The secret to a successful marriage

Today I'm in the desert visiting Bubby. Yesterday -- the day I wrote this post -- I was preparing to leave for my visit with Bubby and was short on time.

In light of that, and in light of the wedding anniversary Jim and I recently celebrated, I thought I'd share with you one of my more popular articles from the past several years.

I wrote this more than 10 years ago, but it still gets published as a reprint here and there. In fact, you currently can find it HERE and THERE (where it was originally published).

No need to click to other sites, though, as I've posted the whole thing right here on Grandma's Briefs.

Dear friends, I give you:

The secret to a successful marriage: Don’t share (at least not everything)

In order to make our marriage work, my husband and I decided to split up. The bickering and blaming had gotten out of hand and something needed to change. Luckily, our solution didn’t require breaking up the family or maintaining separate domiciles.

No, what saved our marriage was opening separate bank accounts.

Individual Accounts, Individual Bills

My husband and I have very different approaches to managing money. He balances the checkbook – to the penny – on a weekly basis. I prefer rounding figures in my head and am perfectly satisfied if the account is balanced quarterly.

Budgeting and balancing sessions are now virtually non-existent. He maintains his account and I maintain mine. We do have joint access to both accounts in case of an emergency.

Moving away from shared finances required each of us to commit to ownership of specific household expenses. Because my husband makes more money than I do, he pays a larger share of the bills. Paying those specific bills are his responsibility and my bills are my concern.

We decided in advance who would pay for irregular expenses such as Friday night pizza, extracurricular activities for our children and doctor’s office co-payments. Holiday shopping is fairly divided, and emergency situations are handled as they arise.

Extended Separation

Once we realized the positive results of our financial separation, we applied it further. We now hold separate gas and credit cards, too. Again, the accounts are actually joint for practical reasons but we use different cards exclusively.

We never see one another’s statements, so questions regarding particular charges or overspending don’t exist. Honesty about the status of accounts is a given and we’re both conscientious about maintaining an excellent credit rating. Such an arrangement would not work if partners took out any hostilities toward one another through financial means.

Private Places and Spaces

Reflecting on the success of our marriage, I realize that separate finances aren’t the only reason we’re still happily together after so many years. Another reason is that we’ve never shared a bathroom.

We both come from large families with communal bathrooms and agree that flossing and flushing is something that should be done in private. What goes on behind a closed bathroom door should remain a mystery, in our opinions.

Another area in which we prefer separateness is in our e-mail accounts. It may sound trivial but addresses like JillJackHill@connectedhips.com make me crazy. We have separate interests and separate online friends so we have separate e-mail addresses. We don’t worry about what e-mail the other is sending or receiving. It’s not a matter of naiveté; it’s a matter of trust – and our computer being centrally located and accessible to all eyes at any time. Secret e-mails from online lovers are not likely in a household of nosy occupants.

Not for Everyone

Separation in a relationship is not for everyone. Luckily it works for my husband and me. As we move toward our third decade as partners, we realize that our efforts at being separate have made us happier to be together. And on that point we stand firmly, together.

Today's question:

What do you have the most difficult time sharing with others?

My answer: I don't like sharing the driving. I very much prefer driving anywhere we need to go, even on long trips. I'm a control freak and want to control the driving and the driver so it's much better for everyone involved if I'm the one behind the wheel instead of in the passenger seat.

How to survive being a long-distance grandma ... of a baby

Bubby celebrates his second birthday this week, which means I've made it a full two years playing grandma from 819 miles away. At first I didn't think I would make it -- at least not without a maxed-out credit card from hundreds of flights to visit Bubby or hundreds of visits to a therapist to help me deal with the distance.

It was upon learning I'd be a grandma that I fully grasped the definition of the word 'bittersweet.' I was thrilled to have a grandbaby on the way, but it literally hurt my heart to know I'd be only a minor player in the baby's daily life, due to distance. My search for books and websites related to my plight turned up primarily information on how to stay connected to grandchildren of a more advanced age, very little on connecting with a newborn or baby.

So I plodded along, making up my own rules, my own way of coping with the distance between myself and my newborn grandson. Now that time has passed and I'm a seasoned long-distance grandma of a baby -- a baby who has grown into a toddler -- I feel qualified to pass along a few tips on how I survived the less-than-ideal situation, in hopes of helping other grandmas dealt the same bittersweet hand I was two years ago.

Get there often ... with permission. Visit the websites of the airlines that provide service between you and the little one, then sign up for their newsletters highlighting special deals. Take advantage of those deals, visiting as often as your budget -- and the baby's parents -- allow. Never, ever surprise the little family with a visit, though, as there's nothing more unnerving than unexpected guests, even when it's Grandma.

Use that webcam. Most newer computers come with a built-in webcam; learn to use it to Skype on a regular basis. Sure, the baby can't interact much in the first year or so, but you can see live shots of the little one. And slowly but surely that baby will sprout into a toddler and be happy to see Grandma's smiling face on the monitor. It's the next best thing to being there.

The telephone still comes in handy. Mom and Dad are busy raising Junior and won't have as much time to sit in front of the webcam as you'd like. So telephone calls are great for quickly touching base and keeping your voice top of mind for the baby -- as long as Mom or Dad don't mind holding the receiver up to the ear of the oblivious kiddo.

Can't beat Picasa for pictures. Save Mom and Dad some time -- and some long-winded begging from you for photos of the baby -- by encouraging the use of Picasa. If they'll upload photos on a regular basis, you can download them to your computer then print any and all those you want for framing and displaying, all without Mom or Dad having to pay for printing and/or postage. Picasa also makes it possible to display the photos on your computer desktop. I'd be lost without Picasa ... or at least just really sad and lonely for my Bubby.

Send pictures of yourself to be placed in baby's view. As soon as Bubby was born, I got busy creating a photo frame to be placed in his room so he could see it on a regular basis. The words "My Grandma & Grandpa" outline the photo of me and Jim, providing a constant reminder of Grandma and Grandpa, despite the miles between us.

A mommy or daddy blog ups the ante. Some grandparents advise others to get on Facebook with their adult children to make it simple to share photos and news of the grandkids. To me, that's not private enough; I don't like that all the "friends" on either end, some not really friends at all, just mere acquaintances, can see everything shared. Yeah, privacy settings can be set to the max, but it's much more private and personal when Mom or Dad create a blog for sharing the news with real friends and family. Blogger.com is an easy and free place to blog and integrates well with Picasa. Plus, a blog creates a wonderful record of the baby's growth.

Give them space, stay outta their face. The baby is the most important thing in lives of the new mom and dad right now, not pleasing grandma. Despite all the opportunities for making yourself a part of the baby's life, don't make a nuisance of yourself just because you simply can't get enough of that kid. Be happy with what you're given, and don't take offense if it's not as much as you'd like. 

Get busy. As noted above, you don't want to be a thorn in the side of the new parents, and the best way to avoid being one is to get on with your life. Find other things to keep you busy, other things to take your mind off missing your grandchild. Racking up experiences unrelated to grandparenting makes you a much more interesting -- and happy -- person, which goes a long way in making the moments you do have with your grandchild far more enjoyable.

Being a long-distance grandma of a baby is harder on the heart than it looks, but you can survive. I did. There really is no other choice. But take heart that there really is a light at the end of the tunnel, for the older your grandchild gets, the easier it is to stay connected, despite those unforgiving miles in between.

Today's question:

What do you consider the ideal distance for adult children to live from their parents?

My answer: I definitely don't want my kids living next door or even on the same block -- we all need a little space -- but my preference would be for my daughters to live a max of a one-hour drive away. Hey, I can dream!

Jumping for joy

It was thirty-six years ago this month that my parents, six siblings and I arrived in Colorado by station wagon from Minnesota in search of a new life, one that might keep my parents' rocky marriage together. I was a preteen and pretty excited -- and scared -- about the new venture. The house my parents purchased in advance wasn't yet ready, so we stayed a week or so in one of the log cabin motels dotting the highway of the tiny mountain town we'd call home.

Across the highway from our cabin was the motel office, and outside the office was the motel's coin-operated trampoline. The trampoline itself wasn't operated by coin; it was the length of the jumper's turn that was dictated by quarter. For 25 cents, a kid could jump to his or her heart's content ... for about three minutes. Then the timer would ding and the next one up would plop in his or her quarter and jump for joy. Bouncing past the bell would result in jeers from the others in line; when there were no other kids in line, the motel owner or his progeny (not much older than my siblings and me) would come outside and menacingly enforce the rules.

Despite the limited access to quarters for a family with seven kids -- and a fear of the crabby motel owner and his kids -- it was the beginning of my love affair with the "tramp," as the trampoline became affectionately called by those lucky enough to become well acquainted with it. When our time at the cabin was up, we reluctantly bid farewell to the motel tramp ... and rejoiced upon seeing the tramp nestled in the ground in the backyard of our new neighbor.

It took us a while in our new digs to feel comfortable enough with our neighbor -- a family of five that included three awesomely hip teens that made me shrink in their presence -- to knock on their sliding door and ask for permission to jump. It was okay to do so, our new friends living near the tramp house assured us, as long as the resident teens weren't jumping themselves. For several months, my siblings and I encouraged our friends to do the asking, as we were the new kids in town and figured we were less likely to get a "yes" from the tramp owners.

We soon learned that regardless of who initiated the request, permission flowed freely and the neighboring tramp was ours to enjoy for hours on end. My new friend and I bonded as we bounced, competing against one another in seat wars, back wars, games of add-on. We'd acquiesce to the older siblings when they showed up -- including our older sisters who had become best buds as well -- as they were much more fluent in trampe-eze. Even my older sister, just as new to the sport as I was, had quickly become a pro, flying through the air with the greatest of ease, performing front flips, back flips, swan dives and one-and-a-halfs.

I longed to be as good as the older kids. I'd peek out the window and watch the resident teens expertly enjoy their trampoline, then put some of their moves into play when it was my turn. Little by little I mastered the front flip, back flip, swan dive and, finally, after a few terrifying turns, the satisfying slam of my stomach on the mat when I successfully managed the derring-do of a one-and-a-half. Double flips soon followed. Never before had I felt so in command of graceful moves, a graceful body.

In hopes of maintaining neighborly relations, my dad eventually purchased a trampoline for our own yard. No longer would seven rug rats be knocking on the neighbor's sliding door, begging to jump. We were thrilled to have our own tramp, but it wasn't the same. It was new and stiff and didn't bounce as easily and as high as the in-ground beauty next door. But we and our friends jumped ferociously, purposefully in hopes of breaking it in, all the while doing our best to ignore the screaming and crying and fighting we could hear through the windows, evidence that it was Mom and Dad's marriage that had been broken, irreparably.

After the divorce, my dad got custody of the tramp. Custody of the kids was a far less desirable affair for him, so with few kids in residence and even fewer visiting, the tramp was never fully broken in. It was eventually sold, and we kids moved on, grew up, never dared to look back.

Except that the lure of the tramp couldn't be forgotten. Luckily Jim -- who also had frequented the coin-operated trampoline in town, long before I ever knew him -- fondly recalled the joy of jumping as much as I did. So together we purchased a trampoline for our daughters.

The girls and their friends spent many a summer day bouncing away and several summer nights attempting sleepovers on the tramp, usually ending in mid-night scrambles into the house because of scary neighborhood noises or dampness from the dew soaking their sleeping bags.

My daughters had their own versions of bouncing bliss that included front flips, seat wars, add-on and a game I never really understood dubbed the Uncle David Game, concocted during an extended visit from my brother. The girls never mastered the swan dive or the one-and-a-half -- at least not that I ever saw. Not because they weren't capable but because I had become an overprotective mom and although I wanted them to experience the incomparable joy of jumping, I worried endlessly that one poorly executed flip would break their neck resulting in certain death or at least paralysis, so I limited the tricks they were allowed.

I myself wasn't allowed to do much jumping on the new tramp either, not out of fear of a broken neck but out of fear of how my bladder may perform, battered and bruised as it had become by three pregnancies in rapid succession. So I'd jump carefully only now and then, do a few knees, seats, backs, a stomach here and there. Sometimes I'd even engage in a seat war with the girls.

But never again did I do a flip -- front, back or otherwise. Never again have I felt as in command of graceful moves, a graceful body as I did thirty-six summers ago when I very first mastered the tramp.

Today's question:

When have you felt the most graceful?

Wheat, chaff and baby teeth

As I mentioned yesterday, Jim and I spent Saturday with three of Jim's five siblings plus a couple nieces and nephews clearing out the storage shed that held everything from the last apartment Jim's mom lived in, her last home and the place she resided when a stroke unexpectedly ripped her from her life and plopped her down in a hospital bed to wait out her days.

My mother-in-law was always a fastidious housekeeper, a truly tidy grandma. But the unexpectedness of the emergency medical situation meant she never had the chance to tie up her life belongings into beribboned bundles or to even discard such things as drawers full of hair-color conditioner tubes and expired grocery coupons. Which meant her kids had a lot of stuff to go through, a lot of work to do paring her possessions into piles to pass along to her children and grandchildren, honoring her by not pitching it all into the charity bin.

To be honest, it was a relatively quick task as Jim's mom lived a spare and simple life. And, as Granny prided herself on being ever the educator, the task indeed taught me a few lessons about getting my own things and my own life in order so my kids and grandkids have an easier time separating the wheat from the chaff once I'm gone.

Here are a few of those lessons:

Keep a notebook or journal -- placed in a prominent spot -- detailing which possessions you'd like to go to whom. There were thankfully no arguments over my mother-in-law's goods, but we all could only guess what her desire may be ... and I'm pretty sure we missed the mark on at least a few. A will may be the answer, but how many wills go so far as to say which kid gets the red afghan versus the white or the flowered teapot versus the striped?

Always label photos with the names of those in the pictures and the date. As we perused the hundreds of photos, we were at a loss again and again without Granny around to let us know which baby belonged to whom and why one wacky woman wore the getup featuring what appeared appeared to be a bikini-clad sumo wrestler.

Minimize the mementos from your children's early years. Mother's Day gifts made in preschool, unidentifiable art-class and woodshop projects and every scrap of sentimentality have their place, but it's a very limited place. Save only those that really tug at the heart strings, not every crayon-scribbled, glitter-pocked piece of paper.

Speaking of paper, get rid of (most of) it. There's no need to save every single greeting card, every single receipt, every single recipe that one may have intended to try but never did. A paper shredder -- of which we found an unused one in Granny's possession -- comes in handy for such things.

Same goes for toiletry samples and hotel freebies. As Jim and his siblings chuckled about the blue tube after blue tube of the Clairol conditioning cream that comes with the hair color but is far too much for any normal woman to use as directed on the tube, I had to fess up that I have a handful, okay a basketful, of the very same conditioning cream tubes in my own bathroom cabinet. I'll be pitching those ... soon.

Thank you for these lessons and more, Granny. I'll do my best to soon institute them in my life, my home, my piles of stuff. I'll do it in honor of you -- and to nip in the bud the giggles, grins and guffaws sure to come from my daughters if they were to one day discover the Ziploc baggie I have filled with baby teeth individually wrapped in tissues, all deftly pulled from under pillows by this grandma formerly known as the Tooth Fairy.

Today's question:

Which of the "lessons" from above are you most in need of instituting in your life?

Grandma tools of the trade

The other day I bought a few new tops (gotta love JCPenney sales!). When I got home and removed the tags, I took the little packets of extra buttons that came with and added them to my button tin.

That's when it hit me: I really am a grandma. Grandmas have button tins, button jars. Here I am with a button collection all of my very own. Hence, I'm a grandma!

It got me thinking about other grandma tools of the trade, the accoutrements that show a woman has reached grandma status.

As a relative newcomer to the grandparenting game, I've not yet gathered enough of the required goodies to be considered in the Pro-Nana class, but here's what I've got so far, the things that put me firmly on the playing field, striving to move from the Amateur level to Pro:

• Rocking chair -- I have three, actually, plus two gliders and a rocking recliner

• The aforementioned tin o' buttons

• Afghans -- I have too many to count (thanks, Mom!)

• Jelly jars -- a box leftover from my pomegranate jelly adventure

• Super-size stock pot -- ideal for making jelly AND crowd-size pots of chili

• Stock words of wisdom -- My favorites: "The key to patience is finding something to do in the meantime" and "To have a friend you gotta be a friend"

• Grandfather clock

• Bobby pins ... lots of them (forget that I never even use them)

• A cabinet filled with craft options -- colorful paper, paints, crayons, markers, kid-size scissors, various glues, stickers, embroidery thread, fake flowers and floral tape, paper-making supplies, fabric remnants, and lots of pages of ideas torn from magazines yet never executed

• Enough spare sheets to cover each bed three times over.

• Enough dish towels to dry each dish with its very own towel.

• Bi-focals -- I have two pair ... progressive lens, as I claim to be a hip grandma

• Flannel jammies -- although since recently buying them after years without, I think the flannel jammies should wait until well past the hot-flash, perimenopausal phase. Flannel jammies are definitely for grandmas in the Pro-Nana class

• A recipe box filled with yellowed clippings from magazines plus handwritten cards from 30+ years ago when my handwriting was a bit easier to read

Yep, I'm an amateur. And I'm not even sure what additional tools of the trade I should be collecting to progress to the next level. I've always been a bit of an overachiever, so having no set list to which I should aspire can be a bit daunting at times. Any suggestions?

Today's question:

What are some tools or traits you associate with grandmas, something every grandma should have, do or be? Something you, your mom or your grandma possessed?

My answer: My grandma and my mom both have wigs they wear occasionally ... I'm definitely not there yet.

Enunciate the love

Bubby has no problem showing his best bud Ro-Ro how much he loves him!I recently read "Just Let Me Lie Down: Necessary Terms For The Half-Insane Working Mom" by Kristin van Ogtrop, which I received free for participation in the SV Moms Group Book Club. (SV Moms Group is the umbrella group under which I write for the Rocky Mountain Moms Group occasionally.)

Kristin van Ogtrop is the editor of Real Simple magazine, which means she's a high-power working gal. In her book, she has lots to say about balancing work and life issues, or at least coming to terms with the fact that balance is an elusive thing for most working mothers. A lot of what she has to say is interesting, most of it's witty, tiny bits of it left me scratching my head.

One tiny bit that stood out as a head-scratcher for me is a comment van Ogtrop made about saying "I love you." The context is that it's a chapter in which she talks about the strangeness of realizing she may possibly love a coworker. Love as in motherly love, friendly love, not some sordid office romance type of love. First she confesses, "I am not a big 'I love you' person," then a few paragraphs later she says this:

"Many people who rise to leadership positions do so in part because they can control their emotions (see Emotional tourniquet, p. 63). Sometimes I think the only reason I have been hired to run a magazine is because I'm able to remember to keep a box of tissues in my office and I can usually remain dry-eyed while others around me burst into tears. I'm sure there are individuals I work with who pity my children, raised as they are by a woman who appears to have no emotions but the occasional flash of anger. To those colleagues: I assure you, I do tell my children and my husband that I love them. At least every once in a while."

It's those last couple sentences that caught my attention. I'm sure van Ogtrop isn't dead serious about the "every once in a while" part, but it made me consider how often the "I love you"s are thrown around in my family.

I come from a family where "I love you" was rarely said; my dad still says it only in third person ("Your dad loves ya"). I wanted things to be different in the family Jim and I created, and it is. We say "I love you" all the time, possibly so often that it has lost its oomph.

It started off when the girls were little that after bedtime prayers there'd be "Goodnight, I love you." Then, when they left the house it'd be "Have fun. Be safe. I love you!" Now it's the last thing we say at the end of telephone calls: "I love you. Bye!"

Even Bubby -- who, as a typical 22-month-old, still has a relatively limited word reportoire -- has learned the phrase. As we wrapped up our most recent Skyping conversation, he said "Bye!" followed by a mumbled "ahwhuhwhoo." Translation from Megan: "That's his 'I love you.'"

"Ahwhuhwhoo"s notwithstanding, most of our family phone calls are now end with what sounds much like "love-ya-bye!" as we all lead busy lives and rush to get off the phone so we can move along to the other dire matters that fill our days.

And I don't like that. Sure, the sentiment is still there, but this is an instance in which it's not just the thought that counts. It's the saying it like you mean it that counts.

So going forward (gotta love that corporate phrase left over from corporate days) I plan to enunciate, to say it like I mean it. Because I do mean it. More than anything else in my life. I love my girls, my husband, my Bubby.

And my readers.

I love you!

Bye!

Extra special bonus because I love you guys: I received two copies of "Just Let Me Lie Down" by Kristin van Ogtrop to give away. Enter to win one in the Back Room.

Today's question:

In an average day, how many times do you say "I love you"?

My answer: Probably five or six times.

Signs, signs, everywhere signs

My little GeminiRaise your hand if you're worried about the astrological sign under which your grandchild was born. Okay, since not everyone who visits Grandma's Briefs is a grandparent, what about those of you with children ... does your child's astrological sign make any difference to you?

By the lack of hands I see waving in the air, I'll have to assume I'm weird. I'm weird because when Megan was pregnant, I did worry about the sign under which Bubby would be born.

Well, I suppose worry isn't the correct word. I wouldn't put it in the category of my worries about his and Megan's health and welfare during and after the pregnancy. It's more like I was concerned ... and a little bummed ... and a little hopeful that Bubby would arrive a few days late just to bump him into the next sign.

Because, you see, Bubby's a Gemini and -- I apologize if this offends anyone -- I've never gotten along well with Geminis. I'm a Cancer, the sign right next door to Gemini, the one I was hoping Bubby would hold out for.

Long, long ago, for my 16th birthday to be exact, my mom bought me Linda Goodman's "Sun Signs." Like most teen girls, I was quite interested in astrological signs and how well my friends, enemies and potential beaus matched up with the traits ascribed to their signs. Most of the time, Ms. Goodman was correct -- and seemingly continues to be correct -- in her assertions. Jim (Pisces), Brianna (Leo), Megan (Sagittarius) and Andrea (Cancer) fit the descriptions to a T.

And I, a Cancer, completely and totally fit the description: I'm quiet, moody, retreat to my shell when I sense danger, artistic (in writing, nothing else really), fiercely dedicated to hearth and home.

Then there's the Geminis, of which I've met plenty: talkative, active, impulsive, fleeting, and -- the one trait I've seen quite often in the Geminis I know -- someone who lies about anything and everything embellishes their tales, usually for no clear reason at all.

Suffice it to say, I didn't want Bubby to be a Gemini. But he is. So I recently reviewed -- in the very same copy my mom gifted me decades ago -- the traits under Ms. Goodman's title "The Gemini Child" and found a few interesting tidbits. Right off the bat was a mention that parents should seriously consider using one of those animal-like harnesses for their Gemini child because he'll be all over the place in public and difficult to keep safe. Funny thing is that when Megan was planning the recent trip she and Bubby made to visit us in the mountains, she actually mentioned considering getting one, just to be safe. She ended up not getting one, mostly because Bubby's quite timid and stays right by her side no matter where they go. (Bonus point for Bubby as that's a Cancer trait.)

Another trait Ms. Goodman mentions is that Geminis often are ambidextrous. This is interesting because Bubby favors using his left hand for nearly everything, always has. But there's no one else in his immediate family that's left-handed. The closest leftie is Nick, my nephew and Megan's cousin (is that Bubby's second cousin?). Get this: Nick is a Gemini! Like Nick, Bubby uses his right hand occasionally, but chooses the left nine times out of 10.

Another trait of the Gemini child is "there's usually a marked ability to mimic others." This I find amusing because for a while there I worried that Bubby would never speak normal words -- only because he was mimicking the gibberish in which his mom and dad spoke to him. For some unknown reason, Megan and Preston related to their little one by making him grin and giggle in response to their wacky sounds (which usually sounded much like the "ca-CAAH" goofiness from the goofy guy in the movie "Evolution"). Bubby loved those silly sounds ... and mimicked them to no end.

What I found most interesting about the Gemini traits Goodman lists, though, is that other than the two above, Bubby fits very few of them. But when I flip forward a few pages and read about "The Cancer Child," he hits quite a few right on the head: "His emotions are rich, colorful and varied." "They're funny little creatures with droll expressions and eyes that almost talk by themselves." "You may wish you could predict when he's going to get ... that faraway look in his eye as he listens to the curious music every Moon child hears." "He can get mighty weepy when he's ignored or treated harshly."

If you ask me, I think the doctor may have been a little off in the due date he gave Megan because it seems more and more that Bubby was destined to be a Cancer, not a Gemini. Which is great! Maybe he can overcome any of the negative Gemini traits he may have inherited due to an early arrival. (Again, my apologies to any Gemini readers -- it's nothing personal!)

Although, as all mothers and grandmothers know, no matter what he is, no matter what traits he possesses, I will truly love him with all my heart, all my soul, always and forever.

But let me just say right now that if Bubby ever grows up to be a big ol' liar/embellisher, this Cancer Grandma will surely be having some mighty serious words with that Gemini child!

Today's question:

What sign are you and do you fit the description?

This post was linked to Grandparent's Say It Saturday.

"Balk, balk," says the chicken grandma

I admit it: I'm a big ol' chicken. I'm not afraid of bugs or scary movies -- most of the time -- but I quake in my briefs at the prospect of being confronted with new situations, new places, new faces. I'm especially afraid of new situations and new places that include new faces to which I'm supposed to speak and seem intelligent ... or at least not come off like the timid, blithering numbskull I worry about being at such times.

To put it more succinctly, I'm afraid of social situations. I'm afraid of them (and often avoid them) because I don't see myself as someone good at small talk and definitely not as a confident and courageous speaker.

Surprisingly, I've recently learned that some folks -- folks I've known for years -- consider me anything but timid, and more like a capable and confident conversationalist.

Jim and I were invited to a friend's house for dinner Saturday night, a friend who used to be my boss, a friend who has seen me at my worst as I struggled through the teen years with my daughters, and at my best as I wrote some pretty darn good articles for the publications for which he served as editor. I thought the guy knew me fairly well.

But as we slurped our French Onion Soup (a culinary delight made by his wife), the conversation somehow turned to my fear of speaking to strangers -- a certain obstacle for a writer expected to conduct interviews on a regular basis. My friend/former editor stopped mid-slurp, surprised by my admission, and said, "I've never considered you timid. I'm surprised to hear you say that."

Wow! I was more than surprised that he thought I was anything but timid.

He's not alone, apparently. One of my four sisters, the one with whom I've spent the least amount of time throughout our childhood and adulthood but recently partnered with in a writing venture, has expressed again and again in the last six months that she thinks -- despite her previous perception of me as the "quiet one" --  that I'm actually the "mean one" of the sisters, the tough one that takes no bull, the "beeyotch" as she lovingly called me while expressing her confidence that I'd succeed in small claims court because of my beeyotchiness and way with words.

Wow again! Wow! Wow!

Really, guys, I truly am a chicken.

But I'm apparently a chicken who has mastered the cover up, the faking it til making it, the ability to feel the fear and do it anyway with the guarantee that -- as I often told my daughters who were scared of upcoming social situations or confrontations -- no one can see the fear rattling around inside your heart and head and thus have no idea how darn scared and lacking in confidence you may be.

The revelation elicited by the admissions from my friend and my sister has me wondering how Bubby will see me, how he'll view his grandma. As part of my inner circle, will he, like Jim and the girls, see the real grandma, the chicken grandma who's scared of strangers, of her inability to speak eloquently, of her paralyzing paranoia that something bad is bound to happen the moment she steps outside the confines of her home if she's required to open her mouth and speak while out in the real world?

Or will Bubby see me as a kooky and courageous grandma who's willing to scramble around the bouncy house regardless of who may see? Or bang on the piano with him regardless of who may hear? Or read him stories loud and proud with nary a concern about anyone else hearing her rumbling and grumbling and roaring like a monster if that's what the story demands?

I hope that's the grandma Bubby sees. I hope that's the grandma he loves, the grandma who makes him grin ear to ear by saying "screw it" to speaking eloquently (out of his earshot, of course) and simply settles comfortably into just being herself.

Not only do I hope that's the grandma Bubby sees, I hope that's the grandma I truly will be.

I just need to let go of the timid little wrinkled-and-too-old-to-be-so-darn-self-conscious me I see in the mirror, embrace that beeyotchiness others see, and be the grandma I'm meant to be.

So here goes.

Watch out, world!

Today's question:

What are you afraid of?

My answer: In addition to the above, I'm also afraid of revealing too much about myself ... which I think I just did!

Sink, swim or hold on!

Back in the '80s, before the real estate market crash that marked the end of that decade, I worked for a mortgage company. Business was good, and we were rewarded well by the company's owner.

One of the bigger rewards we once received was a day off work ... and on the owner's boat. On a day we should be processing loans, the entire office (it was a small office) would get to don bathing suits and hang out at the reservoir, on a boat, sipping beer in the sunshine.

I didn't want to go. I really did not want to go.

I didn't want to go because despite having been born in Minnesota, the land of 10,000 lakes, I didn't know how to swim. Which would have been okay if it were to be just a slow row around the reservoir, but one of the planned events was a contest of who could survive the longest on the inflatable "bullet" attached to the boat by a rope and pulled around the reservoir at top speeds. An activity in which my participation meant certain drowning. Assurances from the only coworker who knew of my fear telling me again and again "You'll have on a life jacket!" were of no comfort. I still didn't want to go.

But I did, of course. It was a "reward" and I was expected to accept it.

When it came time for the bullet contest, my coworkers took turns hopping on the bullet, whooping and hollering about what fun, what fun! As they straddled the bullet, they gave our boss -- the man behind the wheel and the gas pedal -- the thumbs up and off they went, skidding across the water at top speeds. Another thumbs up meant "faster, faster." Each would go through the same routine, seeing who could go the fastest, who could go the longest. Each would fly off the bullet and into the water when the speed became too much for them to bear.

Then it was my turn. I could barely breathe. Only the coworker with whom I'd shared my fear knew the terror I faced as she helped me onto the deathmobile. I straddled the inflatable, grabbed onto the handles on each side, then gave a weak thumbs up. The boat slowly moved away from the bullet until the rope was taut. I gave another thumbs up, then quickly grabbed the handle again. As the boat gained speed, I began scooting across the water. Another thumbs up then quick hand grab and I went faster. I did it again ... and again ... and again, each time quickly flashing my thumb then returning to the handle. Each time going faster and faster.

As I flew and bounced and soared across the water, I kept my hands gripped around the handles and my eyes fixed on my coworkers as they laughed and smacked each other on the back and gave me a thumbs up in return. Faster and faster I went, holding on tighter and tighter, praying harder and harder that the insane fun would end soon because I was not having any fun.

Finally the boat slowed and they began reeling me in. "What's the deal?" I wondered. Maybe my coworker had told them of my fear and they decided enough was enough.

As the bullet reached the boat, everyone cheered and shouted congratulations to me. I was the winner! I had gone the fastest, the longest ... and never fell off the bullet! Yay, Lisa! They slapped me on the back, helped me off the bullet, handed me a beer. Woo-hoo for me!

My coworkers couldn't believe my cojones, my nerves of steel, my ability to hold on. What they didn't know was that I held on because there was absolutely no way in hell I was going to fall in that water. I didn't know how to swim, I didn't trust the life jacket to save me. And I surely was not willing to die during a workday spent at the reservoir drinking beer and riding bullets when I had three babies at home who needed me for many, many more years to come.

I held on for my life -- and looked like a success to everyone else -- because there was no other option.

Which is exactly what I've been doing all my adult years: I hold on with a steel-plated grip because I have no other option.

In every facet of my life, I've survived, made it through, didn't drown. But it's definitely not because of any special ability, powers or knowledge. In fact, it's precisely because I don't have any special ability, powers or knowledge that I'm surviving from one day to the next. I cling so tightly because there's nothing else I can do. I don't have a Plan B. I don't have a safety net to protect me from failure -- financial, physical or otherwise. And despite taking swimming lessons at the age of 40, I still don't really know how to swim.

But I do have one helluva grip.

And I continue to hold on.

Today's question:

Time to brag: What's one thing you do really well?

My answer: I make excellent chocolate chip cookies!

Becoming Mama

On Sunday morning, Valentine's Day, the phone rang and it was Megan (I love caller ID!). Awww, I thought, she's calling to wish me Happy Valentine's Day.

I pick up the phone and here's what she says: "I'm just calling to let you know that I'm becoming my mother." All said with a slight smile ... and an obvious tinge of disdain.

"Oh, really?" I asked cautiously. Could it be that she's beating the hell out of Bubby with a hanger? Feeding him crushed glass for breakfast? Zipping up his tummy in his sleeper or dislocating his elbow as she put on his clothes? All things I did to the girls, of course, warranting the tinge of disdain in her voice.

(Okay, yeah, I really did do the last two but it was so totally by accident ... and left me horrified at the time, guilt-ridden for years ... and afraid of dressing my children during cold-weather months when the clothing is bulky, tight and zipper laden.)

"I'm making pink heart pancakes for Valentine's Day breakfast," Megan replied.

Oh, THAT horrible kind of thing that I did on a regular basis. It's crystal clear now and I can so understand her disdain and fear of becoming her mother.

Ha, ha, ha. We laughed about it. And we laughed about the ways we're both a little concerned about becoming our mothers.

Which is fairly common, of course. I remember my mom telling me and my sisters, "If I ever become like my mother, you better tell me." It's something I now say to my own girls after doing the spider hands gesture or the "If I Were A Rich Man" jig. (Not that I don't love ya, Mom! But you know how it is ... !)

Nothing new there. We've all read it, heard it, said it countless times before.

The thing that I find interesting about every woman's fear of becoming her mother, though, is that there's also the desire to do everything just like grandma. Books, blogs, newscasts and more mention doing this and that "just like Grandma" or following the sage advice that "Grandma used to always say ...".

Our grandmas are the wise women of the clan; our mothers are those wacky women rife with idiosyncricies that we'd rather die than imitate.

But I'm both. I'm a grandma ... and I'm a mother.

So which is it?

And at what point do our crazy mothers become our venerated sage-meisters, the women we want to cook like, clean like, love like? And not just on a personal level, but on a societal level, as a collective?

I don't get it. And I don't know whether to just bite my tongue and bide my time until I reach the sage-meister stage of life. This part of motherhood vs. grandmahood has me flummoxed.

You go ahead and ponder that and let me know your thoughts. In the meantime, the homemade heart-shaped muffin I was warming in the microwave just dinged and I'm ready to dig in to my leftover Valentine's Day breakfast.*

Today's question:

What's one way you're like your mother? And is that a good thing or a bad thing?

My answer: When I'm in a group of strangers or people I don't know very well, I talk ... way too much. And say stupid things. My mom is a talker, which is fine and good and ensures there are never any uncomfortable silences at any point ... ever. But I'm generally a much more introverted person who appreciates silence a whole lot more than I appreciate babbling just to fill conversational gaps, so I internally kick myself each and every time I do it. Which means, I guess, that, for me, it's a bad thing.

*I didn't really make heart-shaped muffins for Valentine's Day breakfast -- but only because I realized at the last minute that I didn't have any cupcake/muffin liners and the festive suggestion from Grandma Lizzie wouldn't work without liners. There's always next year!