Please read

Please read. Not just this post, but in general: Please read.

I'm a site coordinator for the local children's literacy center. I've spent the last two weeks struggling to match far too few—yet much appreciated—volunteer reading tutors with far too many students in overwhelming, unbelievable need.

Perhaps there wouldn't be such a need, may not be so many children lagging behind in the very most basic, very most important of skills, if more people would please be a model...if more people would please take the lead...if more people would please read.

Please read with your grandchildren, children, nieces, nephews, with any child in need.

Please read to youngsters and with youngsters, no matter their age.

Please read story books, chapter books, comics, graphic novels. Please read novels, poems, riddles, jokes.

Please read road signs and maps and plaques on the places you go.

Please read recipes, cereal boxes, soda cans, milk cartons. Please read chip bags, price tags and labels throughout the grocery store, throughout any store.

Please read television shows—turn the closed-captioning on then read. Together.

Please read movies, too—subtitled movies!

Please read calendars, and websites, and text messages. Please read gift cards, bulletin boards, ads, and restaurant menus.

Please read game directions, game boards, game controllers. Please read instructions for building, instructions for creating, instructions for taking apart.

Please read newspapers, magazines, e-mail, real mail, junk mail, mailboxes.

Please read programs...from school, from plays, from church, from sporting events.

Please read rosters, billboards, scoreboards.

Please read. Anything. Everything. Together.

Please read.

Today's question:

Other than this post, what have you most recently read, by yourself or with another?

Still haven't found what I'm looking for

I'm looking for something and having one <cuss> of a time finding it. And it's making me crazy.

Comments from this post last week led me to an idea for a new post that I can't wait to share, one related to that one, one telling you of something I have done that you likely would never believe. To assuage your sure disbelief, I plan to include in the post proof of my claim. Proof of something awesome. Proof that comes by way of a certificate.

But, alas, I can't find that <cuss> certificate.

And it's making me certifiably crazy.

When you live in one place for a long time, you inevitably end up with things you'd forgotten about stashed away in spots you'd forgotten about. But Jim and I haven't lived in this house very long, and I've been pretty good about organizing where things go now that the nest is empty and all spaces are Jim's and mine for stashing.

Yet I still haven't found what I'm looking for. And, like I said, it's making me crazy. Especially because I've found everything related to our family history except that <cuss> certificate, unexpected finds such as:

• The hospital wristbands worn by each of my girls when they were newborns

• The baggie of tissue-wrapped teeth the Tooth Fairy removed from under pillows (all in one baggie so I don't know which teeth belong to which daughter)

• The Congratulations on Your Baby Girl card Jim's stepmom and now-deceased dad sent when Andie was born ... with the bicentennial silver dollar they included still taped to the card

• A collection of fingerpainted artwork created by my girls when they were toddlers, using homemade fingerpaints whipped up by yours truly

• Decades worth of handwritten letters from my dear grandma who recently passed away

• The "proof of account paid in full" documents showing we finally, after seven years, paid off Brianna's birth, having had no health insurance at the time

• Every paper related to the seemingly millions of dollars in PLUS loans taken out for the sake of providing our daughters considerable educations

• A manila envelope stuffed full of newspaper clippings and memorial booklets related to the explosion of the Challenger, postmarked 1986 and sent from the Rocky Mountain News

• The 1988, 1989, and 1990 calendars I was missing from my calendar stash

• Three Certificates of Award to my oldest brother from his high school that certify him in 1977 as: 1st place for senior that skips the most and gets away with it, 2nd place for senior class clown, and three-way tie for 2nd place for senior with the most leadership (Don't ask...)

• An undeveloped disposable camera from Megan's wedding, courtesy of Jim's brother

• The commencement program from when Jim's sister and mom graduated from the community college ... at the same time

• The "Beauty Culture/Manicurist" certificate awarded to me in 1991 upon completing the required number of beauty school hours to hold hands with strangers do manicures and apply artificial nails

• The undated Certificate of Appreciation my Girl Scout troop presented Jim for being the troop's Cookie Manager during cookie-sale season

And more. So much more.

But no certificate of the awesomeness I wish to share with you. Nowhere.

At least not yet.

It has now officially become my mission: I will find that certificate.

Then I will write a post about it.

And you will think it's awesome.

Once I find the <cuss> thing.

Once I stop considering and crying over all the memorable things I have found on my mission.

Today's question:

Fill in the blank: Something I unfortunately lost and never found again is ____________.

Next time

I'm over the moon with happiness and thankfulness that Mac arrived safe and sound yesterday. But I gotta admit, there's a fair tinge of sadness attached to my joy.

As a long-distance grandma who respected the request from Megan and Preston for neither of their moms to come right away ("to make it fair"), I won't be seeing, touching, holding Mac until he's three weeks old. And I won't get to witness Bubby's first few days of getting used to his new brother, or help out my daughter and her little family as they get through the first few days or weeks of the transition from a family of three to a family of four.

And that makes me sad. Even though I'm so happy.

Next time will be different, though.

Next time, I will ignore the request not to come right around the birth date. It worked for the other grandma, who gets to hug and hold new baby Mac one day after his birth. And occupy Bubby while my daughter heals. And cook and clean for the family. And help Mommy and Daddy get the hang of having a second child.

Yep, next time will be different.

Although, now that I think of it, the next time I'm blessed with another grandchild, the grandchild just might come from a different daughter. Not from Megan in the desert, but from a daughter who lives nearby. Maybe?

Which surely would make next time different.

Seriously and sincerely, I'm absolutely not rushing or coercing or trying to convince a daughter it's time for that, as it's clearly not time for either of my two other daughters. But still. One of them just might soon find it is time and just might be the next.

Either way, next time will indeed be different.

As far as this time is concerned, though, I'll focus on finding contentment and being truly, madly, deeply thankful, grateful, and happy about my new and healthy Baby Mac.

Even though I am a little sad.

Today's question:

I know of at least one person who will "tsk" and say I'm looking at the glass half-empty; I say I'm just being honest. Do you consider yourself a glass half-empty or a glass half-full kind of person?

The grandma two-step

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.

Bugging me

Megan's scorpion, heroically nabbed by Preston.My parents transplanted our family of nine from Minnesota to Colorado nearly 40 years ago. Three talking points I recall of their spiel trying to sell my siblings and me on the move were 1) "The people are so nice, even strangers on the street say 'hello';" 2) "Out west, everyone wears blue jeans;" and 3) "There are no bugs."

Nos. 1 and 2 registered slightly above a "meh" with me. No. 3 had my attention. As a child who was traumatized by had memorable run-ins with leeches, walking sticks, and woodticks that turned white and grew to the size of marbles when not removed from dogs or the hairline of a little girl who thought she might be feeling a tumor growing on the back of her scalp and was too scared to seal her fate by telling Mom about it, the idea of no bugs sounded pretty darn good. More than just good, in fact, it sounded worth the move. I was sold.

I've lived in Colorado the biggest chunk of my life now and I'm still sold. I'm sold on Colorado for myriad reasons, but after Megan's revelations the past week about the critters in her part of the world, I admit minimal bugs are still one of the greatest appeals. I've actually said such a thing to Jim in the past week, and he agreed. Yes, we'll stay put in Colorado. Likely 'til Kingdom comes.

The revelations from Megan that heebie-jeebied me so involved scorpions. Just days after their visit to fairly bug-free Colorado was over and she headed back with Bubby to their desert home, Megan spotted a scorpion in the corner of her living room ceiling. A vaulted living room ceiling that she couldn't reach on her own, not even with the tube of the vacuum cleaner stretched to the max to suck up the critter. In her third trimester of pregnancy, climbing a ladder to reach the scorpion wasn't an option. Especially because it might skitter away causing Megan to fall from the ladder in fright, threatening the well-being of not only herself, but her unborn Birdy and the surely freaked-out Bubby below. So she and Bubby kept tabs on its location until Preston could leave work early to get home and save his loved ones from the ceiling-bound scorpion.

Disaster averted, thanks to Preston, a vacuum tube, and duct tape. Except that they spotted another scorpion in the same room upon their return from a weekend trip to Sea World. The scorpion professionals were to be scheduled to rid their home of the critters. For this month, anyway. Apparently such pest control is ongoing, a monthly service required of residents of the desert. At least those who don't want their babies stung by the little cussers.

When I shared Megan's scorpion story with one of the tutors I oversee for the literacy center, a woman who has lived in various spots around the country in the past 50 years or so, she shrugged off the tale. She'd gotten used to such things while living in desert climes, she said. You shake out your shoes before putting them on, you shake out your clothes before dressing, you shake out your bed covers before jumping under them. She'd lived with worse, she said, including rattlesnakes coiled up in bushes she'd started to trim ... then slowly had to back away from to keep from being bit. Now that was scary, she said. But the fear of the rattlesnakes was balanced out by the harmless geckos that climbed the walls, she added. The little critters that were oh-so cute ... except when you forgot to shake out the toaster before pushing down the handle on your breakfast bread. Toasting up a crumb-savoring gecko is not a good way to start your day, she stressed.

Shaking toasters, shoes, and bushes or sucking up scorpions with the vacuum don't sound like good ways to spend any portion of a day, if you ask me. I honestly don't understand how folks live in such places.

I especially don't understand why Megan hires scorpion zappers to make floors and cribs and ceilings safe for my grandbabies instead of packing up the brood and heading to the hills. Specifically, heading to the hills of Colorado ... where she was raised ... and where she knows there are no bugs to threaten the lives of her — and my — loved ones.

Disclaimer: Yes, I know there are brown recluse spiders and spotted ticks and rattlesnakes and more in Colorado. But they're up in the high country for the most part, not in residential areas where we have to fear for our lives and the lives of our babies on a daily basis.

Today's question:

What memorable run-ins have you had with creepy-crawlies of any sort?

Some things just don't mix

I love my dogs. They're pampered as can be and have full run of the place. Until Bubby arrives, that is. Once Bubby gets to Gramma's and PawDad's things change. Not just because Bubby is the star of our hearts and deserving of all the attention we have to give, but mostly because — and I hate to admit this — we can't completely trust our dogs with our grandson.

Mickey and Lyla aren't dangerous dogs, they're just not used to little boys. They're not used to little boys running and squealing and laughing and racing trucks across the floor and tabletops and arms and head of anyone or anything nearby who will put up with it. It makes them nervous. Poor, previously abused Lyla in particular. She growls and snaps when she's scared ... which is more often than we'd like when Bubby's nearby.

Mickey is a little more laid back about the whole affair, but still one we must be sure Bubby gives a wide berth. Just in case. He's part pit bull and although we know better regarding the cussed-up reputation the generally-sweet-when-raised-correctly dogs have been unjustly given, we keep Bubby away from him. Not because he's a pit bull, but because he was a damaged puppy when we got him, with broken hind legs that he's now sensitive to and doesn't want anyone touching. He's snapped at me, he's snapped at Jim when we've gotten too close to his tender feet, and we don't want to take any chances with him snapping at Bubby who just might touch the tender spots by accident and set the snapping into motion. It would have nothing to do with the fact he's part pit bull, but to anyone else -- to everyone else -- our Mickey's breed would be the culprit, not his once smashed and broken feet he still feels the need to protect.

While Bubby's here, the dogs are constant cuss to deal with a challenge. Keeping Bubby away from the dogs is a challenge. We could banish Mickey and Lyla to the basement or outside, but they're our babies ... most of the time ... and we feel bad not letting them join us in visiting with beloved Bubby. So we allow them around, we stay on constant guard, Bubby gets too close to Mickey's legs or Lyla gets too possessive of me or a toy or her space and the cuss — and cussing — begins. Mostly between me and Jim, as we argue with one another about why we let the dogs in or why we need to just relax or why one of us is partial to one dog or the other and not being realistic about the situation. We alternate between worrying we're being too cautious or not being cautious enough. But you never know. And we don't want to take any chances with our precious Bubby.

So then Mickey and Lyla are banished outside or to the basement and we all feel bad about the incident. But we later try it again. With the same result.

Yes, I love my dogs. But truth be told, I'd rather them be the ones living long-distance and my Bubby being the one living nearby. Or, in an ideal world, if my Bubby lived nearby, visited more often and he and the dogs became used to one another, we wouldn't have this challenge to begin with. But things aren't ideal. So we deal the best we can.

Bottom line is this: Once Mickey and Lyla head off to the big dog park in the sky, we will never again own large dogs with difficult psychological issues. And we won't have two dogs, we'll have only one. One no larger than a Jack Russell terrier.

And the bottom bottom line? You won't see here any cute photos of Bubby playing with Lyla and Mickey. Because most of the time, it's not cute. And the rest of the time, Lyla and Mickey are banished from the fun. Because, unfortunately, some things just don't mix.

Today's question:

How do your animals behave around children?