The girls and the boys

Jim and I have three daughters. To us, they've always been "the girls."

From this ...

to this ...

... they've always been and always will be "the girls." My girls. Our girls.

Megan lives in a different world. She has "the boys."

 

More and more often, Megan's conversations are sprinkled with references to "the boys" or "my boys."

 

She thrives on the maleness of her little clan. Which I find interesting because Megan was always our girly girl, the one I thought would anxiously await a daughter to dress cute, talk with, shop with.

But no, when she was pregnant, she made it very clear that she wanted a boy. And she got all boy in Bubby.

With that, she now has her boys.

And I can almost hear the sound of her heart expanding with pride each time she says "my boys" over the phone.

Megan and Preston hope to give Bubby a sibling in the next year or two. My question: What if it's a girl? Having raised only one gender, I'm not exactly sure how that works.

Today's question:

What's the makeup of your birth family? All girls or were there boys in the mix? And how did that work?

My answer: I have six siblings. There are five girls and two boys. As kids, it wasn't a gender issue, it was more of the "big kids" versus the "little kids." Poor Jennifer, the middle child, was the "lig," much to her dismay.

Dread overhead

Bubby and his mamaMegan called Tuesday night to ask a few questions about Bubby. And his rash. Another in a long line of ailments that have plagued the little guy since around Halloween. Ailments that can be, for the most part, chalked up to the germapalooza Bubby faces with Mom being a teacher and him being enrolled in daycare -- a double whammy of germ-catching probabilities.

First it was -- or so the pediatrician thought -- asthma, which turned out to be just a bad cold. Then Bubby ended up with H1N1. That cleared up a bit ... until the second coming of the flu threw him for a loop. Then the little pink dots of roseola made an appearance (although the doctors apparently call it something a little more fancy nowadays). Then, after months of the yuck, Bubby finally seemed himself again.

Until last night. When little pink dots appeared again all over Bubby's chest.

"I was just settling into thinking things were back to normal," Megan said. "Then I saw the rash and got this feeling in the pit of my stomach. I thought, 'You've got to be kidding me!' Is this what parenting's like, Mom?"

(Bubby's 19 months old and we're just now having this conversation ... ?)

"Uh, yeah, Megan," I told her. "Welcome to parenting. That dread never goes away."

"That's what that sick feeling is? That's dread?"

"Yep, and it never, ever, ever goes away. You'll be living with it for the rest of your life."

She laughed. And so did I ... just so she wouldn't feel stupid when she realized how serious I was. I proceeded to point out to her all the moments of dread I've had just in the past two weeks, all related to one thing or another I've faced as a parent. Dread, dread, dread. And my kids are grown, hurtling faster than I ever imagined they would toward the 30-years-old mark.

She, on the other hand, has a little one, with more surely to come. And as long as you have a child -- which, once you have one, will be the rest of your life, one hopes -- you have dread overhead. It begins with worries about delivering a healthy baby, getting him past the point of SIDS, feeding him correctly, keeping him safe in the world around him. Then he grows, his world expands and a plethora of dreadful possibilities keep Mom awake at night.

Some moms may think -- moms of youngsters, that is -- the age of 18 is some magical year that means Mom will no longer worry, no longer dread. It's not true. At what age might a mom say to herself, "Okay, my kid's old enough now that I don't have to care what happens to him"? Doesn't happen. In fact, I've found the dread increases as one's power and influence (Mom's power and influence) decreases.

So yes, Megan, that sick feeling in the pit of your stomach -- that dread -- will remain with you for the rest of your life.

That's not to say the dread is overwhelming, though. Parenting comes with a host of stronger, happier emotions, too, welcome feelings that also reside in the pit of your stomach, wrap around your heart, stretch from your toes to your hair follicles, and ooze from every pore.

But that dread is always lurking. Maybe it's a fail-safe measure to ensure Mom deeply appreciates and savors the warm fuzzies, knowing the cold pricklies may bear their burrs unannounced at any time.

As soon as I hung up the phone from scaring the bejeezus out of Megan, I realized that THAT -- dread -- is the difference between parenting and grandparenting. It's the lack of dread. Grandmas don't have to worry, to fear ... to dread ... what will become of her grandchildren. That's Mom's job. Grandma's job description demands loving, spoiling, hugging, rocking, adoring the little one. Nary a mention of dread.

Grandmahood, I've learned, is a dread-free zone -- a zone in which I'm oh-so happy to have arrived!

Today's question:

What are you currently dreading?

My answer: I'm dreading going to small claims court because Renewal By Andersen owes me money. But I'm going to; it's my current "feel the fear and do it anyway" moment. (ugh!)

The cheese on my pizza

var linkwithin_site_id = 103414; When I first learned I'd be a grandma, I knew my new grandbaby would take possession of huge chunks of my heart. 

I also knew the baby would command my reserves of physical energy -- for hugging and rocking and playing and dancing and ... Well, you get the picture.

What I didn't know was how much of my mind the grandbaby would take over, how much of my thought process would be consumed by the little one. But since Bubby's arrival in the summer of 2008, I think about him all the time.

I never expected this. I was never told by other grandmas about the mind-jacking the little munchkins perform. I never read about it in any books of grandmother tips/advice/lore I consulted.

But Bubby is always on my mind. Always.

When I hear a song on the radio, I imagine bopping around with Bubby. When I cook up some sweets or try out a new recipe, I wonder if Bubby would like it. When I'm at the craft store, I seek out crafty things he might want to do. When I'm out and about, I see things I'd like to point out to him: the deer, fox, squirrels, dogs in the neighborhood; the great big truck (he loves trucks!) that just drove by; the loud airplane overhead; the sweet and squishy Valentines Day stuffed animals in the stores.

I think of him all the time.

I'm not crazy. Honest. I do think of other things. I work, I read, I sing, I write, I engage in a few not-so-grandmotherly activities (I'm talking shots and such here, folks -- get your mind out of the gutter). I do have room in my little peabrain for thoughts other than those of Bubby.

But, like I said, Bubby is always on my mind -- just not always top of mind. He's always right there, sometimes just below the surface of more pressing thoughts, waving and saying "Hey Grandma (or Graya)! I'll just be over here, smiling and dancing and playing my harmonica while I wait for you to come out and play."

(Okay, I admit, I do sound a little crazy.)

I've tried to think of an analogy for the way Bubby has taken up residence in my mind. A way to express how he's sometimes the only thing I'm thinking about; other times he just makes whatever else I'm thinking about more interesting ... or at least more manageable. But I suck at analogies -- and metaphors and similes and all those other "writerly" things that a writer should know -- and the only thing I could come up with is cheesy. Literally.

Here's my analogy: Bubby is the cheese on my pizza. Sometimes he's the only thing, the most important thing, the tastiest thing on my mind and in my life. My cheese pizza.

Other times I have a topping or two -- an idea or two, an experience or two ... say, a ham and pineapple sort of life, enhanced by the cheese. I love the ham, I love the pineapple, but it's made even better by the cheese on top of it.

And during the very best of times, I have a meat-lovers supreme pizza with extra onion and green pepper (hold the mushrooms). Lots of flavor, lots of good things going on. Mmmm. mmmm, mmmm. But most important of all, those supreme pizzas demand extra cheese. The topping that tops all others. The special addition that makes it the best pizza ever. Loads of ooey, gooey cheese.

Now that's what I'm talking about!

Yep, silly analogy or not, Bubby -- who makes everything more palatable, more enjoyable, more knock-me-down-filled-to-the-brim-with-love -- is definitely the cheese on my pizza!

Today's question:

What's YOUR favorite kind of pizza?

Fave photo of the week

"Here, bunny, bunny, bunny."

Today's question:

What movie can you not believe everyone didn't love?

My answer: I love After Hours, a 1985 dark (dark) comedy directed by Martin Scorsese, yet everyone I recommend it to just says "meh...". If you've seen it, let me know what you think -- as well as what movie YOU loved that others, surprisingly, didn't.

Gimme an "M"

During my visit with Bubby, he made it quite clear that he'd aced the child development stage related to object permanance: He knows an object exists even though he can't see it.

And when it comes to some of his favorite objects, Bubby dramatically expresses his sadness that his beloved this or that is existing somewhere other than right there by his side. Be it a toy, animal or loved one, Bubby lowers his head, scrunches his eyes ever so slightly and in the saddest of voices says "buh-bye."

For example, when he misses his best buddy, it's "Ro Ro buh-bye."

When the bunny outside his window decides to hippity hop behind the bush, it's "Bunny buh-bye."

After the garbage truck empties the curbside cans and heads on its way, it's "Truck buh-bye."

And when Megan and Preston left for their trip and Bubby was left with Grandma, it was "Mommy buh-bye. Daddy buh-bye."

All said in a sad tone, all sounding like the poor kid has had his heart broken.

Bubby was sleeping when I kissed him goodbye at the airport, so there wasn't true closure at our departure. One minute I was there, then I was gone. Megan told me that once home, Bubby clearly felt my absence and let everyone know, using his typical, sad "buh-bye." Even his daycare provider told Megan that the next day, Bubby moped around and when asked what was bothering him, he let her know in no uncertain terms that he missed his grandma.

So what did Bubby say to Mommy and his babysitter as he lamented my absence? He told them again and again, "Graya buh-bye."

Uh, what?

"Looks like your name is Graya," Megan told me, with what I thought was a more enthusiastic laugh than was called for. She knows I've been waiting to find out what special name Bubby has for me, the grandma moniker that belongs to only me, separating me from all the other women in his life that have the grandma label attached.

Now that he's talking more and more, it looks like Bubby's come up with that name.

And what do I get?

"Graya."

Yes, I hadn't colored my hair before visiting Bubby and my gray roots were pretty evident, but I didn't think a 19-month-old would notice.

Okay, yeah, I know it has nothing to do with my hair and everything to do with Bubby's inability to fully enunciate yet. But I really don't want to be called "Graya." It doesn't have the warm and cozy ring of something like Nonny or G-ma or Grammy. I want something sweet and loving and special.

If nothing else, I want at least an M in his version of the word "Grandma." I'll settle for being called just plain ol' "Grandma" or "Gramma" over "Graya" any day. Either would be sweet and loving and special coming from my Bubby.

Bubby's vocabulary skills still have much room for improvement, so I'm pretty sure he'll get down the "M" in "Grandma." And if that's who I'll be to him for ever and ever going forward, that's okay with me. Because more important than what he calls me, Bubby makes it clear already, at this young age, that he loves me. And when I'm not there, he misses me.

At least as much as he misses the garbage truck after it empties the neighborhood trash cans and toodles on down the road.

What more could a grandma ask for?

Today's question from the "Would You Rather..." board game:

Would you rather age only from the neck up -- OR -- age only from the neck down?

Assuming that "from the neck up" doesn't involve the actual brain and mental functions, I'll say I'd rather age only from the neck up. I'm starting to get a tad arthritic in my knees and am finding I'd much rather have my body work correctly than have a wrinkle-free face and neck.

True colors

Bubby was an absolute angel over the weekend while I babysat him. He played alone fantastically, and just as cheerfully brought toys and books to me so we could play and read together.

He jumped at the opportunity to take baths and brush his teeth, with nary a grumble.

He even happily trotted to his changing table when it was time to change his diaper and gladly nestled into my arms when I told him it was bedtime.

Like I said, he was an absolute angel.

  

Well, there were a few times when little Booger Bubby showed his face:

                    

But such times generally related to frustration with a puzzle piece not fitting in place or a toy working against him in one way or another. Frustration, not brattiness.

Then Mommy and Daddy got home.

And the brattiness arrived along with them.

As soon as Megan and Preston got home, Bubby alternated between the little angel I'd seen for three full days and the little monster Mommy had been afraid might scare Grandma. He whined, cried, gave dirty looks and refused to eat all of his meals.

I've been in the "Mommy" position, with friends, family, school teachers and others telling me how absolutely angelic my girls are, that they're model students and kind little team players who kiss the teacher's butt cheefully help without prompting.

Then we'd get home. And they'd be monsters -- whining, crying, giving dirty looks and refusing to eat their dinner.

And these were the teen years!

Okay, not really. (The teen years were far, far worse ... but those are stories for other days.)

When the girls were young, they were polite, well-behaved and did the right thing around others. It was only with me and Jim that they felt comfortable enough to voice their true opinions, true feelings, true frustrations and upsets. They knew our love was completely unconditional, that they could be as horrible as they wanted to be, and we would still love them. Completely, totally, unconditionally.

That's what Bubby was doing with Megan and Preston. With me, he was an angel; with them, he could be as upset as he wanted to be. (And very likely the upset stemmed from it being the first time they left him for more than a day. He felt the need to punish them just a smidgen for having the audacity to enjoy a little grownup time, I believe.)

I love that Bubby was so sweet and kind, wonderful and well-behaved during my time with him.

But I hope that one day, Bubby will be comfortable enough with me to show his true colors any time they want to bleed through. That he will know that no matter how boogerish he gets with me, I'll still love him -- completely, totally, unconditionally.

Today's question:

If you could call any living person to ask for advice, who would you call?

I would call the very smartest, most qualified doctor at Mayo Clinic -- to get some answers for my hubby.

Lessons from Bubby

During my recent tour of babysitting duty, I taught Bubby a few things, such as how to do a puzzle.

And that peanut butter play dough is an incredible, edible art medium. And the wonders of Baskin Robbins.

In return, Bubby taught me lots of things ... things I probably used to know but have forgotten along the way to grandmahood.

Here are a few of the lessons I learned while babysitting my Bubby:

Garbage trucks are the coolest thing in the whole entire world -- except for bunnies who live outside the bedroom window ... and bubbles.

BFFs come in a variety of shapes,  sizes and colors.

A pile of books beats out a pile of toys any day of the week.

Daily creative expression is good for the soul. As are regular haircuts and impromptu jam sessions.

Several days of rain and being stuck inside the house make the sun's return all the more glorious.

Macaroni and cheese and chocolate pudding are THE very best culinary creations EVER!

And that diversions make saying "goodbye" to loved ones a little bit easier to handle.

This post is my diversion.

Today's question from the "Loaded Questions" board game:

What one thing that you do can you genuinely admit is not that cool?

I recently bought a dorky pair of sweat pants that are designed to look -- from far away -- like a pair of jeans. I would never, ever wear them in public, but they are oh-so comfortable to wear around the house. Jim and Brianna have made it clear how very UNcool my comfy "jeans" are ... but I don't care.