way I have switched from being the button'ee to the button'er.

Happy Mother's Day to all, especially the nice woman at the nail salon who, in three buttons, took me back to a place I had not been in years, and reminded me just how good it feels to let someone else button your coat.

It's All in the Timing

Her timing is not impeccable.


She is so many amazing things, but all those things together cannot off set her ability to find the most inopportune time to report,"Mom, I'm not feeling well". And because she does this so often, and like so many other things, so well, we know that she knows when things are about to go south.

Kate has spent the last two Thanksgiving days sprawled on the sofa, full of fever and other unwelcome visitors, missing her favorite holiday. For a child who loves nothing more than a day with her family spent around a table piled with delicious food, missing Thanksgiving once was torture. Missing it two years in a row was unexplainable, unfair, and rotten.

Last summer we spent a week in Washington D.C. At three Kate named her baby doll Dick Durbin. She has read biographies of Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin, Abraham Lincoln and George Washington. She has a favorite patriot, Alexander Hamilton, and plans to spend the next Halloween dressed as Betsy Ross. A trip to Washington D.C. was what she had always dreamed of, the trip of a seven year old lifetime for a very young history lover. And as we dressed for a tour of the White House, the highlight of her trip, Kate announced, "Mom, I'm not feeling well" and a few moments later she was not.

Tonight Kate and I are at home watching Charlotte's Web, the wonderful 1973 animated film based on the E.B. White book,  the very same one I watched when I was young. It's a perfect evening: just the two of us curled up with a fire in the fireplace, sharing one of my favorite childhood movies, except that Kate is sick. And Jack and Mary are at the father daughter dance they go to every year, with Uncle Kenny. Her beautiful pink dress is back in the closet and the new party shoes, purchased for this evening, are in the box. The wrist corsage her dad brought home is in the kitchen, Kate is now in bed, having just missed an evening dancing with three of her favorite people in the entire world.

For a child who loves her family, food, history, dancing, her dad, her sister and Uncle Kenny, her timing is not impeccable.

All This Snow and No One to Play With

The girls returned to school this week, Jack went back to work, I went back to the library. Order has been restored in our lazy lives. Given the general assumption that mom and dad can hardly wait for school to start again, I'm always a bit off in my want to keep them home just a few days more. "Mom, it's got to happen, we've got to go back to school, we've got to learn.", said my painfully logical seven year old, the one who burrows under her pillow and begs for more sleep when we come in at 6:30 to wake her.

At every possible opportunity I voiced my displeasure with CPS and their decision to continue classes through December 23rd, giving us very little time for holiday merriment before Christmas. School was over, it was Christmas Eve. We wedged in a trip to see the windows at Field's (generally disliked, "there was no story Mom, it was like a commercial" from the logical child), we saw Santa, we decorated the tree, we made a gingerbread house, but there was no carol singing, no Kris Kindl Market, no falalala and precious little hohoho, but plenty of homework. Not my idea of a silver bell kind of build up to the big day and I was not pleased.

As it turns out, having the extra week in January was nice. Very little pressure to do anything, and, given that Chicago has recently become a warm weather get away, a little like taking a vacation right at home. It was 58 degrees last week; we went to the park, we walked, we ran errands, we went ice skating, and we enjoyed the true wonder of being on our own schedule, if just for a few days.

The holidays are over, the new year has begun, and, as I sit here in my dining room awaiting the arrival of 8 to 10 inches of snow, I realize that I have found my way home again, back to Chicago and the order that dictates our daily lives, back to some other's schedule.

It's hard to love snow when all your playmates are in school.

Six months until summer break.

Thanksgiving

Forever on Thanksgiving Day
The heart will find the pathway home.
~Wilbur D. Nesbit

Thanksgiving 2007

"We're having tofurkey?"

My Funny Valentine

Nine times out of ten I spent Valentine's Day with my grandparents. Not because my parents were out swishing the night away in a love soaked fashion, but because they spent February in Mexico, and that meant that I spent February with Mimi and Bopaw.

As wonderful as this may have been for me I now realize that my presence surely marked the end to those long romantic evenings enjoyed in the Grill with Jojo, sappy cards, and bourbon and soda on the rocks. Although before me there was Teetee and Oohooh, my grandmother's widowed sisters, who spent every holiday with us, so perhaps they were responsible for the zap to romantic candlelight and Glenn Miller. As it was, my Valentine's Day, after the requisite class party, was dinner for five, cocktails for four, chocolate for me and love all around.

The day before Mimi and I made the heart shaped cake. Always chocolate with either pink or red frosting and an inscription that became progressively more legible as the years wore on, it was the only time all year the heart shaped cake pans were dug out from the far corners of the baking cabinet to the left of the stove.


Each year the girls and I make our own heart shaped cake, the pans rescued years ago from the estate sale that followed Mimi and Bopaw's move to the retirement community. The annual baking requires they be dug out now from the disorganized and overflowing baking cabinet over the stove. It's Mimi's chocolate mayo cake recipe, the only cake recipe I don't consistently ruin. It's delicious, illegible and lovely.

Valentine's Day is now four at the table, this year doing homework and opening cards while toasting ourselves over sushi, edamame and eventually, chocolate mayo cake. It's not necessary, a holiday to remind me how much I love these people, but we certainly enjoy the excuse to dig out the cake pans.

First cake, 1981, the second, 2011.

A Day Without a Holiday

I'm thankful, really, I am. But also a little cranky, morose and sober. And jealous, always jealous which I am perfectly comfortable admitting. Thanksgiving just wasn't Thanksgiving this year, not at our house.

Although it was at my cousin's, where the bird I brined Tuesday night was roasted, the stuffing baked, the potatoes mashed. And all the people I love, save the three who live with me, gathered to celebrate and be thankful for being together. We were at home with a very sick child.

Wednesday night, as I pureed the pumpkin, cut the bread for stuffing and snapped the beans Kate announced she was not feeling well. And that was it, I knew, Thanksgiving would not be at our house this year and my precious child, who loves the idea of a home full of people she loves, would be spending her day under a blanket on the sofa. Given my paranoid fear of childhood illness and my incessant need to clean my children, I have often wondered just what I would do if one of the ladies was attacked by ilk the day before a holiday or party or other large gathering at our home. And now I know, unfortunately.

Thursday morning my cousin's husband drove in from the suburbs to pick up one 24 pound freshly brined turkey, two bags of groceries and one large casserole of stuffing. He took one look at Kate and knew that moving the celebration to their house was the right decision.

Once we had our refrigerator back it was easy to forget that elsewhere people were basking in the warm glow of family and friends, and waddling in the smell of roasting turkey. We watched the parade, napped, cleaned and ate nothing.

And when it was quiet, once the girls had gone to bed, I found the time to realize that this wasn't just another sick day at home, this was Thanksgiving. This was the day that keeps me on my feet for hours, makes our home smell like home and allows me to embrace the loved ones that gather annually around our dining room table.

Thankfully we have the opportunity to miss. That there are friends to toast, feet to hold me up and children to keep me busy; for the husband who is far better at taking care of a sick child than I ever will be, and for the child who is almost back, for all of this I am very grateful. Today I understand that it could always be worse, one rotten day will not ruin the holiday season. There is always next year, just 364 days away, thankfully.

Independence Day

Beyond fireworks, which I love, and corn on the cob, my children are learning that Independence Day is celebrated, not just because it is a wonderful mid summer holiday that keeps Dad at home and brings the Uncles to Chicago, but as the day that the Second Continental Congress approved the Declaration of Independence.

But then originally those wild souls thought that future picnics, fireworks and parades would all take place on July 2nd, the day that they voted to approve a resolution of independence. My personal favorite patriot, John Adams, wrote to his wife Abigail,

The second day of July, 1776, will be the most memorable epoch in the history of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival. It ought to be commemorated as the day of deliverance, by solemn acts of devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations, from one end of this continent to the other, from this time forward forever more.
Incredibly bright, well read, and rude to the French, he was off a few days; the games and guns and bonfires now happen on the fourth of July, although we all know that it is a holiday weekend and the fun lasts more than one day. In recent years it seems that any acknowledgement of the holiday beyond Roman Candles has been a reenactment of Memorial Day. Barack Obama, in a holiday email, reminds us to "honor the men and women in our armed forces whose immeasurable bravery and sacrifice have made our country what it is today".

Yes, but let us not forget the traitors who risked certain death at the hands of King George to establish the country that we live in today. In this time of flag waving American bravado, when an entire political movement honors in name a rebellion aimed at protesting taxation without representation, and yet two thirds of Americans cannot name one Supreme Court justice, it is important to remember the vital role that history plays in our understanding of the American political system, the players and the principals on which it it based.

The dog is named Eleanor Roosevelt, noted, but read John, Paul, George and Ben
to your children. History can be fun, especially when written by Lane Smith in an engaging and silly way. And remember, it was not the British that were coming, it was the Redcoats, so said Paul Revere.

How much do you know about the American Revolution? Find out here.


And why is John Adams my favorite patriot? He had an amazing wife, whose opinion he valued, and he defended the British soldiers following the Boston Massacre. John Adams knew that everyone deserved a fair trial, following a personal code of conduct before the Sixth Amendment made it law. John Adams would not have parked his horse in a handicap spot, I am certain.

Comfortable Memoires

My cousin and her family spent Memorial Day with us, as did my sister, bringing the total to five adults and four children, all inside thanks to a day long rain that halted most, but not all, of our outdoor plans.

Always a nice reminder, the ease of family and the lack of pretense involved when they come to spend the day. I cook, nothing extravagant, in fact yesterday I cooked the entire life out of a pot of potatoes, deciding to pick up the playroom while they steamed. But rather than rush out to buy more I knew that both Katie and Ashley would arrive with delicious food and not be at all bothered by the potato mush I would serve them. The mush, tossed with arugula, stood bravely by as delicious orzo with asparagus and tortellini with feta stepped up to offer a non cooked beyond recognition side dish option.

I'm happiest with people who know where we keep the water glasses, and don't feel the need to ask if they might use one. Help yourself, there is nothing we don't use, no towels only for display.

As Mary ran screaming into the kitchen, her younger cousin Liam in hot pursuit, wildly waving a golf club, Kate announced "MOM! I stepped in goat cheese!", and in that moment I thought just how much our grandmother would enjoy this madness. And that, for me, was the perfect Memorial Day.

Finding Two Reasons to Celebrate

Six years ago Mother's Day fell on my father's birthday, as it does occasionally. But my father had died six months earlier, which had not happened before, and I was dreading the day. I was not a mother but I was ready to be, and then I miscarried, two days before Mother's Day. But that wasn't enough, our dear friends had asked Jack and I to be the Godparents to their wonderful son, we were honored and overwhelmed, and the baptism was to be on Mother's Day. So on my father's 62nd birthday, which he was not with us to celebrate, two days after miscarrying in my first pregnancy, I was to hold the infant son of one of my best friend's in a church and pledge to help raise him as a good Catholic, on Mother's Day.

Surprisingly being with people I love and holding a new baby proved to be exactly what I needed on what had promised to be a truly horrible day, and it wasn't.

The next year I spent Mother's Day at a Cubs game, five months pregnant, feet up and happy. Things had improved, as often they do. And each year I rejoice just a little bit more, ever grateful to have not one but two wonderful reasons to celebrate. While I'm thankful for the little people who made me a mom I also remember the many who have mothered me, the list is long, and I appreciate each and every person who taught me bits and pieces of all that I need to know: removing band aids quickly is really best, singing "I Eat My Peas With Honey" while eating peas really does make them taste better, written correspondence does matter, bodily functions are funny, laughing is important, loving is best, and singing is a great way to start the day.

Happy mother's day to all who mother, and to those who listen to us sing.

It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like Christmas

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas, or it was last week. There were toys in every store, trees in the grand hotels, and everywhere I turned, grandparents visiting grandchildren. The average age in our neighborhood jumps at least 20 years the week of Christmas; at lunch Wednesday I was the only mom alone with children, every other table at Frances was populated with happy grandchildren and adoring grandparents.

It’s a very short road to bitter, self pity even closer. There are no grandparents at our house and at no time does it smack like it does at the holidays. The girls notice and I feel guilty, grandparents being such a vital part of my childhood I ache that I can’t offer them the same. And try as I may, Jack and I are the here and now, grandparents offer children a sense of permanence and a place in the world. Grandparents are fun and silly, and they give us tradition and order, or they did me. Of course I must remind myself that those very traditions which guide me were once nothing more than my great grandmother soaking a fruit cake in brandy, everything has some delicious beginning.

And so this year we created our own Christmas, and it was a wonderful holiday. Thank God for my aunt who comes to visit her daughter, my cousin, who welcomes us all to her perfect Christmas home. But for Lynda, I'd be the oldest at the table, and I'm not ready for that. Lynda teaches the girls that because of her, we are all related, a real life example of what I try to convey to them, that we are bound together going up the tree. At five, I needed grandparents. Maybe the girls don't, but they certainly would enjoy the option.