Now that I'm a grandma: Realization #47

I admit it: I am a prude. I use the word loosely here, not in a sexual sense. I simply mean I've become straight-laced. And I didn't used to be. I've done and said and been all kinds of things in the past that were not very prude and straight-laced at all. Some actually not so far in the past and some still presently going on.

For one, I've always considered myself a pretty rocking grandma. Hard rock is my music of choice more often than not. And I only recently quit going to rock concerts—because of economics, not age.

Plus, while I've never been a cigarette smoker, I sure as heck still enjoy alcohol on a fairly regular basis. I'm talking 7&7s, too, not some girly umbrella drink.

And swearing? I don't say the F-word myself—except when I poke myself in the eye with the mascara wand—but I have no qualms about others saying it. Well, unless, of course, it's mothers saying it in front of children, regardless of their children's age, or people who utter it only when they've downed two or ten too many margaritas, mojitos or Miller Lites. Same goes for GD when anyone says it, regardless of reason.

Yes, I admit that unless I'm around my grandkids, I show little restraint when it comes to spewing bad words, especially those that begin with S, H, D, B, or A. When writing blog posts I typically write <cuss> instead of writing the cuss word I have in mind, but in real life I can be a real potty mouth.

I'm not proud of that potty mouth nor of any other non-grandmotherly things I do. But there was always some twisted sense of pride in being able to say I'm not a prude.

Well, not anymore. Alas, I am indeed a prude.

I lately felt prudeness creeping up on me as I noticed more and more of my friends and family apologizing to me when they uttered certain utterances that typically make grandmas cringe—even if I hadn't cringed, hadn't even noticed the offense. Now, though, I know for a fact that I'm in full-blown prude status. At least when I'm in charge of my grandsons.

I realized I'd officially crossed over to Prudeville when I took Bubby to see The Adventures of TinTin. It's rated PG, so I figured it would be safe to see with my nearly four-year-old grandson. He had no problem with it but within the first five minutes, I did. I had a huge problem with it and actually considered leaving the theater. There were guns and fisticuffs and unsavory behavior from the moment the title sequence flashed across the stage. Guns, I tell you! Shooting! All being deliciously savored by my grandson, who is not allowed to have guns, not allowed to watch violence beyond what takes place in nature, like in, say, The Lion King and Jungle Book.

As Bubby smiled and swayed and reeled from gunfire and leaned over to me to say, "This is a great day and the movie is the best part, Gramma!" I sat there worrying that I was warping the sweet little boy beside me, that the gentle soul who had accompanied me into the theater would transform into the town bully when we walked out. Because of the violence I let him witness on screen.

And the drinking. Of alcohol. Oh my! One of the main characters in the movie was a drunk. A sweet drunk, but a drunk nonetheless.

I think there were actually a few swear words in the film, too. I don't remember for certain, though, as I was just too consumed watching for blood to spurt during the swashbuckling scenes (it didn't) or death to come to one or another of the bad guys who stood in TinTin's way (which it didn't). Or to the drunk, or, heaven forbid, to TinTin himself and his little dog, too. (Again, it didn't. Luckily.)

Bubby loved the movie, talked about it at length on the way home. And he didn't take aim at Baby Mac with imaginary guns or pretend to slice up Mom, Dad, or the dog with a fake sword. And he didn't chug his drink then slam down his glass as if a tankard and tell Mom "Hit me up again!" at dinner. Luckily.

Still, I felt bad, as if I'd tainted my grandchild. Which is ridiculous, I know. It was a PG movie, for heaven's sake. Megan and Preston drink alcohol. They watch violent shows on TV (after Bubby has gone to bed). They use swear words. I'd venture to say they've even let the F-word fly when little pitchers were unknowingly nearby.

It's their taste in music, though, that proved my ultimate saving grace, saved me from being the one who tainted Bubby. It also solidified for me my self-label of prude.

To wit: As Bubby and I drove home from the movie that fateful day, he shouted from the back seat "Turn it up, Gramma" when LMFAO (whom I later learned was the artist) came on the radio. He then proceeded to sing along.

And it was that very moment, as I watched Bubby in the rearview mirror popping about and singing, "Girl, look at that body...I work out!" then "Wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle, yeah!" that I knew I had crossed over. I had become a prude.

Bubby's wiggle dance was truly hilarious as <cuss>, but golly gee, it just seemed so wrong.

That right there, my bristling at a song that clearly made Bubby so happy, was the last straw, the final bit of proof that I've entered Prudeville.

And there's no turning back. Forget the Sexy and I Know It song. The only song this grandma will be doing the wiggle dance to is one a little more tame.

Well, at least in title. My song: I'm Prude and I Know It.

C'mon, fellow grandmas, join in! Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, yeah! Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, yeah! We're prude and we know it.

Maybe?

(One small confession: I'm not that much of a prude because I've actually had a weird affection for the LMFAO song ever since Bubby introduced it to me with his back-seat wiggle dance. Just don't tell anyone. And I won't tell anyone if you click on that link above and listen to it over and over and develop a wiggle song all of your very own.)

The voting continues: If you liked this post—or Grandma's Briefs in general—please vote for Grandma's Briefs in the About.com Favorite Grandparent Blog poll. Vote once per day through March 21. Thank you!

Today's question:

How much of a straight-laced prude are you?

Photo replay: Keep on truckin'

Remember that big orange dump truck Bubby reviewed nearly two years ago? The one he loved to drive really fast around the house?

Well look who gets a turn at it now:

I hope your Sunday's as much fun as a big orange dump truck!

(In the interest of full disclosure—and because Megan will call me out on it in the most embarrassing of manners if I don't admit it first—YES, Baby Mac's shirt is on backwards. And YES, I was babysitting that day and am the one who dressed him. And YES, I thought it was weird the word NIKE would be emblazoned on the back of a baby's shirt, but it seemed logical the buttons would go in the front. That logic got this grandma nowhere but with hundreds of photos of her grandson looking rather silly with his NIKE shirt on backwards. Go ahead...you guys have all the fun you want with that one.)

No filter necessary

While I admit the truth hurts in many a case, unfiltered truths coming from the mouth of a three-and-a-half-year-old do no harm at all. Especially when the pint-sized truth-bearer is Bubby.

Bubby has a lot of toys. More toys than many a kid needs or could possibly ever play with. So when choosing a small gift to send my grandsons for Valentine's Day, I settled on some dinnerware from the Target dollar bin that sported robots on the plates, bowls, and eating utensils for Bubby. I packed them into a gift bag decorated with a robot, and added a box of chocolate/peanut butter candies and a lollipop decorated with a scene from The Adventures of Tin Tin.

I thought it was a pretty darn good gift, considering that Bubby and I—at his urging—did a lot of conversing in robot talk when we were last together, that chocolate and peanut butter are the only food groups he willingly consumes, and that he joyfully expressed his love for the Tin Tin movie when he and I saw it together.

I got a call Valentine's Day evening. Bubby's sweet little voice on the other end immediately announced, "Happy Valentimes Day, Gramma. Thank you for the package."

"Oh, you're welcome, sweetie!" I said. "How did you like it?"

"I really needed a toy," Bubby replied in a serious tone.

"Yeah, but you have lots of toys," I told him. "Now you can think of Gramma every time you eat on your robot dishes."

"Oh," he said, still quite serious. "I really needed a toy."

At that point, Megan took over the phone. "Ah, the truthfulness of a three-year-old," she said.

If it were anyone else responding to my gift in such a way, I might be offended. Not at all with Bubby, though. He probably really did feel like he needed a new toy and Gramma's lack of compliance clearly disappointed. Nothing wrong with him telling it like it is.

Bubby's response to the gift didn't surprise me a bit as he usually does tell it like it is. And sometimes his lack of a filter is just so darn sweet that he's forgiven for those times when it's not.

The purpose of my recent trip to the desert was for me to stay with my grandsons while Megan and Preston attended an out-of-state conference related to Preston's job. Late into the third day of babysitting duty, I sat in the rocker feeding Baby Mac when Bubby, who had been in the nearby playroom, sidled up to the side of the rocker, leaned his head on my arm and said in the most woebegone of voices, "I have a picture of Mommy and Daddy. I just wish it was real. I miss them double."

Oh, sweet sorrow unfiltered.

Bubby's expressions of love and joy are equally unfiltered. Later that same day, Bubby was tickling Baby Mac, causing them both to giggle up a storm. Bubby finished up the tickle session, nonchalantly walked away from his baby brother, and turned to tell me, "I love him bad. And he loves me bad."

When I later relayed both Bubbyisms to Megan, she responded with, "Awww...my little love bunny."

And a love bunny he certainly is. An unfiltered love bunny, that is, for better or worse.

I'm crossing my fingers Bubby remains unfiltered for many more years to come, for I wouldn't want my grandson any other way—even if it means hearing the truth about gifts from Gramma that weren't exactly what the little love bunny had hoped for. Or needed.

Today's question:

Which of your relationships would most benefit from a better filter—on statements made by you or to you?

Give Grandma a sign

My 8-month-old grandson is a genius. Sort of.

With Bubby ahead of him by almost exactly three years, Baby Mac does his darnedest to keep up with his brother, to reach major baby milestones in record time. And he's succeeding, for the most part.

I showed you not long ago that Baby Mac already nearly walks, sort of, and will surely soon be in full-fledged, fully upright, forward motion soon.

Baby Mac already talks, too. Sort of. With baby sign language, at least.

I always thought the baby sign language trend was a heap o' hooey. Until, that is, I saw it in action with Baby Mac.

To bring you up to speed on what I'm babbling about, here are a few basic baby sign language signs:

Megan taught Baby Mac how to sign all done, and he now signs it often—and adamantly. He lets one and all know when he's all done with his food, all done with being held, all done with his nap, all done with staying where he's supposed to be staying in the bathtub, playroom, any room.

Baby Mac has all done down so well, he actually has started saying it. Verbally. Literally. When he feels his sign method isn't getting the desired action, Baby Mac babbles "ah dah, ah dah, AH DAH!" Baby Mac leaves no doubt when he's all done—with anything. Chalk it up to signing.

Megan's working on more with him, too. Not just more phrases, but the actual word "more", mostly in reference to more food of some sort, so Baby Mac can make it clear that his lack of attention to what's on the spoon held in front of his face has nothing to do with satiety and everything to do with wanting to watch anything and everything that's going on around him at all times. He understands "more" but has yet to actually sign it. Considering his level of genius, though, I'm sure that reflects purely on Baby Mac's lack of fine motor skills, not his mental acuity.

There are plenty of other words and phrases, too, that would benefit Baby Mac—and his family—such as hungry, brother, mommy, daddy, change diaper, and I-seriously-need-attention-paid-to-me-and-only-me-right-now-at-this-very-moment. Oh, wait. He has that last one down already and holds back not one bit in expressing it loud and clear, sans hand signals of any sort.

I personally am pushing for Baby Mac to start using the grandma sign. I get to visit my grandsons again in April. When I do, if I'm greeted by Baby Mac with smiles and the sign for "grandma," that is when I'll know for sure that little butterball of a baby boy is a true genius. Or, at the very least, that he adores his grandma.

Which, of course, is more than enough to qualify him as a genius in this grandma's book.

Today's question:

What is your experience with sign language, baby or otherwise?

Savor the moments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Today's fill-in-the-blank:

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

Counting sticks

I didn't mean to lie to you, dear readers, but I did. In this post right here. Today, though, I plan to set the record straight.

You see, in that post about filling my grandma bag for my trip to the desert, I mentioned an activity that used straws and pony beads for a nifty little activity to encourage counting and fine motor skills. I intended to pack those items in my grandma bag but hadn't yet done so. And once I purchased the straws and attempted sliding a few pony beads on them just to see how easy it would be for Bubby, the cussing and straw-scrunching that ensued made it clear the <cussing> beads didn't fit on the <cussing> straws and Gramma would need to make some adjustments to the craft.

So I did. And here's the skinny on the crafty counting sticks Bubby enjoyed making and counting with—and that garnered high praise from Megan, an early childhood educator who thought the idea was quite creative and useful for even a classroom of kiddos.

What you'll need:

10 extra-long pipecleaners (I used 10 as I figured counting to 10 would be reasonable practice for Bubby, who's three and a half. You could go higher, if desired.)

pony beads

1 or 2 index cards cut into squares an inch or so in size and neatly numbered 1 through 10

clear tape

What you'll do:

Fold up about an 1/8-inch on the end of each pipe cleaner and twist around itself so there's no pokey parts to stab little fingers. On one end of each pipe cleaner, tape a numbered square; laying the pipe cleaner across the back of the number and securing with a single strip of tape works just fine.

Your work is done!

Now give your child the pipe cleaners and a bowl of pony beads with instructions to add as many beads as the number on each end.

Bubby thoroughly enjoyed adding beads—picking out "special" ones—then counting them over and over on their sticks, just to be sure it was right. I enjoyed watching his intense concentration as he threaded beads then carefully counted.

Once all pipe cleaners were filled, we pulled off the beads and started all over again. In fact, these photos were from Bubby's second day of playing with the sticks (just after waking, I might add, hence the jammies and adorable bedhead hairstyle).

There! Record set straight: Straws don't work; pipe cleaners do.

Today's question:

Did you—or your children—use an abacus to help master counting?

Photo replay: Last week in a nutshell

Enjoy your Sunday!