Long live Grandma's hoya

I've never been very good at growing houseplants. Because of that, I felt quite nervous and unduly obligated when the care of an elderly houseplant was informally included in the deal when we bought our current house nearly five years ago.

The sellers told us upon our agreement to buy the house that they were leaving the plant they had inherited when they bought the house, a plant started by the original homeowners when the house was built in 1975. Story was, according to the sellers — who had no information on what the plant was, only a stern warning to not let it die — that the plant bloomed only once a year and "thrived on neglect." I'm pretty good at neglecting plants, yet I still worried about my ability to make it thrive.

Soon after we moved into this house, Jim and I hosted an open house for our previous neighbors so they could see why we left them and the street where we thought we'd live forever. While explaining the plant story to one of the former neighbors, an older German woman who always had interesting stories to tell, informed us the plant was a hoya. She seemed rather excited about it, but not being much of a houseplant person — and definitely not knowing a darn thing about hoyas — I smiled, just happy that we finally knew what the plant was.

Our first couple years living here, the hoya never bloomed. It did stay alive, though, growing like mad. (I apparently neglected it correctly.) The darn thing stretched across our dining room window with tendrils offering nothing more than creepy fingers that reached farther and farther toward the far wall. I eventually had to cut back those wild fingers that had overtaken window and wall. I was fairly certain I had done the poor plant in.

Soon after my over-zealous trimming, the elderly wife of the now-deceased builder and original owner of our home arranged a visit with us. She, sensing her mortality, hoped to see one last time the one-of-a-kind home she (a concentration camp survivor) and her former husband had built after immigrating to the U.S. from Poland. When she visited us, she was escorted by a couple of her adult children and her 20-something granddaughter, all of whom had lived in our house for many years, all of whom had cherished memories of the home their family patriarch had built.

Two of the daughters, both older than I am, exclaimed upon seeing the flower-less but still very much loved (by them, not me) hoya in the dining room. They asked to please take clippings of it, and I, of course, encouraged them to. The granddaughter excitedly clipped a bit of her grandmother's hoya for herself, too.

Then, not long after they visited, the hoya bloomed for us for the very first time. It was just one lone bloom that I noticed one day while sitting in the dining room talking to Jim. We couldn't believe it. The flower was lovely, the scent intoxicating. Within a week, the bloom died.

A year later, the plant bloomed again, this time with a few flowers. Again, they soon died.

This year? Well, that photo above is our hoya right now. This year it has bloomed better than ever, bursting forth with not only incredible flowers, but literally dripping with a luscious scent that fills nearly all three levels of our house, especially come evening. (Look closely at the photo in the lower left of the collage and you'll see the sticky liquid scent oozing from the blooms.)

This plant is amazing. I'm now in love with it. I love its story, its blooms, its scent. I love that the previous owners took clippings of it for their homes, for their granddaughter's home, that it's tendrils have stretched far beyond this house.

On Sunday, when Brianna and Andrea will be here for Mother's Day, I plan to give them cuttings of the happy hoya for their home. Eventually Megan will get a piece of it, too.

The abundant blooms this year lead me to believe the hoya will continue to thrive, that one day I'll be able to share cuttings from it with my grandsons, just as the granddaughter of the original plant owner carefully clipped from Grandma's hoya to cherish in her own home.

I hope that granddaughter's hoya clipping has thrived, that it has bloomed and made her smile as she remembered her grandma, who had passed away less than a year after the visit to our house. Perhaps the cuttings I share with my grandsons from Grandma's hoya will one day do the same.

Long live Grandma's hoya!

Today's question:

What memories do you have of your grandmother(s) and plants?

Picture this: Top 10 reasons why grandmas rule (Infographic)

Infographic courtesy MedicalGuardian.com

Today's question:

Which of the 10 is/was your grandma notorious for? And if you're a grandma, which are you notorious for?

10 reasons to hug your grandchild

Have you hugged a grandchild today?

Renowned family therapist Virginia Satir once said, “We need four hugs a day for survival. We need eight hugs a day for maintenance. We need twelve hugs a day for growth.”

Here are 10 reasons why hugs are so important — and why you should share a few with your grandchild today.

TEN:

Hugging makes a child giggle.

NINE:

Hugs make you giggle, too.

EIGHT:

Hugs alleviate tension, show compassion.

SEVEN:

Hugs are an easy way to say “I love you!” without saying a thing.

SIX:

Hugs strengthen social and familial bonds.

FIVE:

Hugs lower the stress hormone cortisol while increasing the "feel good" chemicals serotonin and dopamine.

FOUR :

Hugs are free and require no special equipment.

THREE:

Hugs increase self-esteem and feelings of acceptance.

TWO:

Hugs are linked to lowering heart disease, according to studies, and it’s never too early to start heart-healthy, preventive measures.

And the NUMBER ONE reason to hug your grandchild:

Because it feels so darn good — to you and your grandchild!

Ultimately, though, do we really need a reason to hug our grandchildren?

I don't think so.

Today's question:

When did you last hug a child?

How to tell grandkids 'I love you' in another language

I tell my grandsons I love you a lot. Returning the sentiment to those who say it to them was one of the first phrases they learned, though it did sound a bit like a foreign language at first, one only family members understood. Phonetic translation of Mac’s first utterance of it: Wuh woo!

Such I love yous in a language foreign to all but family members can become a shared sweetness, carried on through the years. But have you ever said I love you in Finnish? Swahili? Russian? Or even Spanish, for those of you who—like me—have not even the most basic of foreign language skills?

While I love you sounds the very same in some languages—think Malaysian and Maltese—there’s a whole world of ways it can be pronounced in other languages. The great thing is, you don’t need to know another language in order to learn how to say sweet somethings to your grandchildren (and others) in more ways than one, thanks to the Translate application from Google.

In the Google Translate app, simply type in a word or phrase you want to translate to another language, choose the language you’d like to convert it to, and hit enter. You then not only see how it is written, you have the ability (in most languages) to hear it pronounced.

Here are a few examples of I love you in various languages:

Swahili — Nakupenda

Dutch — Ik hou van je

Afrikaans — Ek is lief vir jou

Latin — Te amo

Czech — Miluji tě

Vietnamese — Tôi yêu các bạn

French — Je t'aime

German — Ich liebe dich

Filipino — Mahal kita

Irish — Is breá liom tú

Choose from one of those or perhaps one that’s part of your family heritage. Better yet, visit Google Translate with your grandchild to choose another. The phrase you choose and learn can then be your special love language, at least when it comes to saying I love you.

You also can type in a phrase you typically say to your grandchildren—such as the one I often say to my grandsons to make them giggle: Grandma loves you soooooo much!—and find another language in which to say it. It’s a great way to create a special code word or phrase just for you and your loved ones to share throughout the years.

My special phrase for my two grandsons in Swahili? Grandma anakupenda sana! And I do. Soooooo much!

Happy Valentine's Day! Or as they say in Azerbaijani: MüqəddəsValentin günü!

Today's question:

What special twist do you put on your I love yous, to kids or other loved ones?

The 10 commandments for grandmothers

ONE

Thou shall not put one grandchild above any other grandchild, in favor, gifts, deeds, or attention.

TWO

Thou shall not make for yourself a collection of images taken from the Facebook account, online photo-sharing service, or—heaven forbid—a physical photo album belonging to the parents of the grandchild without asking first.

THREE

Thou shall not take the name of the grandchild’s parents in vain for the manner in which they’re feeding, disciplining, spoiling, raising your grandchild(ren). At least not in front of the children.

FOUR

Remember the Sabbath Day or whatever day may immediately follow a visit with the grandkids. Use it wisely to rest up, for you will surely need to recover from the energy depletion resulting from the constant attention, crafting, joking, cooking, and uncommon physical activity required—and fully enjoyed—while in the presence of a grandson or granddaughter.

FIVE

Honor the father and mother of your grandchildren for in most cases, they really are trying their hardest to do right by the children.

SIX

Thou shall not murder the dietary and bedtime guidelines set forth by the grandchild’s parents. At least not often. And only when chocolate or a request for just one more bedtime story is involved.

SEVEN

Thou shall not commit adult-like expressions that demean the grandchild, no matter how challenging the child may be. Especially at an overdue bedtime—for the child or the grandma. Or during shopping excursions. Or when the little one won’t eat a special something you cooked up just for him or her, snarling and refusing to take even one single nibble because it’s too brown or too red or touching the food next to it.

EIGHT

Thou shall not steal all the time with the grandchild—especially a newborn—from other family members simply because you want to continue loving, touching and squeezing the little one, for others do, too. Volunteer, instead, to change the most stinkily soiled of diapers—something others refuse to do—then take your time doing it. 

NINE

Thou shall not bear false witness against the dog to keep a grandchild from getting in trouble for attempting to dig to China in the front yard or eating the last of the cookies from Mom’s cookie jar.

TEN

Thou shall not covet the time the other grandma has with your grandchildren, even if it’s far more than the time you are allotted. For regarding the moments grandmas and grandchildren share, the quality of the time not the quantity will be most memorably held in the hearts of the grandchildren—and the grandmother.

Today's question:

Which commandment are you most guilty of breaking? (Of the commandments above!)

Long-distance grandparenting: Eight ways it gets easier as grandkids get older

I've been a long-distance grandma from the moment I became a grandma at all. So I have no idea what it's like to have my grandsons nearby. I know only what it's like to have them living more than 800 miles away, to miss them far more often than not.

I do know, though, that it's getting easier to be a long-distance grandma. Partially because I've just accepted that my daughter, son-in-law, and grandsons won't be moving any closer any time soon, if ever. More so, though, it's because my oldest grandson is getting older, and my youngest grandson is not far behind him.

With no more baby grandchildren right now, I do miss the idea of not having a little baby to hold in my arms. Thing is, with the distance between us, it always was more of exactly that—an idea, for the reality was that I was able to hold my grandbabies in my arms so rarely.

Now that my grandsons are getting older, though, my long-distance grandparenting is getting easier, for several reasons.

Older grandkids ... remember you. With the little ones, the first few minutes of contact, whether on the phone, Skype, or in person, are spent saying, "Hey, baby! It's Gramma! Remember Gramma?!" That's no longer required, thankfully. They remember me.

Older grandkids ... pay attention and actually converse with you.On Skype, via FaceTime (if you're fortunate enough to have it), and in person (when you're really fortunate). At least for a few minutes.

Older grandkids ... get it—and appreciate it, look forward to it—when you send them letters, packages, cards, mail of any sort.

Older grandkids ... can and often do send mail back.

Older grandkids ... can say, "Mom I want to talk to Gramma" when you're on the phone with their mother. And when handed the phone, they talk, not just press buttons and unintentionally hang up on you.

Older grandkids ... will eventually have their own phone to call Gramma unassisted by Mom or Dad.

Older grandkids ... also will eventually—sooner than I think, I'm sure—be able to travel unaccompanied for special solo stays at Gramma's. (If, that is, Gramma and Mommy are brave enough to allow such unaccompanied travel.)

Older grandkids ... hug you back. Reciprocal hugs last far longer in one's memory than one-sided hugs. In Gramma's memory and in theirs.

I remember cradling my grandsons in my arms when they were babies, rocking them and snuggling their delicious little heads into my neck as I held their blanket-bundled bodies close to my heart. I delighted in that when I had the honor of being with them, missed it beyond compare when without them.

Those moments of physically holding my baby grandsons close to my heart were too few and too far between. Now that they're older, the physical moments together are still too few and too far between, yet the non-physical methods of holding my big-boy grandsons close to my heart—and me to theirs—are, thankfully, increasing.

Which makes this long-distance grandparenting gig a wee bit easier to bear. It may not be my preferred grandparenting scenario, to be sure, but it works. For me. For us. For now.

Photos of the boys in their plaid shirts are by Alison Baum.

Today's question:

What delights you about the kids you love getting older?

The grandma in a box

This post was named People's Choice in the humor category in the 2013 BlogHer Voices of the Year.

A STORY:

Once upon a time there was a woman.

Who had a husband.

And three daughters.

Plus one house, two cats, two dogs, and an addiction to collecting books and pictures of people she loved.

And she had a writing job that had nothing—yet everything—to do with all of the above that she loved.

She liked rock music, independent films, and playing games with her friends—which was usually paired with a wee bit of drinking, too, whiskey or beer but never, ever umbrella drinks of any sort.

The woman also liked learning new things, especially when it came to computers, cameras, cooking and cantatas.

(She also really liked alliteration, so cantatas worked far better in that sentence than piano.)

The woman loved her mom, her dad, her brothers and sisters. She loved Jesus and America, too—as well as stories and songs that turned her heart inside out.

The woman liked the things most women do. No matter what their age.

Eventually the woman’s daughters grew up and flew away. One got married and had two sons.

Which made the woman a grandma. Yet another thing she loved.

So the woman added to her writing job, writing about those grandsons. Writing about them online—along with lots of other things she'd write about—on a blog.

Which was confusing to some.

It wasn't the writing on the blog that confused some, it was the being a grandma. Grandmas are old and know nothing about being online. Or anything interesting at all, for that matter. Grandmas rock in rocking chairs, they hug and kiss their grandkids, they pull up their gray hair into buns. Maybe they crochet. But that's pretty much it.

At least that's what it seemed some non-grandma bloggers thought of grandma bloggers. They’re only grandmas. They’re old. They’re boring. And they’re invisible if there's the G-word in their name, the G-word in their game.

Once a grandma,only a grandma, they thought.

Some unenlightened brands, bloggy networks, and PR folks seemed to think the same thing, too.

If they even thought of grandmas at all.

Other grandmas understood. Other grandma bloggers really understood—even those who didn’t write specifically about their grandchildren, about being a grandma.

The other grandmas understood because all of the grandmas, online and off, were put in the very same box. Were trying to get out of the same box. Together were saying, HEY, you meanies who squished us up into this uncomfortable GRANDMA box: We want out! We love our grandkids way beyond words, but they’re not all we love. Can’t you see we are so much more than grandmas? Can’t you see we are all that we were before? Can't you see that we are now all that AND a bag of potato chips, er, grandmas!

But the non-grandmas didn’t see any of that. They didn't see the woman and her fellow grandmas pounding on the box. All they saw was the word GRANDMA. And the box.

If they saw anything at all.

Every once in a while, someone did see something at all. Mostly it was just the word GRANDMA, though, and they thought the boxed-up grandmas would be happy as clams to talk about canes and assisted living centers and denture cream and gadgets that help them when they’ve fallen and can’t get up.

Those non-grandmas didn’t realize grandmas can and do get up. On their own. And they get down, too. That they're still vibrant and relevant. That they still love music. Still have jobs that have nothing to do with being a grandma, yet love the job of being a grandma, too. They still have spouses and daughters and sons and parents and brothers and sisters and animals and friends and interests.

And that they do all the very same things they did before they became grandmas.

They even—gasp!—still have S-E-X.

And they still talk about and write about things that matter, with people and for people who matter.

So that woman who was now a grandma but still had a husband and three daughters and still really loved all sorts of things non-grandmas think grandmas shouldn't or couldn't like decided to write about being stuck in the GRANDMA box.

In hopes others might see her and her grandma friends in there and let them out.

Or…perhaps they might do nothing at all.

But at least that grandma who loves, loves, loves being a grandma yet is so much more than a grandma would have her say.

Then she ended her plea for release from the GRANDMA box with an oh-so cute photo of her grandsons. Simply because she could.

And to further confuse those non-grandmas who Just. Don't. Get. It. 

THE END

Today's question:

Anyone second that emotion?

How the news I'd be a grandma broke my heart

I’m continually enthralled by the videos on Facebook and YouTube of moms and dads getting the news from their adult children they will soon be grandparents. They’re always thrilled beyond words, often whooping and hollering for lack of any other way of expressing their joy.

For me, the experience was different. In fact, my heart unexpectedly broke into a thousand pieces when my daughter and son-in-law announced they were pregnant, that I would soon become a grandmother.

Megan and Preston chose to share the good news during a Thanksgiving visit. On their first night in town for the holiday, as our family gathered at a local restaurant, my daughter handed my husband a small, wrapped gift then handed a similar one to me.

“How sweet,” I thought, figuring they’d given us new pictures to hang in the house we’d just moved into a week before.

It was pictures, all right—ultrasound pictures in photo frames personalized for each: “Grandpa’s pride and joy” for my husband; “Grandma’s pride and joy” for me.

The unexpected gift threw me off for a minute, then it sunk in. And I began to cry, right there, in public, with dozens of restaurant patrons watching the scene as my husband and I passed our photo frames to our two other daughters as an explanation for the tears, whoops, hollers, and hugs.

Preston and BubbyI was overjoyed. And heartbroken. At the same time. Two feelings I never knew could co-exist—just the first of many “firsts” in my transition from mother to grandmother.

I was overjoyed for obvious reasons. I’M A GRANDMA! I wanted to shout to the room. The heartbreak, though? My heart was broken in a million pieces amidst the joy because nowhere was there mention that my daughter and son-in-law, who lived 819 miles away, would be relocating to be near me—Grandma.

Throughout the holiday weekend, the news was shared with extended family, always with a bittersweet tinge to my tune of happy tidings. Yes! Hallelujah! I was to be a grandma! But how very, very sad that I’d be a long-distance grandma.

I couldn’t be the only long-distance grandma, I consoled myself again and again that holiday weekend and beyond. But how do they survive? How can they function with huge chunks of their hearts living miles upon miles away?

MacI imagined my daughter, upon giving birth, would change her mind and want to move closer to Mom, to Grandma. I figured she’d convince her husband relocation was required and that idea tided me over for the many months of heartache and worry and yearning.

Then came the birth of my grandson. Labor wasn’t scheduled—though I now understand the advantages of doing so…for Grandma’s sake, of course—so booking a flight that would perfectly coincide with the big day was a gamble. A gamble I lost. My daughter and son-in-law managed to get through the delivery of my sweet grandson, though, and I arrived a week later.

The thrill upon meeting my grandson gives me goose bumps and throat lumps to this day. I cried the moment I saw him and took him in my arms. For a week, his little bundle of a body took turns being passed from Mommy to me. Every once in a while we’d share with others—reluctantly, for sure.

Then came time for me to return home. My husband and I headed to the airport with tear-filled eyes and empty arms. Oh, how the longing overtook my being. I didn’t recall ever feeling so lonesome for someone I’d known for such a short time. For someone I’d known ever, for I’d never before had to be apart from those I love the very most.

The word lonesome didn’t come even close to capturing the desolation I felt for weeks after. I thought again and again that there must be something wrong with other long-distance grandmas because they seemed so normal, so functioning, so accepting of the situation.

Megan and MacI railed against the distance far more than my daughter wanted to hear. She and her husband made their home far away, that was where they would stay, and I would just have to deal. Her words, her sentiments. My challenge.

I accepted the challenge as well as possible, with my mouth shut and my feelings to myself as much as I could bear. My daughter and I agreed to visiting, at a minimum, every other month. Either she and the baby would fly to the mountains, or I would fly to the desert. I was fortunate, I told myself; it’s better than some long-distance grandmas get.

After each visit, each extended period of hugging, touching, squeezing, and loving on my grandson, my arms would physically ache to hold him again. At such times I understood the phantom pains of amputees who had lost important, essential parts of their being.

I couldn’t imagine years of such yearning and hoped my daughter and son-in-law would eventually realize what was best for their son—meaning a grandma who lived locally. I was selfish in wanting that, expecting that, justifying my selfishness by pretending my grandson wanted me as much as I wanted him.

I was crazy. I now know that. Crazy in love—an unrequited love—with my grandson. I needed to get a grip.

Slowly I did.

Little by little the distance became easier. Okay, the distance didn’t become any easier, but my acceptance of the circumstances made the distance easier to bear. I stopped focusing on the times we spent apart and looked forward to the times we’d have together. I learned to keep a strong connection with my grandson—and now my second grandson, brother to the first, too—by whatever means I can find: telephone, Internet, postal service.

And I give thanks for the good fortune of being able to visit with my grandsons often, at either my place or theirs.

When you have no other choice, you do your best with what you've been given. Doing your best heals your broken heart.

Today's question:

How did you get the news you'd be a grandparent? If not a grandparent, how did you share the news with your parents?

15 mommy things grandmas may have forgotten

Until the past week, I'd forgotten all of this:

1. How often drinks spill.

2. If you think you have 20 minutes before the kids wake up, take the shower right then—without dawdling—for you really only have 10.

3. Ponytails are a mom's best friend.

4. Dishes and dusting CAN wait...and usually do. Along with answering email, reading, and going to the bathroom when you have to.

5. The shape a sandwich is cut into and whether the crusts are left on or not really do make or break lunch time.

6. You WILL need to nap when they do. Sometimes even when they don't.

7. Two in the tub is NOT double the fun, it's double the stress...and double the screaming when soap gets in eyes, double the resisting when it's time to get out.

8. Poopy diapers inevitably happen the instant bath time is over and the kid's dried, lotioned up, diapered and pajama-ed. (But don't complain—it's better than those horrendous times it happens before bath time is over.)

9. Go-to distractors for a little one determined to do a variety of dangerous deeds: "Look," "What's that?" and "Where's your toy (or nose or the dog or—in dire situations—Mommy)?"

10. Telling a kid "No" only means he or she will say "Yes" to trying to do it again...and again...and again. (I should have remembered that one from my daughters' teen years.)

11. Kids don't care how good—or bad—you sing.

12. They also don't care if you wear makeup. (Good news, considering No. 4).

13. Dinnertime through bedtime is the most challenging part of the day.

14. Heart-stopping screams are rarely indicators of death and destruction; more often, they're a barometer of delight.

15. Everything's better with ketchup on it. Or ranch dressing. Or syrup. But not mustard—ever.

Today's question:

What else would you add to the list?