A good sport

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I believe I've mentioned before that as a mother, I never wanted boys. I'm far too overprotective and far too not interested in sports to have raised a healthy and happy son. I know that, accept that about myself.

Sure, Jim would have helped out, but being much like me and more into sedate activities such as enjoying music and movies and being a spectator of sports more so than a participant, together we likely would have squelched a free-spirited and energy-filled boy.

That said, though, I'm absolutely thrilled to have grandsons. And I'm absolutely delighted that Preston has proved himself to be the ideal dad for high-energy and sports-minded Bubby (as will likely be the case with Mac as he grows, too).

Preston has the time, patience, athletic ability, and inclination for doing the dad-like things a growing boy needs.

Preston chases Bubby around the splash pad, eliciting squeals from Bubby that "the water monster" is after him:

Preston teaches Bubby the correct way to hold the bat and encourages hard hits from the little leftie:

And he regularly gets Bubby out and about for bike rides around the block — with Preston walking running alongside quite a bit of the way:

Of course, bike rides and batting practice must take place late in the evening when you live in the desert heat (hence the dark photos), which means Preston deserves all the more props for doing such things after working all day.

I gotta hand it to him. Preston's exactly the kind of dad Bubby and Mac need.

But he also comes in pretty handy in other ways, ways that I personally appreciate and benefit from.

For starters, he gets points for squashing the scorpion that tried to crash Mac's baptism party:

And — with Megan's fruit-chopping assistance — he whipped up a refreshingly tasty sangria as part of the baptism celebration refreshments:

Yep, Preston's an all-around athletic, scorpion-squishing, sangria-serving, delightful, loved, and appreciated member of our family.

I think we'll keep him.

Today's question:

Fill in the blank: Three ingredients that make up a good dad are ___________, ___________, and ________. (Don't wanna talk dads? Feel free to substitute "sangria" for "dad".)

Repost: Hearts grow on

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In light of the recent arrival of my second grandbaby, Megan's second son, I thought I'd republish this post I wrote nearly a year before Mac was seriously considered. As I watch Megan care for and cuddle her precious Baby Mac (that's him below, cooing), it's clear my advice to her stood firm and that her heart did indeed grow on.

Hearts grow on (originally published August 3, 2009)

After Megan read my post on GRAND magazine, the one featuring a fake cover-model Bubby, we had yet another discussion of how friggin' cute that boy is. Megan had been deeply concerned during her pregnancy that her newborn would be cursed with a freakishly oversized nose since she and Preston have, in her mind, fairly prominant schnozzes. (She's exaggerating; their noses look pretty normal to me.) The many ultrasounds Megan had during the pregnancy -- ultrasounds totally unrelated to the nose worries -- seemed to only confirm her fears. So when Bubby came out marvelously perfect, his perfection became a continual source of amazement for her.

In our most recent discussion, Megan commented on how Baby #2, planned for sometime in the next year or so, has a lot to live up to and better arrive pretty darn wonderful. It goes back to many of our previous discussions regarding her concerns that she just doesn't know how she'll love another child as much as she loves Bubby. How can she, she wonders, when her heart just explodes with the pure love and joy she feels for what has become the love of her life? (Sorry, Preston.)

I remember thinking the same thing when I learned I was pregnant with my second child -- the child who turned out to be Megan. I loved my little Brianna, my #1 baby,  with every fiber of my being and I worried I might be neglectful of Baby #2 because he/she could never live up to the incredible little bundle of joy named Brianna. Didn't happen, though. Megan was just as amazing as Brianna, but in, thankfully, very different ways. I loved them both beyond words.

When Baby #3 made her presence known, I was certain it couldn't possibly happen again. That there's no way in my dysfunctional heart, mind and soul, that I really could be the kind of person who would love and adore yet another little one -- especially a little one guaranteed to throw off the balance of the home and life Jim and I had created. We were a family of two babies and two parents, each parent having two hands so we could manage the girls on our own, when necessary. There were four chairs to our little table that perfectly seated all of us. Our trusty Ford Maverick had just enough room in the back for two car seats. How in the world would I equally love Baby #3 when she was discombobulating the domestic scene we'd thus created?

But three is a charm. Unbelievably, I loved Andrea (my little Andie) as much as I did Megan and Brianna. And I still do. All three of my precious babies continue to be lovely and amazing in ways that are so very different from one another, yet very much the same in my heart. I honestly love each one more than anything else in the world. Seems impossible, but it's true.

So, Megan, you won't love Bubby more than the next baby, or the next one ... or even the next one, if you and Preston happen to be that crazy blessed. Like your mom, you'll just get a bigger table and you'll buy a bigger car. All the while, your heart will become bigger and bigger, making it possible to love each one equally, each for very different reasons.

And you'll quickly learn that, despite all the bunk in romance novels and chick flicks, there's more than just one love of your life. Especially when you're a mom.

Today's question:

One of the more valuable bits of advice from my mother was __________.

Coupon queen

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Coupons are a hot commodity in my world. Sure, I use coupons for products when grocery shopping, but what I'm talking about here are coupons as gifts.

Somewhere along the line of rearing three daughters, creating coupons to be redeemed for good deeds and great times became a recurring gift, either from me to them or from them to me. Of those, I especially remember giving coupons for expensive jeans and athletic shoes that I surely would not pick out for a persnickety and brand-conscious teen daughter without her present to do the picking. I also recall often receiving coupons "good for one foot massage" (a popular one, as I do love me a good foot rub now and then).

As the girls grew older, their coupon gifts to me became more elaborate. Not all that many years ago, I received an entire book of coupons from Brianna, good for everything from dusting to dinner out to a night at the movies to — oh, glorious girl! — her to do the grocery shopping (my most detested chore).

There were so many good offerings, so many great intentions wrapped up in that raffia-bound booklet that I never got around to using them all. It was one of those gifts in which the thought truly was what counted most to me.

This past Mother's Day, Andrea proved that coupons still work their magic on Mom — even as my little girls are no longer little and head ever closer to 30 years of age.

Andrea's gift coupon was not so much an actual coupon this time, but a promise written in the Mother's Day card for a good deed to come. A handmade Mother's Day card. Made of quarter-fold construction paper written on just as my little Andie used to do, and it included a reference to one of the sillier cards she's given me in the past, one that makes me chuckle each time I run across it in the box I've filled with cards given to me throughout the years.

The good deed Andie promised for Mother's Day was a day of helping out in the yard, in preparation for summer. It's a gift I requested — and received — often for Mother's Day when the nest was still full.

Yesterday was the promised day, and what a busy day it was. Andie and I shopped for flowers then together we planted the many begonias and fuchsia in various containers and hangers on the patio. She bagged up piles of pine needles I had raked Saturday. And she helped Jim "plant" a humongous fallen tree...in cement...in our "tree graveyard" in the backyard (a long twisted story, one I'll possibly share another time).

Let's just say I got my coupon's worth. And then some.

The "then some" was that while Jim, Brianna, Andrea and I ate dinner on the patio, Andrea mentioned a coupon she had previously given me, possibly for my birthday last year. One for a pedicure that I had forgotten to redeem. So we made plans for redemption.

Which later got me to thinking: That pedicure coupon was rather old, but so are those remaining in "Mom's Coupon Book" from Brianna. Coupons for making dinner, giving back rubs, and even a few left for her to do the grocery shopping. Yessiree, I do believe it's time to finally cash in on one or two of those.

I must admit that during my time raising three daughters, I did a few things right. Teaching the girls to give coupons as gifts was one of them.

Not teaching them to include an expiration date on the coupon gifts was definitely another.

Today's question:

Question suggestions: Offer up any question, plus your answer, and I might use it in the future (I hated my original question today).

The Saturday Post: Baby Girl edition

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Graduation season is nearly over. We have our last graduation party to attend tomorrow, for several nieces and nephews. With so many kiddos celebrating their commencements, the graduations of my own daughters have been heavy on my mind, as has one particular song.

When Megan and Andrea were away at college — they went to the same university — they joked about the following song being their song to Jim and me. Andrea, who used to make me CDs of new music she thought I'd enjoy, added it to one of the CDs despite my typical aversion to country music. I did end up loving it, mostly because it always made me think — and still does — of my baby girls. (Although I'm no dummy: I know the "playing here at the bar tonight" line had a completely different meaning for Megan and Andie than what the lyrics intended.)

Oh, and in case you're wondering — or in case my baby girls are reading — I'm still waiting on that letter announcing they'll send us money now that they're "so rich that it ain't funny." Just sayin'...

Today's question:

What genre of music do you listen to most often?

The grandma two-step

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When my children were babies, I made all the decisions. Big or small, it was all up to me. And Jim, too, of course.

Soon my girls grew. And tested my choices, my decisions. Their wishes and input were taken into account ... with the understanding that the last word belonged to Mom.

When the teen years hit, so did the realization that the last word doesn't have to belong to Mom. They were older, thought they knew it all and that Mom knew nothing. So they occasionally rebelled, made wrong choices, eventually came back to Mom with unspoken apologies. As long as they came back, that was all that mattered.

Then my little girls become adults. They've long since gone their own way, have their own say.

Decisions are no longer mine. But the girls — fortunately — still share their trials and tribulations, their challenges and changes ... and their choices related to such. Maybe the choices are about day care or tonsil surgery, partner selection, where to live, when to change jobs, how to make the most of the lives they've been given.

As they share, I read between the lines, hear the tone of their voices, the music behind their words that sings — sometimes with joy, sometimes with desperation — "I want your opinion, your advice, your approval."

So we start the dance. Two steps forward, two steps back, one step forward, one step back. I give my opinion, my advice, my approval. They accept it. We rejoice. We dance.

Sometimes it's that easy.

Other times it's not.

In the not-so-easy times, they share, I temper my opinion, my advice. And sometimes I withhold my approval, my support. Because I don't approve, don't want to support. We still dance, only at such times it's often gingerly, occasionally angrily. I want to support them, validate their choices, approve of what they're doing. I want to give them exactly what they seek. Yet experience, age — and yes, sometimes fear — make it impossible for me to do so without reservation.

They don't like that tune. And I can't change it with any degree of sincerity. So we both end the dance feeling hurt, slighted, misunderstood. But we dance around saying those things out loud. Usually.

I'm getting pretty good at figuring out right away which tunes are likely to trip us up, end on a sour note. It's at the outset of those dances that I'd like to say, "I love you with all my heart, my dear, but I think I'll just sit this one out."

But I've not yet figured out how to do that. Because just exactly how does a mother, a grandmother — a lifelong friend, confidante, advisor, protector — sit out the big ones and maintain a clear conscience, a clear heart?

Especially when the possibility looms large that turning down an invitation to dance may result in being invited no more.

Photo: stock.xchng

Today's question:

Do you find yourself more often GIVING advice or SEEKING advice?

This post linked to Grandparent's Say It Saturday.

Open wide and say 'Awww...'

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I had my tonsils removed when I was a youngster. Tonsil removal was a fairly common procedure for kids during the 60s, but it fell out of favor soon after. Seems being a major operation requiring general anesthesia was a little off-putting for some ... and a lot dangerous for others.

When I became a mom, I didn't think much about tonsils. Until Megan, that is. Firstborn Brianna had no breathing difficulties; Megan was another story. By the time Megan reached elementary school, she had sinus issues, adenoid issues, tonsil issues, all so bad that her roommate at the time — Andrea — complained that Megan kept her awake at night because, "she sounds like the iron!" Apparently Megan's breathing sounded eerily similar to steam leaving the iron as clothes were de-wrinkled.

For that reason, along with many other more serious and valid reasons, Megan's adenoids and tonsils were removed. I was nervous about having my little girl put under, but it was necessary if I wanted her to breathe. And I did. And it was successful: Megan could breathe, Andrea no longer had to put up with night-time steam sounds.

Then Andrea started having tonsil issues of her own, primarily tonsillitis on a regular basis. Yet her doctor didn't think she met the criteria for having the tonsils removed, and I didn't push the issue. My paranoia as a mother was moving into high gear, and I'd been reading more and more about the dangers of tonsil removal. Yes, despite the successful surgery on myself and Megan — and literally millions of others between my surgery and hers — I figured the odds would now be against us if I persisted and requested another of my babies undergo the procedure.

To this day, Andrea still gets tonsillitis more often than the average bear. And she growls at me about it more often — and more loudly — than the average bear. Thing is, I'm even more against tonsil removal for her now that she's an adult than I was when she was a child because studies have proven adults have far more life-threatening problems with tonsil removal than children do. I screwed up by not having Andie's tonsils removed, but I figure it's too late now. Scary thing is, as an adult, she can get them out any time she chooses. And it seems she's one bout of tonsillitis away from so choosing.

Those are my tonsil tales as a child and as a mother. Now it seems that as a grandmother, there's a new chapter to add.

Bubby has tonsil issues ... big time. The poor kid, whose not yet three years old, has had more bouts of strep throat than most kids have their entire childhood — five in the last year, four of which have been just since Christmas. He's a strep factory, apparently, or at least a strep carrier, the pediatrician tells Megan. When Bubby's in the throes of a strep infection, my poor grandbaby's tonsils are so swollen you can't see past them to his throat. More importantly, he can't breathe past them. Many nights Megan has put her baby to bed worrying whether he'd be able to breathe through til morning, all because of the insane size of his tonsils.

So she wants them removed. And the pediatrician has referred her to an ENT to discuss the possiblity. And I'm conflicted as cuss about the whole thing. Fortunately, as the grandma, I don't have to be the one making the decision. I've read too many horror stories about tonsil removal, stories I won't share with Megan ... because she does have to make the decision.

Yes, I'm a paranoid mother, which has resulted in me being a paranoid grandmother. But I'm working at keeping my paranoia to myself, mostly by considering an article I wrote several years ago for the parenting publication I was then editor of. It was about the resurgence of tonsil removal and the new — safer! — methods for performing the surgery, with lasers rather than scalpels. One thing that stands out in my mind about the article is that the ENT I interviewed said that not only does tonsil removal help children physically, it helps those suffering tonsil problems with their behavioral issues, too. Little ones who can't sleep and can't breathe well can be a pain in the cuss for those around them because they're so darn crabby. One particularly telling quote came from a mother who told the doctor that when the doctor removed her son's tonsils, he removed the "devil" from her son, too. She exclaimed that it was much like an exorcism.

Bubby certainly doesn't need an exorcism, by any means. But he does need to breathe. So I'm holding my breath awaiting Megan's decision on the procedure. I'm sure she'll make the right choice for Bubby. And I'm sure glad it's her making the choice, not me. Especially considering the wrong choice I made for Andrea all those years ago.

Today's question:

What tales do you have of tonsils?