What I don't know for sure

I don't know for sure that Bubby will always live so far away.I have a confession to make: I read O - The Oprah Magazine. I don't watch her show -- although I did DVR yesterday's episode because the cast of Glee was on it -- but I do enjoy the magazine, for the most part.

Oprah's magazine is jam-packed full of articles on how to make your life prettier, happier, more fulfilling. I don't read those articles. I really just pretty much read the articles on books, especially the regular column titled "Books that made a difference to ...". Each month a celebrity of some sort lists several books that formed her (or his; she does feature men, too) core. It's one of my favorite places to get book recommendations.

Another regular feature in Oprah's magazine is the back page essay titled "What I know for sure." Oprah apparently knows lots of things for sure. She's quite the advice dispenser, and she uses this column to regularly inform her worshippers readers what she most recently figured out she knows for sure.

I'm not as wise and confident (or as rich) as Oprah. I do know that for sure. But there aren't a whole lot of other things I know for sure. So in this here daily rambling, I'm taking a different tact: I'm going to tell you a little of what I don't know for sure.

Let me first say that "What I don't know for sure" is quite different from "What I don't know." The latter is a more definitive statement; it applies to things I absolutely know for sure that I don't know. For example, I don't know how to use a pressure cooker. I know for absolute, positively sure that I don't know how to do it. I'm a grandma and I thought grandmas were supposed to know that, but I don't. I definitely don't. I don't own nor have I ever even attempted to use a pressure cooker. So that falls under the category of "What I don't know."

"What I don't know for sure" has a subtle but important difference -- it basically covers concepts and ideas that I'm not positive about, that I don't absolutely know are or will eventually be true.

Rather than try to explain, I'll just give you my list. That should make it pretty self-explanatory. (Although I don't know that for sure.)

Here goes:

1. I don't know for sure that our most recent snowstorm -- yesterday -- was the last for the season. It should be springtime, the snow should have stopped, I should be able to plant some pansies. But I don't know for sure that we won't get a massive blizzard at the end of April, as has happened in many years past.

2. I don't know for sure that I'm going to succeed as a freelance writer to the extent that I won't need a real job, another dreaded, soul-sucking office job. But not knowing that for sure keeps me on my toes, keeps me busy, keeps me trying my hardest.

3. I don't know for sure that Jim and I won't ever get another animal. Isabel (the cat) still has issues now and then with Lyla (the new dog) and prefers using the human bathroom instead of the cat bathroom/litterbox so she doesn't have to sneak to her box, crossing her paw nubbins the whole way that Lyla won't catch her en route. I'd like to say I'll never, ever, ever get another animal again -- which Jim does say every single time he finds Isabel's mess in his bathroom -- but I don't know for sure that we really won't. Especially after one of our current brood kicks the bucket.

4. I don't know for sure what I'm making for dinner. I do know for sure that I'm fed up with always having to figure out what to make for dinner.

5. I don't know for sure that I'll always be a long-distance grandma. Not knowing that for sure keeps me going. I know for absolute definite sure that I don't want my kids and grandkids all living hundreds and hundreds of miles away from me, as Bubby now does. But Brianna will eventually have kids, and she lives nearby now. Although she could move ... is considering moving the Pacific Northwest. Andie swears she won't have kids and is considering moving to a hot, desert-like climate. But ya never know -- she could have kids AND stay nearby so I could have little grandkids stay the night on a regular basis. And, of course, there's always the chance that Bubby's mom and dad will decide they should live in the mountains, especially once Bubby's little brother or sister comes along and Bubby's mommy realizes how very, very badly Grandma wants the little ones nearby. I don't know for sure that it couldn't happen. I do know for sure that I'm hoping it will.

There is lots more that I don't know for sure, but I got a tad verklempt with that last one, making it a little hard to type. And I do know for sure that I don't want these final sentences riddled with typos as I can't see through the tears, so the list ends here.

Today's question:

What is something you know for sure or something you don't know for sure?

My answer: I know for sure that today I will brush my teeth and shower and that's about the extent of what I know absolutely for sure will happen. The rest is up in the air ... which is a good thing. I'm open to surprises today.

Head for the hills

During a recent phone conversation, Megan mentioned that Bubby had woke up in the middle of the night, crying "Ow! Ow!" Her first thought: He'd been bit by a tarantula.

A tarantula?

Yep, Megan didn't think, as I would have, that Bubby had gotten his foot caught between the rails of the bed or that the pain of a recent round of teething awoke him. No, she thought a tarantula had taken a bite out of her baby.

Seems the day before, Megan had walked into the bathroom just in time to see a baby tarantula scurry across the counter. Being the brave mama she is ... okay, knowing there's no way in hell Preston would have gotten in there in time to kill the darn thing before it disappeared into the woodwork ... Megan squished and squashed it.

Then she worried non-stop that there were more where that one came from.

Turns out that when she raced to Bubby's room to rescue him from the scary spider, Bubby stood in his crib, laughed and held his arms out. He was just kidding ... and pressing Mommy's buttons in hopes of getting up to play at 3 a.m. (I've told you he's a smart kid, haven't I?)

Now, Megan and Preston live in a nice house, in a nice part of town. But it's in the freakin' desert. So these things happen. In the same conversation, Megan mentioned Preston's recent near run-in with a rattlesnake. He and Roxie, the family dog, had been hiking when Roxie noticed something slithering and rattling up ahead. Her warnings to Preston saved the day, and he was fortunate to come away with nothing more than a snake story.

A scary snake story, if you ask me, but it's nothing compared to the scorpion stories Megan shares with me on a pretty regular basis. When she first moved to the desert with Preston, she told me about the common practice of sweeping one's bed with a black light before climbing into it to ensure no scorpions were hiding out in the covers, ready to zap the sleeper in the night. She didn't buy a black light -- which I sure would have appreciated on my first few visits to the newlyweds' new home.

Megan, a teacher, also told me about scorpion incidents on the playground ... and the rising tally of kiddos stung by scorpions as they played.

The kicker, though, came when Megan was pregnant. As is the case with all OB/GYN doctors, Megan's doctor gave her reams of information on health precautions for herself and her baby. But in the pile of papers she was given to read was one precaution I'd never before heard of -- and as a long-time mom and the former editor of a parenting magazine, I've heard a lot of babycare precautions. The tip of which I write, which dropped my jaw upon hearing, was to place the legs of the baby's crib in glass jars, one for each leg of the crib (or bassinette). No, it's not some nifty recycling tip; it's the way to prevent scorpions -- SCORPIONS! -- from climbing into the baby's bed at night and stinging him. Oh, it also mentioned to keep the crib moved out from the wall a bit, as the scorpions climb walls. And to keep blankets from dangling through the rails and touching the floor as the pesky critters like to climb up the blankets, too.

Surprisingly, such advice didn't send Megan packing. I'm continually amazed at the way she has adjusted to such lunacy. She was born and bred in the mountains. We don't have such things in the mountains. Yeah, we do have rattlesnakes, but run-ins with them are few and far between because it's too darn cold for them to be out and about on a regular basis. We also have the Rocky Mountain Spotted Tick ... but I've never heard of anyone -- not even the most active and outdoorsy person I know -- actually succumbing to the dreaded fever the tick supposedly propagates. The worst we have is Brown Recluse spiders, but I'm pretty sure those are everywhere and they require minimal precautions, minimal awareness. No jar under the crib legs or blacklight scans of the bedding to keep one safe.

Although I must be honest here and admit that we did have one critter infestation of biblical proportions last year. Bugs covered everything in parts of the state: fields and flowers, mailboxes, street lamps and (most appealing to the news cameras for some reason) the rows and rows of vehicles at the auto dealerships. But the bugs were, get this, lady bugs ... which made for a rather colorful and whimisical annoyance.

The cry of "head for the hills" from characters in books and movies, characters seeking safety, happens for a reason: It's safe in the hills. And I firmly believe -- and this isn't just the grandma in me talking -- that it's high time for Megan and Preston to grab their baby and head for the hills ... the hills of Colorado ... specifically the hills at the base of Pikes Peak ... the hills where grandma lives.

Again, the hills are safe. We don't have to worry about spiders and snakes and scorpions. And if Bubby lived here, I promise I'd protect him from any of the scary things that might make an uncharacteristic appearance. I'd throw myself in the line of fire of each and every wild critter who might dare to nibble on Bubby's sweet skin.

No matter how old or feeble I may get, I'd make good on that promise. I'd keep my grandbaby safe. I am grandma, hear me roar.

It's a pretty easy promise to keep when the greatest danger we may encounter is a ladybug or two (hundred).

Today's question:

What creepy critter are you most afraid of?

My answer: I'd have to say snakes. I can squish a spider fairly quickly, but snakes don't squish quite as easily.

Snips and snails

I got a text message from Megan the other night. The subject was "SICKO". My first thought was Michael Moore. My second thought was some pervert in the park.

Wrong on both counts. I opened the message and it was a photo of Bubby -- with his finger jammed up his nose and a grin on his face. The text: "Bubby's new fav game."

I should have seen it coming. Despite his proclivity for trying on shoes of any sort -- including Mommy's or any other female's -- I should have known that Bubby was sure to be all boy!

In fact, his penchant for picking was previously documented; I guess I just chose to ignore it. But in the hundreds of shots I took of Bubby's recent visit was evidence of the nose-picker to come:

I'm pretty sure Bubby's doing it just for the exaggerated "Ewwwww!" and "Grosssssss!!" reactions he gets from Mommy (okay ... and from Grandma, too*) when he does it. I'm certain there's no need to worry that I'll have a perpetually nose-picking SICKO for a grandson who will grow up to be some SICKO pervert-in-the-park kind of grandson.

Any Michael Moore connection, on the other hand, has yet to be debunked.

*You can tell by the hand action in the photo above that I really was trying to stop him!

Today's question:

Okay, most Grandma's Briefs readers are females (sugar and spice, etc.) but what's your most male-like attribute or behavior?

My answer: This is something I probably shouldn't admit, but we're all friends here, so here goes: I've got the pretty good makings of a beard coming on in my advanced age ... and pluck regularly to avoid an all-out circus-freak appearance.

Mars and scars

Bubby had an accident a couple days ago: Running out to the car with Mommy, he bit it ... on asphalt ... HOT, desert asphalt.

It was his first big owie to leave a mark. Megan wrote on her blog,* "To my horror there was blood covering his poor, no longer perfect, 21 month old knee."

Bubby was okay but he's now marred, no longer perfect.

Those of you who have been a mom a while know that although this was pretty traumatic for Megan -- and Bubby -- this owie will fade, not only on Bubby's knee, but in memory, too.

But, sorry to say, Megan, there are bigger owies to come, ones that will make Bubby's skinned knee pale (probably even disappear) in comparison. Years from now you won't recall this bloody "mess," as Bubby kept calling it. What you'll recall are the bigger owies, the ones that leave lifelong scars.

I vividly recall the first scarring incident with Brianna. She was 15 months old and running around the living room of our small apartment. (Crazy kid started walking at 9 months!) It was all fun and games, of course, until she got hurt -- falling into the corner of the coffee table, gashing open her face near her eyebrow ... and narrowly missing her eye! Blood, blood, blood! Everywhere! It was my first experience with facial cuts -- which bleed like mad -- and my first experience with a seriously wounded baby. It was pretty horrible. And it's the reason why we did without a coffee table for years and years and years. Even now, as a grandma, my coffee table is ROUND with no corners waiting to gash open little faces.

Megan's first scar came on a little less fast and furious but involved surgery. Like I've said before, Megan was always destined to be a mom. She loved kids younger than her from Day One, especially her younger cousins. She played with them, mothered them and carried them around -- and got a hernia to underscore my rants that she shouldn't be lifting the little ones when she was just a little one herself. I can't remember how old she was ... maybe 6 or so ... but my little Meggie actually had to have surgery to repair a hernia at that young age and still has the scar to prove her early mothering inclinations.

The scars with Brianna and Megan were fairly traumatic for me as a mommy, for them as kiddos. But my poor Andie had, without a doubt, the absolute worst initiation into scarring.

It started off painless enough: Andie had warts. She had warts on her hands, she had warts in a spot just below her bottom lip. They weren't huge warts, but they were getting bigger and the doctor decided my 5-year-old Andie needed them removed -- by burning them off. She'd only feel the pin prick of the shot to numb her, he promised, so we went ahead with it.

The warts on her hands were no big deal; the ones on her face required me and a nurse to hold her down for the shot right into her chin ... which obviously hurt my baby like hell. After a moment or two to let the numbing kick in, the doctor had me stand at the head of the table and firmly hold Andie's head down while he approached her face with the burning hot rod (this was before the harmless lasers). When he touched her face with it she SCREAMED! The numbing stuff hadn't numbed her as promised and my baby could feel the burning. Quickly the doctor announced we were already there and needed to go forward as Andie would never in a million years allow us to attempt such a thing again. So as I held down my little girl, with tears streaming down her face and mine and the nurse doing all she could to hold Andie's mouth closed and stifle the screams so the doctor could do his job, the warts were burned off. And that horrible scene was burned into both my memory and my baby girl's, leaving not only physical scars, but emotional ones, too.

So yeah, Megan, poor Bubby is marred. But at least this time it took only an Elmo Band-Aid to make it all better. Appreciate those little mars; with scars, it's not so easy.

*Megan's blog is called "Oh Schmidt!" and, naturally, features pictures of precious Bubby -- and uses his real name ... which is a little odd since I promised to never use his real name on Grandma's Briefs. Anyway, you're welcome to visit there, if you'd like.

Today's question:

How did you get your first scar and where is it?

My answer: My first scar was on my lip. When I was about 4 years old, I fell on the blade of one of those old-time ice cream makers that had real metal blades to scrape the insides of the can. If I use my tongue to press out my bottom lip, you can still see it. (I don't use my tongue to press out my bottom lip very often as it not only shows my scar, it makes me look like a monkey!)

"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!

Bubby mama

The majority of my posts here on Grandma's Briefs are devoted to Bubby. But today I want to take just a moment to talk about Megan, Bubby's mom, and share a little about the one responsible for creating my cool and kooky grandkid.

Megan always seemed destined to be a mom, but she continually surprises me with the ease at which she manages the job.

Megan's heart is wrapped around Bubby and even in the midst of fits, fights, temper tantrums and time outs -- all part and parcel of the terrible twos -- Bubby never doubts his mama loves him. And because she models unconditional love for him, he never fails to show her he feels the same, even when he's angry ... or crabby ... or tired ... or just plain ol' (nearly) two years old.

Megan allows Bubby space to grow, space to take chances, space to fall down, pick himself up, brush himself off and start all over again.

When he's unable to pick himself up, Megan's there in a flash, hugging and rocking and kissing his owies ... or making him kiss his own owies, which elicits bursts of laughter and the realization that he'll be just fine.

Megan plays, laughs and wonders with Bubby on his level. Yet she never fails to discipline him when it's warranted, praise him when it's genuine, demand kindness and caring, respect and sharing always.

Megan's a wonderful and wacky mother and I'm so very proud of her for embracing and enjoying her role of a lifetime.

Today's question:

What's one great thing you remember your mom doing for you?

My answer: She sewed cheerleading outfits for myself and the other girls on the junior high squad even though she was working full time and pretty much a single mom of seven at the time. I realize now how absolutely crazy my request for her to do the sewing must have made her, but she did it without complaint.

The sweet sounds of unemployment

This week has been a rough one because of the time change. It's made me pretty darn thankful that I don't have a full-time job to get up and ready for first thing each morning.

I've also been thankful for no full-time job this week because if I were working, I couldn't spend full-time hours playing grandma while Bubby and Megan are here. Sure, grandmas everywhere work and manage to get time off for hugging and loving on their grandbabies, but if I had recently found a new job, it's doubtful I'd have been allowed to take four vacation days this early on in my tenure.

So yes, I'm saying that I'm thankful I have no real job, no boss telling me what to do, no office gossip to listen to.

Instead, I've gotten to listen to the sweetest little voice ever. And here are some of my favorite things my little Bubby has said again and again, the things that just melt my heart each time he says them:

• "Kitty mow" (pronounced like "chow" not "meow")
• "Big stair," uttered each time he's confronted with a staircase he has to go either up or down. Yes, they're big stairs and yes, he's actually going up and down them -- holding on to someone's hand, of course -- despite my freakout post about stairs.
• "Big truck"
• "Big keeze," aka a big squeeze/hug
• "Big clock" upon hearing the grandather clock dong
• "Big slide" (Yep, everything's big to Bubby!)
• "Tired baby" when he's worn out
• "Whoa baby" when something's awesome
• "Hi Baby" when greeting his mommy
• "Oh my!"
• "Nonny Bunny" (his name for the bunny from his Great Grandma/Nonny Ann)
• "Oh no!"
• "Okay, okay," to let one and all know he survived a tumble
• And best of all, Bubby says very emphatically, "I ... love ... MOMMY!"

There's much more that Bubby says, and even more that he understands. Which is oh-so cool to grandma, who's trying to capture as much of it as possible on video. And who's very thankful she got to hear each and every word he said while visiting, instead of sitting at a desk and hearing yet another recap from coworkers on what happened on "Biggest Loser!"

Today's question:

Other than music, what is one of your favorite sounds?

My answer: Other than the voices of my loved ones, I love the song of the mourning dove ... and small, tinkly windchimes (not the big ones) as they're softly blown by a gentle breeze ... and the purring of a cat.