Savor the moments

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Jim and I had three daughters in a short period of time. There are 16 months between the oldest and the middle daughters, 19 months between the middle and the youngest. Which means, obviously, our daughters are very close in age. In fact, for one month out of each year—roughly mid July to mid August—the girls' ages are consecutive.

Which also means, obviously, I was one very busy mama while raising them. I felt hurried and harried much of the time, and I rarely stopped to savor the sweetest and simplest of moments with my three girls, from their toddler to their teen years.

I'm trying to not make the same mistake as a grandma.

Things are pretty clear cut with Baby Mac because as an eight-month-old, what he wants, he pretty much needs...and gets. With three-and-a-half-year-old Bubby, though, it's different. His needs are met; his wants are up for negotiation. That's where my tack as a grandmother differs from the tack I took as a mother. When Bubby requests my participation, my attention, I do my best to stop the busy work and savor the moment. As long as his requests are reasonable, that is. And most reasonable he proved to be during my recent visit to the desert.

For example, "Gramma, can you play train with me?" was a reasonable request. So, despite not being one for typically enjoying sitting on the floor—and Baby Mac needing some attention, too—I busied Mac with some blocks, plopped down next to Bubby, and followed his lead of "You be Henry, Gramma, and I'll be Thomas." Moment savored.

Another instance: Bubby's bedtime routine typically features one bedtime story read. One night we finished the chosen book, and I stood from his bed to tuck him in, kiss him goodnight, and head out the door. "Can we please read this one, too?" Bubby pleaded, holding up a book. "It's soooo funny!" So I did, all the while savoring his snickers at "There Was A Cold Lady Who Swallowed Some Snow," savoring his sense of humor, savoring the moment.

When Bubby asked, "Gramma, can we build a fort?" I didn't hem and haw about the mess it would make. Instead, Bubby and I together built the fort to beat all forts, with tunnels and secret passages and cardboard boxes blocking out the light. Moment savored...and video captured of Bubby and Baby Mac savoring the fort again and again and again, with giggles galore as they chased one another through tunnels and more.

At snack time, Bubby wanted his snack in the fort. At naptime, he wanted the bedtime story read—to both him and Baby Mac—in the fort. Both requests filled. Easily. Both moments savored. Surely.

At the park, Bubby asked if I'd climb up the play structure and "play pirate" with him. Baby Mac slept in his stroller, within viewing distance, of course, as Bubby and I climbed and slid and shouted "Look out, Captain! They're after us!" again and again. Moment savored.

Most mornings of my visit, Bubby woke me with a gentle nudge on my knee—except for the first morning when he slammed open my bedroom door and shouted, "GRAMMA! It's morning time!" (My freakout at his announcement led to knee nudges going forward, I'm sure.) One day when I woke before him, Bubby watched me from the open bathroom door and said, "Gramma, after you're done brushing your teeth, will you start your day with me?" Request easily filled as that was my intent anyway. The sweet moment of his request, though, especially savored.

Requests of "Will you jump with me, Gramma?" brought leaps and bounds of joy each and every time we giggled and wiggled and waggled about on the trampoline—which was pretty much each and every time Bubby asked me to do so. And my request to him one night to lie quietly on the trampoline and look at the stars together was enthusiastically met with a resounding "Yes!" That grandson of mine, he truly gives as good as he gets. Moments savored—by both of us.

One of Bubby's favorite cartoons is Olivia, which begins with the inflation of a pirate ship bouncy house. Once, a discussion of bouncy houses ensued after the program began, and Bubby gushed about the most awesome of parties he was scheduled to soon attend. "It's gonna be so cool! There's gonna be a bouncy house and pizza!" he raved. "Do you want to come, Gramma? Maybe you can ask PawDad if you can come!"

This was one of Bubby's few unreasonable requests. Not because I wouldn't be in town at the time of the party or because I'm sure the guest of honor wasn't expecting grandmas to join in. No, I thought it unreasonable—and, more so, surprising—that Bubby naturally assumed I had to ask PawDad's permission to go to the party. My I-am-woman-hear-me-roar sensibilities wanted me to explain to Bubby that I don't need PawDad's permission to go to the party, that I didn't need his permission to do anything. Women, I considered telling my grandson, don't need permission from a man to do anything—we can do anything we choose.

What I chose to do, though, was to not tell Bubby those things. There's plenty of time for him to learn such lessons—and woefully little time that a precious boy earnestly and enthusiastically extends to his grandma invitations to birthday parties with pizza and bouncy houses.

What I chose to do was savor that fleeting moment instead.

Today's fill-in-the-blank:

A moment I recently savored with my grandchildren or children was ___________.

Road tripping (or, Why one should never ever drive through New Mexico)

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Middle daughter Megan and her hubby Preston moved to the Arizona desert right after they got married in 2006. Jim and I have visited them—and our subsequent grandsons—several times since then. Always by air, though, never by car.

We decided to make our most recent trip there by car. "We gotta do it at least once," Jim said. So we did. And here are some of my ever-so-deep thoughts and observations about our road trip from the mountains to the desert and back again:

• Other states (and even the nether regions of my own state) are home to some pretty awesome wildlife, according to road signage. My fave previously unseen caricatures posted along the Interstate: elk featuring impossibly massive racks and bear resembling bumbling buds of Yogi.

• New Mexico has an unbelievable number of crosses along the Interstate, memorializing loved ones who had lost their lives along the way. Really, an unbelievable number. Like 50 or more just on the route we traveled. Jim says it's because New Mexico drivers are the very worst <cussing> <cussing> drivers in the nation. I think it's more because of the high Hispanic culture in that area, folks who are likely Catholic and more likely to honor the departed with the tributes. (I kind of liked my explanation but apparently Jim is correct. According to the NHTSA: New Mexico's crash and fatality rates are consistently higher than the national average. But, I must add, it's not because NM drivers are the worst but because it has become a heavily traveled "bridge" for travelers and freight.)

• Traveling through New Mexico will always and forever remind me of the first time Jim and I did so together. With the girls, we headed to Carlsbad Cavern and spent many hours of the drive looking for roadrunners. Roadrunners that looked like THE Road Runner, because we were young and naive...and hadn't traveled much...and certainly had never seen a roadrunner. Imagine our embarassment—which we kept to ourselves, of course—when we saw postcards in a tourist spot of the real roadrunners that speed along the New Mexico highways and byways.

• "Safety corridor"? What the heck is a "Safety Corridor" along the Interstate. Signs told us when we were entering one. Signs told us when we were leaving one. But never did we see a sign that told us what the heck it was. Were we supposed to duck? Lock the doors? A sign did tell us to turn on our lights for safety...which made no sense in the middle of the day in the desert, but we turned them on anyway. Much to our surprise, we got through safely...and were never transported to another time or dimension. (Well, I just researched the term for this post and gave thanks we made it out alive. The areas are named such by the DOT because of their high numbers of fatalities. I would think a more appropriate name would be a NOT-Safe Corridor. That's the government for you, I guess.)

• Being stuck for three freakin' hours between miles and miles of semis on an Interstate brought to a standstill by an accident sucks. Really. If you follow Grandma's Briefs on Facebook or Twitter you found out in real time on Tuesday how much I thought it sucked. Because of posted photos such as these:

• I'd always driven the highways and byways with the notion that when it comes to road ettiquette and challenges between semis and smaller vehicles, the semis always win. That's not always the case, I now know. When two semis tussle and tangle, neither wins, evidenced by the disastrous (and surely deadly) accident that caused the aforementioned traffic jam.

• Listening to Tina Fey reading "Bossypants" by Tina Fey is an enjoyable way to pass the time while on the road. Jim and I both agree.

• Listening to Kirsten Kairos reading "The Darkest Evening of the Year" by Dean Koontz is not. Jim and I both agree. (But we finished it anyway since we had hours and hours to go before we could sleep...or stop. And because I'd not gotten around to putting "The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay" by Michael Chabon on the iPod.)

• When driving 15 miles per hour over the speed limit at night, what scares me most is the possibility of one of those wild and wacky animals mentioned above—or deer or skunk or fox or Road Runner with Wile E. Coyote on his tail—running out in front of me. Even more so than signs declaring icy bridges and falling rock. (Although not quite as much as becoming one of those crosses. Well, on second thought, hitting an animal while going 90 miles an hour just might result in exactly that, so yeah, the animals are still scariest.)

• Roads? Where we're going we don't need roads...at least not anymore. At least not for visits to the desert. Because we'll be flying next time. And every time forever going forward. Yeah, I know, life is a journey not a destination and all that blah, blah, blah. But when my grandchildren are the destination, I'll take that over the journey any day.

(Plus, now that I've researched Safety Corridors and New Mexico traffic fatality statistics for this post, I can guarantee you we will never, ever drive that route again. Nor will I ever encourage friends and family—or strangers—to take a road trip that way. Take the plane, folks. It's safer—and I can provide statistics to prove it, if you need them.)

(One more thing: If you live in New Mexico, get out! Now! Run for your lives! Better yet, take a plane...it's safer. Again, I can provide statistics to prove it, if you need them.)

Today's question:

How do you pass the time when on road trips?

Failing as a mother, and other pride-filled moments

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I pride myself on being a good grandma, a good mama. Sometimes I fail miserably though. Like I did yesterday.

As most of you know, my daughter Megan had Baby Mac in June. And as some of you might know, since having Baby Mac, Megan has made running her thing, her time for herself, her time devoted to being Megan not just Mommy. And devoted she is, running 5Ks and 10Ks and "fun" runs for practice most days of the week. She's become quite the long-distance runner despite being a sprinter—and a reluctant one at that—during her high school years. She sets goals; she accomplishes them.

Yesterday featured a big goal, one Megan hoped to accomplish with aplomb: her first half marathon. That's 13.1 miles for those non-runners (like me) in the group. She's been training for it since right after having Baby Mac, and nothing was going to deter her. Except maybe that Preston, her hubby and daddy to the boys, was scheduled for a business trip that would take him away the day of the half marathon. Which meant there'd be no one to cheer her on with her babies in tow (yes, the babies should to be in tow, to see the importance of Mom setting goals and accomplishing them). And no one to take photos of her crossing the finish line.

So she asked me and Jim—Mom and Dad—if we'd cover the support shift. Which, of course, we were happy to do. Not only would it be a chance to see our grandbabies, it would allow us to cheer on one of our daughters in her athletic pursuits, something we've missed since our nest emptied out.

We arrived in the desert, prepared for duty. The plan involved Preston driving Megan to the Women's Running Magazine Women's Half Marathon starting point before hopping the plane for his business trip. Then Jim and I were to pack up Bubby and Baby Mac and arrive near the finish line of the marathon pert near the time Megan figured she'd be crossing. Other than getting us there, my primary job (in addition to caring for the grandkiddos, of course) was to take pictures of Megan meeting her goal.

I failed. On both counts.

Despite setting out as planned, with detailed directions and maps for a city we'd never visited, we got within blocks—"Special Event" flags marked the area, so there's no questions of that—yet couldn't get to the exact area we wanted. Because of the special event, because of all the roads closed for that very same special event. Because not a single direction for spectators was given on the official website and because Google Maps didn't note the very roads we needed, the very roads we were instructed to take would be closed. There was no way to get were we wanted to be. At least not by the time we needed to be there.

AS we drove around the special event area, we lucked upon a spot where other folks were cheering on their running mothers and daughters and sisters and friends. We hopped out. We ran into place. And, heavens-be-shining-down-on-me, Megan was coming around the corner. She was smiling, Bubby was waving, Jim was shouting GO, MEG! and I was scrambling for my camera...and in all the excitement I couldn't get it on and get it focused, get it shooting as it should. At least not while she was in front of me. This is what I managed:

Then Jim and I were off and running ourselves, with the kids, trying to figure out how the heck to get to that freakin' finish line before Megan did. Not knowing the city at all, not having uninterrupted service on my iPhone that would provide me a map and direction and GPS or something of use, I asked another spectator for assistance. He told me how to head in the general direction, "but I don't know how you're going to get there with the way they have the roads all jacked up," he said. "Just get as close as possible then walk as fast as you can," was his only suggestion.

Thing is, that "general direction" he gave was off by about 15 blocks. Or maybe my interpretation was off by about 15 blocks. And in those 15 blocks, the tension in the car rose. Baby Mac was hungry, Jim was frustrated at my (usually stellar) navigation skills, and Bubby was asking from the back seat, "Why are you so mad?" The "you" meaning me and Jim, as we were bickering and not being our best Gramma and PawDad selves by any means. But gee freakin' whiz...we couldn't get to our daughter who would soon be wrapping up an incredible feat and it appeared we weren't going to be there as promised.

And we weren't. Just as we got as close as we could possibly get, the point from which we'd have to quickly pop open the stroller, throw the two boys into it and make our way across a seemingly endless obstacle course, heading for the very same finish line as Megan—where Megan would be—my cell phone rang.

It was Megan.

She'd crossed the finish line.

And wondered where we were.

Oh, the humanity, er, humility...of having to tell my daughter I'd failed. I'd failed to get us there on time, I'd failed to get photos of her accomplishing her goal, I'd even failed to get one front-facing photo of her at the one single moment the gods did allow us to see our pink-clad racer girl despite our missteps.

No big deal, Megan assured us, just get here. Call when you get to the finish line, she said.

With my tail between my legs I got us there. And I got a few photos of Half-Marathon Megan with her medal:

... and of Half-Marathon Megan with her babies:

I failed at my task. Megan didn't. At all. She finished her very first half marathon in a respectable 1 hour 54 minutes and 52 seconds. An amazing feat any time, but especially impressive just six months after having a child.

Oh, and that 1 hour 54 minutes? Exactly the time (well, minus the 52 seconds) I guessed the night before, when Preston, Jim and I all put in our guesses for what Megan's final time would be. While I'm not so proud of my mom fail when it came to getting us to the finish line for photos, I am, in a very small way, proud of my accurate guess on Megan's time. (I gotta take my successes any where I can find them.)

In all seriousness, though, and in a very large way, I'm proud of Megan—my marathon-running mommy/daughter—and all she's done to get where she's at.

(Disclosure: All guilt mentioned above was purely self-inflicted; Megan never took me to task nor seemed even slightly disappointed at my failure to come through as promised. Yet another reason I'm proud of her.)

Today's question:

Describe a recent fail on your part...and/or a recent moment that filled you with pride?

Grandma and the haboob

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The recent earthquakes and the hurricane news reminded me that I forgot to share with you all my haboob story.

As many of you likely know, a haboob is an Arabic word for a violent dust storm or sandstorm. Arizona has seen a few of them this summer, with a particularly violent one shaking things up on July 5. (HuffPo documented it well HERE.)

Another took place last week as I was trying to escape the <cuss> heat of the desert fly home. I'd gotten to the airport just fine but as I settled into my seat to await boarding, Megan called to ask if I was okay and how long of a delay I was facing. I had no idea what she was talking about; my flight wasn't delayed, all was fine and on schedule.

Five minutes later that all changed as every flight out of the airport was halted and delayed. The haboob had hit Sky Harbor.

From Megan's vantage point at home, this is what she saw on the news:

From my vantage point inside the airport, this is what I saw out the window: 

Megan texted a few times to make sure I was away from windows and safe. Bubby was concerned after hearing on the news that "the haboob swallowed the airport" and needed direct confirmation that Gramma was okay.

I confirmed that I was indeed fine, albeit feeling a bit claustrophobic with all windows showing nothing but a dust cloud:

Within less than an hour, things cleared around the airport and flights began taking off. About that same time, Megan sent this picture of the house across the street from her as the storm arrived in her neighborhood: 

At least she got a mini rainbow.

All I got was a delayed flight as the plane I was to board had been diverted to Vegas to avoid the haboob. Once it arrived and we boarded, there was another delay because of mechanical problems. We de-boarded, took way too long to board another, then finally, nearly six hours later than scheduled, we took to the now-friendly skies, headed for the mountains.

Having little to do with the haboob and much to do with the incompetence of certain airline staff, it ended up taking me longer to get from Megan's door in the desert to my door in the mountains by plane than if I had driven the entire distance by car.

Which is exactly what I plan to do the next time I visit the desert.

Seriously.

Today's fill in the blank:

My most frustrating travel story was the time _______________.