Photo replay: The child that was

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"For in every adult there dwells the child that was, and in every child there lies the adult that will be." ~John Connolly

 

My youngest and my oldest on Thanksgiving Day. With every visit it gets harder to see the adorable child each once was in the lovely women they've become.

Today's question:

In which of your children is it most difficult to see the child that once was?

To my 20-year-old self

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I'm fortunate to be part of a Facebook group of midlife women bloggers, called GenFab (Generation Fabulous). This week we have our first blog hop, posting on "What would you tell your 20-year-old self?" Here is my response, followed by links to the moving posts from my GenFab friends.

Dear 20-year-old Lisa,

You became a mom when still just a child yourself. As you suspect, the age at which you have your three precious daughters (yep, that babe in your belly right now is a girl, too) will affect everything you do and are throughout your life.

That can be a good thing, though—if you allow it.

In hopes you will indeed allow it, I have some advice for you. Despite you being stubborn in ways many have yet to realize, I do hope you'll take my advice to heart, act on it.

My advice is this:

Stop being so scared. You're scared about what's to come, what people think of you, what your girls—hell, what you—will grow up to do and be. You're scared of the other, older moms who seem to know and have and be so much more than you. You're scared of not knowing enough, not having enough, not being enough.

Well knock it off! There's no reason to be scared. Well, there is reason sometimes. But there will soon be an advertising tagline that says, Feel the fear and do it anyway. Do exactly that—always, in all ways.

Question authority. That principal who tells you it's okay to send your barely five-year-old daughter to kindergarten? Question that. That doctor who tells you tubes in a child's ears are a thing of the past? Question that. That same doctor, who tells you your daughter has an infection when it turns out to be a <cuss> hernia? Question that. When you're assured a negative amortization loan is okay, question it. And when an editor rejects your work, question that—then send it to other editors and never. ever. give. up.

Don't take the job. A few years from now, you'll be offered a job by someone you consider worldly and wise. Don't take it. The damage to your self-esteem, marriage and more because of "friends" you make there is so not worth it. Trust me. Yes, your household desperately needs the money, but Just say NO! (another slogan that will soon be a pop culture hit).

Brace yourself. I know you, I know you'll ignore the advice above. So brace yourself. The stress caused by the consequences of that bad choice will wreak havoc on your health in ways that will affect you each and every day for the rest of your life. Seriously. But know this: It's not as bad as doctors first tell you. You will walk again. You will see again. In fact, your neurologist will one day tell you you're a miracle. Trust that doctor. And trust that you will be okay.

Brace yourself, part two. Those little girls you hold in your arms today and the tiny one in your womb? Well, they're going to hate you. They will love you at first, of course. But when they're teens, they will hate you. Or at least think they hate you and make you think they really do. Because you'll be a mean mom and won't allow them to do much of what their friends do. Yet you won't be able to stop the typical teen stuff your girls manage to do anyway. And your disapproval, restrictions, and determination that they respect themselves and their parents—and that they just plain stay alive through the trauma-filled teen years!—will have them screaming, crying, resisting, and swearing they hate you because you are such a mean mom.

Be mean anyway. Regardless of their freakouts and your heartbreak and self doubt, be mean. It's what those girls—what many children—need. One day they will thank you, I swear. In fact, one night 28 years from now, that tiny bundle in your belly, the baby whom you've not yet met, will send you a text (something you'll learn to do decades from now) that says this:

Your baby girl's text—along with similar gratitude from her older sisters, once grown—confirm being mean was one of the most right things you'll do.

Have no doubt, the years ahead will definitely suck at times. But those sucky times will make you stronger, smarter, bring into breathtaking focus the brilliance of the many non-sucky times. Ultimately, you, your marriage (which does last, by the way, despite the challenges, stats, and naysayers), your babies, your eventual grandbabies, your life will turn out far better than you ever imagined.

Even if you don't listen to my advice.

Which I know you won't. Because you've always been far more stubborn than most people realize.

I love you anyway.

~ Your far older and a wee bit wiser self

Today's question:

What would you tell your 20-year-old self?

Please enjoy the heartfelt posts from my GenFab friends. Warning: Tissue alert for most!

5 things I've learned this week

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While visiting my grandsons this past week, I've learned a thing or two. Or five.

1. The desert climate isn't unbearable all the time. In fact, I've rather enjoyed the weather this past week, as the highs were in the low 80s or below. I was out walking in the sunshine with my grandsons while everyone back home—including Mickey and Lyla, my dogs and usual walking companions—braved freezing temps and snow flurries.

2. I'm an old lady. At least in the eyes of my oldest grandson. I first thought Bubby's comments on my age were random silliness. As they added up, though, there was no denying he considers me an old woman. Examples:

  • As I mentioned a few days ago on Facebook, regarding a conversation about Halloween costumes — Bubby: What are you gonna be for Halloween, Gramma? Gramma (not planning on dressing up and having to think quickly of SOMEthing): I'm gonna be an old lady. Bubby: So like you already are?
  • When he and I headed to the grocery store in Megan's car last night, he let me know as we backed out of the garage, "This is a fast car, Gramma—even when old ladies are driving."
  • During a discussion of Reese's candy bars, he decided I pronounce it funny. "That's okay," he consoled me. "That's how old women say it."

3. Those grocery carts with an attached play car at the front are a pain to drive. Bubby wanted to ride in the car as we shopped. When I first said no, he answered with, "I understand." Which naturally made me give in. It was my first time driving one, as my daughters never rode in those. In fact, I don't think those were around when my girls were little. They're a true pain in the <cuss> to steer because they're so long. Yes, I had a few fender-benders. But Bubby enjoyed the bumper car action without complaint. I'm not positive I can say the same about the other shoppers.

4. I'm no longer a light sleeper. I was once a light sleeper, awaking at the slightest sound as I kept an ear out for my daughters—for safety's sake when they were little, to bust them on being out past curfew when older. Not anymore. Mac has had trouble sleeping of late, screaming off and on throughout the night in the room right next to where I'm sleeping, yet I learned of his restless times only when Megan or Preston mentioned it each morning.

5. Even old ladies (see No. 2 above) get nervous about meeting new friends. I'm meeting my bloggy friend Connie from Family Home and Life for the first time in real life this morning. That said, I'm also looking forward to it as I learned a long time ago—not this week—that old ladies still like making and meeting new friends, too, despite the nerves.

Today's question:

What have you learned this week?

The grandma in a box

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This post was named People's Choice in the humor category in the 2013 BlogHer Voices of the Year.

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Grandma in a box.jpg

A STORY:

Once upon a time there was a woman.

Who had a husband.

And three daughters.

Plus one house, two cats, two dogs, and an addiction to collecting books and pictures of people she loved.

And she had a writing job that had nothing—yet everything—to do with all of the above that she loved.

She liked rock music, independent films, and playing games with her friends—which was usually paired with a wee bit of drinking, too, whiskey or beer but never, ever umbrella drinks of any sort.

The woman also liked learning new things, especially when it came to computers, cameras, cooking and cantatas.

(She also really liked alliteration, so cantatas worked far better in that sentence than piano.)

The woman loved her mom, her dad, her brothers and sisters. She loved Jesus and America, too—as well as stories and songs that turned her heart inside out.

The woman liked the things most women do. No matter what their age.

Eventually the woman’s daughters grew up and flew away. One got married and had two sons.

Which made the woman a grandma. Yet another thing she loved.

So the woman added to her writing job, writing about those grandsons. Writing about them online—along with lots of other things she'd write about—on a blog.

Which was confusing to some.

It wasn't the writing on the blog that confused some, it was the being a grandma. Grandmas are old and know nothing about being online. Or anything interesting at all, for that matter. Grandmas rock in rocking chairs, they hug and kiss their grandkids, they pull up their gray hair into buns. Maybe they crochet. But that's pretty much it.

At least that's what it seemed some non-grandma bloggers thought of grandma bloggers. They’re only grandmas. They’re old. They’re boring. And they’re invisible if there's the G-word in their name, the G-word in their game.

Once a grandma,only a grandma, they thought.

Some unenlightened brands, bloggy networks, and PR folks seemed to think the same thing, too.

If they even thought of grandmas at all.

Other grandmas understood. Other grandma bloggers really understood—even those who didn’t write specifically about their grandchildren, about being a grandma.

The other grandmas understood because all of the grandmas, online and off, were put in the very same box. Were trying to get out of the same box. Together were saying, HEY, you meanies who squished us up into this uncomfortable GRANDMA box: We want out! We love our grandkids way beyond words, but they’re not all we love. Can’t you see we are so much more than grandmas? Can’t you see we are all that we were before? Can't you see that we are now all that AND a bag of potato chips, er, grandmas!

But the non-grandmas didn’t see any of that. They didn't see the woman and her fellow grandmas pounding on the box. All they saw was the word GRANDMA. And the box.

If they saw anything at all.

Every once in a while, someone did see something at all. Mostly it was just the word GRANDMA, though, and they thought the boxed-up grandmas would be happy as clams to talk about canes and assisted living centers and denture cream and gadgets that help them when they’ve fallen and can’t get up.

Those non-grandmas didn’t realize grandmas can and do get up. On their own. And they get down, too. That they're still vibrant and relevant. That they still love music. Still have jobs that have nothing to do with being a grandma, yet love the job of being a grandma, too. They still have spouses and daughters and sons and parents and brothers and sisters and animals and friends and interests.

And that they do all the very same things they did before they became grandmas.

They even—gasp!—still have S-E-X.

And they still talk about and write about things that matter, with people and for people who matter.

So that woman who was now a grandma but still had a husband and three daughters and still really loved all sorts of things non-grandmas think grandmas shouldn't or couldn't like decided to write about being stuck in the GRANDMA box.

In hopes others might see her and her grandma friends in there and let them out.

Or…perhaps they might do nothing at all.

But at least that grandma who loves, loves, loves being a grandma yet is so much more than a grandma would have her say.

Then she ended her plea for release from the GRANDMA box with an oh-so cute photo of her grandsons. Simply because she could.

And to further confuse those non-grandmas who Just. Don't. Get. It. 

THE END

Today's question:

Anyone second that emotion?

The Saturday Post: Stop this train edition

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Two weeks from today, my oldest daughter will turn 30 years old.

THIRTY!

How can that be?

I'm not usually one to balk about my age or getting older, but by golly, I think it's time to stop this train—or at least slow it down a bit, just long enough for me to wrap my head around this thing.

Stop This Train by John Mayer

No I'm not color blind
I know the world is black and white
Try to keep an open mind but...
I just can't sleep on this tonight

Stop this train I want to get off and go home again
I can't take the speed it's moving in
I know I can't
But honestly won't someone stop this train

Don't know how else to say it, don't want to see my parents go
One generation's length away
From fighting life out on my own

Stop this train
I want to get off and go home again
I can't take the speed it's moving in
I know I can't but honestly won't someone stop this train

So scared of getting older
I'm only good at being young
So I play the numbers game to find a way to say my life has just begun
Had a talk with my old man
Said help me understand
He said turn 68, you'll renegotiate
Don't stop this train
Don't for a minute change the place you're in
Don't think I couldn't ever understand
I tried my hand
John, honestly we'll never stop this train

Now, once in a while when it's good
It'll feel like it should
And they're all still around
And you're still safe and sound
And you don't miss a thing
'til you cry when you're driving away in the dark

Singing stop this train I want to get off and go back home again
I can't take the speed this thing is moving in
I know I can't
Cause now I see I'm never gonna stop this train

Enjoy your Saturday!

The Saturday Post: The Boomer Can Can

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Even if you're not a baby boomer (born 1946-1964), I'm pretty sure you can relate to this video.

For those of you who couldn't tell who the guy was on the posters they waved around at the end, I couldn't tell either. So I checked into it, and it's George Clooney. Yeah, baby!

Happy Saturday, my boomer and non-boomer buddies!