Back in my day

I had my youngest baby, Andrea, nearly 26 years ago. Listening to Megan talk about pregnancy, labor, and newborn care, it's clear there have been some important — and some not-so-important — changes in the whole process since back in my day.

Back sleeping: Back in my day, pregnant women generally slept on their back. Or at least I did. Apparently sleeping on one's back during pregnancy is a big no-no. Something about pressure on the spine, circulation problems, hemorrhoids and drops in blood pressure. Plain and simple, it's not good for Mom, it's not good for baby, say the experts.

Ultrasounds: Back in my day, parents-to-be didn't automatically receive baby-in-utero photos to show grandparents, friends, and strangers. Ultrasounds were typically only done in emergency situations, and you didn't get a souvenir photo after the process. Nowadays there are a series of ultrasounds and a series of pictures, starting with those in which the babies are unrecognizable blobs. Megan and Preston announced their first pregnancy to Jim and me with a framed photo of a Bubby blob. And the pregnancy yielding Baby Mac was announced to the family via a text message photo. (Although, the photo being of a blob and all, Jim actually thought it was a B&W photo of Megan's carved Jack-o-Lantern, not our second grandson.)

Sprinkles: Back in my day, new mothers were given a baby shower to honor Mom and outfit baby and nursery. With the first baby, that is. Second babies and second-time moms weren't celebrated in such a fashion. Consensus was that it just seemed wrong to solicit more gifts when Mom should have hand-me-downs from the first. Nowadays, second-time (and third- and more-time) moms still don't usually get repeat showers, but they do get "sprinkled." It's a lighter version of the full baby shower, I'm told, more of a sponge-bath o' love from the closest friends and family.

Strep B: Back in my day, mothers were tested for various things upon learning they were pregnant. I can't remember exactly what those things were (like I said, that was 26 years ago), but I'm pretty sure Strep B wasn't one of them. Apparently the Strep B test is a pretty important one nowadays, one given to every pregnant mom, one whose results may alter the delivery plan. Or it's supposed to. As long as you get to the hospital in time to get some antibiotics pumping intravenously as precautionary protection for the little one. Which, ahem, was supposed to happen with Megan and Mac but didn't because the newfangled procedure next on this list worked far quicker than expected. (Mac fortunately ended up okay and aced the tests that proved it.)

Induction: Back in my day, pitocin was the drug of choice for bringing on labor. I never had to be induced, but it was the go-to method of getting that baby outta there when needed. Apparently drugs aren't the only option anymore, there's also the option to insert a balloon — up "there" — to get things moving. Which just seems weird to me. But it clearly worked for getting Mac here ... again, far quicker than expected.

Swaddling: Back in my day, I learned rather quickly that swaddling a baby could save the day, as well as Mom and Dad's sanity. The technique made millionaires out of entrepreneurial folks who marketed swaddling blankets. Swaddling was in vogue for years and years, even through Bubby's birth and early months. I have pictures galore of the newborn bundle wrapped tight into a precious little Bubby burrito. I won't be doing that with Mac, though, and neither will Megan, as the experts now say swaddling is out and letting the baby's arms flop and fling to help them awaken themselves is in.

Push presents: Back in my day, moms pushed their way through labor and delivery and were rewarded for their hard work with a precious bundle to take home with them, to love and cherish forever. That's not how it works nowadays, at least in some circles. Yes, moms still get the precious bundle and the hope is that they'll love and cherish it forever, but they also get a special gift from Dad for the performance in pushing out the kid. It may be jewelry, a new bag, a fitness membership, but whatever it may be, Dad better have thought long and hard — and opened his wallet wide — to show his appreciation for the pain and pushing Mom endured in the name of growing the family tree.

Some of these changes make sense to me. There's certainly no harm done by not swaddling a baby, especially if it keeps the SIDS fears at bay. But push presents? That one leads me to wonder how many times moms will expect gifts throughout the years to make up for the pains of parenting. Because as those of us with adult children know, in hindsight, the pushing during delivery is by far one of the easier parts of parenting.

Today's question:

If you were to be given a gift for enduring a recent challenge, for what challenge would you like to be rewarded and what would be a fitting gift?

Old enough to be a grandma

I often come across women who eschew being called "Grandma." As they put it, they're "not old enough to be a grandma," the distaste heavy on their lips, on their words as they offer the disclaimer accompanying the label.

Well, I am old enough to be a grandma, and it doesn't bother me one bit. Having accumulated the number of years necessary to have borne children who in turn grow, mature and bear children of their own comes with many perks, many privileges, many insights younger women may not be privy to.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I no longer feel it's necessary to sort out my past for the sake of my future. What's done is done, what will be will be. I'm living my future ... and it's far better than I once expected.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I can delight in my daughters as adults, not just worry about them as children.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I know it can happen to me. Invincibility is an illusion of youth; reality rings harder and louder as you age. Which means I always wear my seat belt, take vitamins, look both ways. And I savor the moments granted by my precautionary measures.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I trust my gut instinct more. I finally realize it's right more often than not.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I more deeply appreciate and more thoroughly understand the importance of "I'm sorry." And "thank you."

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I find contentment more often in the small things, have stopped pining for the big things. For the most part.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I no longer stifle my feelings simply to keep others comfortable.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I find truth — sometimes ugly, sometimes freeing — in discomfort. Mine and that of others.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I forfeit the beauty competition, having accepted that I will never again look like I did at 18 nor will I ever look like a moneyed celebrity. (One of those freeing truths mentioned above.)

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I put more effort into accepting others for who they are, less effort in trying to make them who I want them to be.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I like my siblings more than I used to.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I say "I love you" more often ... without hesitation or embarrassment.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I am a grandma. I'm proud to say so, proud to be so.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I feel thoroughly, thankfully blessed and will gladly take the title — and the years — over the alternative.

Today's question:

Fill in the blanks: Now that I'm old enough to _______, I ___________.

Please step aside, ma'am

My pretty teen daughters — June 2003I recently started reading "29" by Adena Halpern. It's the story of Ellie, who, on her 75th birthday, wished while blowing out the candles on her cake to be 29 years old again — and was magically granted the wish.

I've so far enjoyed the amusing story of the cantankerous grandma made young again and her exploits with her 29-year-old granddaughter and 55-year-old daughter.

Ellie's desire to be young and attractive like her granddaughter reminded me of the pivotal incident that led me to realize I was getting old. Or at least deemed an older woman in the eyes of others and involuntarily required to step back as a female garnering male attention and watch as my daughters moved forward.

Yes, it was one incident, several years ago, during what would have been an otherwise ordinary trip to the grocery store.

Now, let me first say that I would never claim to be ravishing, a head turner, one hot mama, or any one of a million adjectives describing a gorgeous woman. Yet I admit to getting a fair share of looks from males throughout the years, as most females of a certain age do. It was never a big deal, nothing I put much stock in. Until I was no longer that certain age, until I witnessed in one fell swoop the move of male attention from me to my daughters and remain that way going forward.

On the day of which I write, one of my teen daughters and I ran into the grocery store to pick up a few things. As we reached the register, I expected cheerful banter with the cashier, a man in his mid-30s. So I opened my mouth, about to say, "How are you today?" But he looked right past me ... and started up the "Did you find everything you need?" conversation with my daughter. It was as if I wasn't even there, except for a cursory glance my way when it was time to pay.

The cashier, clearly closer to my age than my daughter's, didn't talk to her in any smarmy way that had me pegging him a pedophile and wanting to rush my little girl out of there. No, he was simply interacting with who he apparently considered the most vibrant, most conversational of the two customers before him. My daughter pleasantly rose to the occasion; I stepped aside.

It was the first time I'd experienced such an obvious shift — outside of the times I'd watched boys in their teens and early 20s fumble to impress one daughter or another while conducting business with mother and daughter(s), times that don't count. But from then on, it was the norm when in public together, be it dining out at a restaurant, attending performances, shopping in the mall. No matter which daughter was with me, my daughter was the one males smiled at, struck up conversation with, held a gleam in their eyes for. Eyes that dulled when they turned to me to take my order, my ticket, my money. No matter the male's age, no matter the reason for interaction.

I didn't cry over the matter, harbor ill will or animosity. I honestly was okay with the transition from front and center to a supporting role. My lovely, vivacious daughters were coming into their own, and the attention, well, most of the attention wasn't sexual or predatory in any way. (There are always a few creeps outside the norm, of course.) So I didn't mind stepping aside, didn't mind watching my daughters shine. I just found it interesting. And surprising. I always thought age crept up on you, as is the case with crow's feet, hot flashes, and inability to read past 9 p.m. at night without falling asleep. This, though, was sudden, immediate. And it caught me off guard.

I was — and am — completely and wholeheartedly accepting of my age, of the need to step aside. Funny thing, though: Now, years later, I've started noticing more and more looks coming my way. It's surely — and thankfully — not because I'm some cougar in the making.

No, I'm pretty much chalking up the increased attention to the ever-increasing, ever-impossible-to-conceal collection of age spots unattractively converging across my face. It's understandably difficult to tear one's gaze away from the artful display.

Just one more aspect of aging that has caught me off guard. One more I'll surely, eventually, come to terms with.

Disclosure: I received a copy of "29" by Adena Halpern free from the publisher for participation in the From Left to Write book club, with no obligation and no compensation for this post.

Today's question:

If you could magically be 29 again, would you want to be or not? Why?

Good intentions

Recently discovered in my craft room: projects I intended to do with my daughters but never did.

I plan to hold onto them.

To do with my grandkids.

Really.

Today's question:

What craft project(s) do you intend to do ... but haven't yet done?

The tunes they are a-changing

I'm proud to say my family is musical. We dabble in playing — a guitar and piano here, a recorder and ukelele there — but it's in the listening to music that we really excel. As a whole, our hearts, minds and ears are open to myriad genres, everything from classical to Christian, country to show tunes, hard rock to soft rock and many that aren't really rock at all. We even have our family favorites in the rap genre. (I must admit, though, jazz and easy listening rarely pass notes in our homes, our cars, our iPods.)

Music plays a prodigious and powerful role in our family, which is why I'm happy to see the love of music continue with Bubby. Since he was an itsy-bitsy baby, music moved him. And like the rest of us, he's happy to sample and savor tunes from varied genres, with recent favorites ranging from "Twinkle, Twinkle" to "Baby" by Justin Bieber to "A New Hallelujah" by Michael W. Smith to "We Will Rock You" by Queen.

I'm thrilled Bubby finds such joy in music. Yet I'm saddened that many of my most-cherished memories of experiencing music — and watching my children experience music — are things he and the youngsters of today will never know, thanks to the ever-evolving face of music.

Music rituals kids of today will never experience

• The satisfaction of placing the needle in the exact desired spot on a record.

• Flipping through album, cassette, or CD bins at the music store.

• Staying up late to watch a favorite group on "The Midnight Special."

• Making and receiving the perfect mix tape.

• Waiting for hours to catch the beginning of a favorite video in order to hit "record" on the VCR in time so it can be replayed in full again and again.

• The horror of a record or CD being cracked, a cassette tape being eaten.

• The horror — and sometimes giggles — associated with scratches and subsequent skips in an album.

• Singing along with a record, perfectly including the skip without missing a beat.

• Weighing the arm of the record player with a penny to get past the skips.

• Searching for secret messages and meanings in backmasking.

• The thrill of finding a favorite song on an AM station while traveling by car, seemingly miles from civilization.

• Waiting by the radio with cassette recorder in hand to record a favorite tune when Casey Kasem announces it No. 1 for the week.

• Marveling at the artwork on an album sleeve.

• Holding the album lyrics in hand while singing along.

• Memorizing the order of an album to the point that when hearing one of the songs on its own, you automatically hum the bars to — and expect to hear — the next song on the album.

• American Bandstand.

Today's question:

What fading or long-gone musical rituals do you lament?

I'll just say no

When I was a teen, I succumbed to peer pressure far more often than I should have. I did things that weren't good for me just because "all the cool kids are doing it." Trying to fit in, trying to be like everyone else was the name of the game, just as it surely — unfortunately — is for today's youth.

When I became a mother, there was still a lot of peer pressure, but of a different sort. There was the pressure to outfit my kids in the latest fashions, keep them enrolled in and entertained by the latest and greatest activities. We rarely had the funds to pay for those fashions and fun things, so the need to do as all the cool moms were doing became less important. I couldn't afford to be like them, so I had no choice but to be myself.

As the girls reached the teen years and all the cool moms were (supposedly in some cases, literally in others) letting their kids run around without curfews, attend co-ed slumber parties or throw parties with alcohol purchased by the adults, I no longer had any desire to be like the cool moms for they didn't seem all that cool to me. I was a mean mom, or so I was told ... often. I had strict rules and high expectations for my daughters. The girls, of course, broke those rules ... often. And they fought against my expectations. It didn't change anything, though, because I purposefully made the choice to not be cool, to be myself, to do what I thought was right. For me, for mine. Regardless of pressure, be it from my peers or my kids.

Now that I'm a grandma, I'm faced with a different kind of peer pressure. Well, to be honest, it really has absolutely nothing to do with being a grandma and everything to do with being a grandma online. Yep, as someone who lives a large chunk of her life on the Internet, I'm confronted regularly by those who want me to do as they do, to follow their lead. And once again I'm doing the uncool thing: I'm just saying no.

To what am I saying no? Well, here's the list of things the cool folks, the popular folks do online that I'm resisting. Don't take offense and don't take it personally if you do these things; just take it as forewarning that I don't do these things, that I won't do these things if you ask.

Here goes. I hereby say no to:

• Passing along forwards. Whether they're cute or funny or elicit a warm fuzzy and especially if they're hate-filled or try to convince me I must send it to 10 friends in order to prosper or find true love. Forwards all get the same treatment from me: the delete button.

• Changing my Facebook profile photo to a color befitting a cause or holiday. Mostly just because I'm lazy.

• Posting or joining or following — or whatever the correct term is — a blog meme.

• Adhering to the rules of an award that requires me to list 16 personal things about myself then pressure eight of my favorite bloggers to do the same by honoring them with the same award. Awards are thoughtful ... unless they require work.

• Changing my Facebook status in support of a cause. (I'm starting to see a minor theme to my list, related to my laziness. Maybe?)

• Entering giveaways that require me to visit and comment on the sponsor's page then — optional, but for extra entries — "like" a Facebook page, follow the blogger on Twitter, and tweet and retweet until the sun rises and sets 16 times.

There are other, less frequent actions friends (and some foes) try to pressure me to take, but those above are at the top of my just-say-no list. Like I said before, don't take offense if you do any of them. I don't have a problem with you doing it, I just have a problem with me doing it. So I won't.

The great thing about peer pressure as a grandma is that it's really no pressure at all.

Excepting, of course, the pressure I felt to let you all know in advance of my just-say-no plan. Just in case you asked. Just so when I ignore your request, you won't feel slighted ... or upset ... or like you want to kick me out of the blogosphere.

(Which means, I suppose, that I still have a few minor peer-pressure issues to work out. Even as a grandma.)

Photo: stock.xchng

Today's question:

What kind of peer pressure do you resist now that you wouldn't have resisted at a younger age?

10 things I want(ed) to be when I grow up

Last week I had dinner with one of my favorite people, a dear friend who is very much like me on many things, but oh-so different from me on one very big thing. That big thing being parenting.

It's not that my friend and I have different parenting philosophies, it's that she isn't a parent at all, never wanted to be a parent, a mom. Ever. I, on the other hand, am a mom, have always wanted to be a mom. From the time I was a child, the position of Mom has been at the very top of my list of things I wanted to be when I grew up.

Being a mom wasn't the only thing on my list of things I want to be when I grow up, though. Here are more:

10 things I want(ed) to be when I grow up

A writer. I remember as far back as middle school, dreaming about being a writer. I became a writer, made a decent living for a short period of time as a writer, continue to be a writer.

A disc jockey. In elementary school, I worked on a presentation with a group, and we chose to present our findings on Mary McCleod Bethune radio style, with intermissions featuring snippets of music. The presentation made me realize I loved playing the part of DJ. Every now and then I still get a hankering to host a radio program ... featuring music, not news or blathering bumbleheads.

A cosmetologist. I wanted to be not just a hairstylist, but a cosmetologist. I went to school for it, was on my way to earning my license. Then I got pregnant, the chemicals weren't a good idea for the baby, and "Beauty School Dropout" became my theme song for a while. (Was soon thankful this dream was never realized!)

Interior designer. Again, started classes. Again, got pregnant ... and decided continuing school was too much for a mom with two little ones and an overworked husband.

Backup singer. I'd still like to be this. I don't want to be in the forefront, the glaring spotlight. But providing backing vocals for the star -- and maybe a solo during the bridge now and then -- would sure get my toes tapping, my hands clapping, and heart soaring.

Parenting magazine editor. Ann Pleshette-Murphy, editor of Parent magazine when my girls were little, was my idol. I've accomplished this one. Not to the degree of Ann, only on a regional parenting publication level, but accomplished just the same. 'Twas one of the highlights -- and much-missed positions -- of my writing/editing career.

Librarian. This was at the top of my list for many years, just below writer. Still is some days. Too bad a library science degree is required.

Bookstore owner. Plan B for sharing books, since a degree isn't required to sell them. Cash is required, though, and I never had it. Proof that things happen -- or don't happen -- for a reason, as I'd surely be suffering the plight of today's independent booksellers.

Pie shop owner. I make pretty good pie. I wanted to share it with others. I planned to call it Pie in the Sky. Or Pie Hopes. Again, no money -- and the rise of the cupcake -- brought those hopes to a fizzle. Although, I've been reading lately that pie is the new cupcake. Hmm ...

Restaurant owner. Witnessing hundreds of college classmates of Megan and Andrea, miles from home and craving Mom's cooking, got me seriously considering starting up a Homesick Restaurant featuring daily specials from mothers across the country (credit to Anne Tyler for the name). The girls graduated before I put the plan into action -- fortunately, as the location was seven hours away in a town I never planned to visit again once they were done with college.

Looking at this list, I see that nearly everything on it, attained or not, has contributed to or enhanced my position as Mom. Cosmetology class provided the tools for cutting and styling the hair of three little girls. Interior Design courses helped me in creating the desired ambiance in my home. DJing and backup singing? Well, I love and share music with my kids; always have, always will. The words I write and share -- whether magazine articles, books or blogs -- are often related to parenting in one way or another. Food fancies require no expanation, as that's what moms do: show their love through food.

Bottom line is this: I may not have done all I once dreamed of, but those dreams made a difference in the one that mattered most, the one that became a reality -- being a mom. And who knows? There's still plenty of time to achieve a few of those on my list I still find appealing.

Anyone up for leading a granny band? If you've got the vocal ability and nerves for centerstage, I'd be all over supporting you with a few doowops and handclaps from behind.

Photo credit: stock.xchng

Today's question:

What did you want to be when you grew up?