Flowers and dogs

I originally planned a rant-filled post for today to talk about my terrifying experience walking my dogs on Tuesday, the day a stray dog—yes, a pit bull, but let's not go there as my Mickey is part pit bull—attacked Mickey, Lyla, and myself as we headed home. Mickey took the brunt of it...no, all of it. I was going to show you pictures like this (graphic and hard to look at) one of my poor Mickey when he returned from the vet after the attack: 

And I was going to climb atop my soap box to <cuss> and complain about irresponsible dog owners who don't keep their dogs restrained as they should, tagged as they should in case they do escape, and cared for as they should. I planned to note that not doing such things is especially irresponsible for pit bull owners—who, if they're going to have pit bulls, should do right by them and the public!—and when a dog is obviously a nursing mother with babies somewhere. I was going to complain about the injuries to my dog, the injuries to my pocketbook because no owner has been found to reimburse me for vet bills, and the injuries to the abandoned puppies and the nursing/attacking mother who is now held at the Humane Society until May 21 and will be euthanized if not claimed by her owner before then. I've called; she's not been claimed. Despite what she did to Mickey, that breaks my heart.

But...

Instead of telling you all that, I've chosen to focus on something more positive today since I can't do diddly about what happened to Mickey. My more positive focus? Flowers.

Below is a slideshow of flower photos I've taken over the past month. Some are from Megan's place in the desert, some are from my place in the mountains, many are of the blooming beauties Jim and the girls gave me for Mother's Day.

Enjoy!

As the slideshow feature tends to cut off parts of the photos to fit the box, feel free to view the full photos HERE.

(PS: Mickey is doing a bit better. The vet promised a difficult time for the next 10-14 days and so far he's been right—but it's getting easier and less painful...for all of us.)

Today's question:

Flowers and dogs? Thoughts on either?

Grandma guilt strikes again

Through the 20+ years I spent raising my three daughters, guilt was an emotion I wore reluctantly yet often. Daily, in fact. Obsessively. The list of things I—and other mothers, surely—had to feel guilty about was endless.

Did I nurse long enough? Too long? Eat correctly to make the best breastmilk I could? Oh, I should not have had that beer...or the second one. Did I start them in school too early? Too late? Help them enough with their homework? Or too much? And the clothes, the cool and expensive clothes I couldn't afford! I surely damaaged their self esteem making them wear hand-me-downs. Or rag rollers—that made such adorable hairstyles!—the night before special occasions. Or homemade Halloween costumes instead of the fancy store-bought kind donned by their friends. And I didn't sign up often enough as class party mom. And I made them stop trick-or-treating before their friends did...well, at least poor Brianna, the one we practiced parenting on. Sheesh, the ways we messed up that girl. Well, all the girls because we had them so close together...and we were so broke...and I was so strict. But they did get to have pagers. But it wasn't cell phones...or iPads or even computers. MAN! We didn't have a computer until they were in junior high, and then I rarely let them on it without demanding they spend time with Mavis Beacon to practice their typing before they were allowed to play VidGrid. VidGrid? Oh, yeah, I surely warped them letting them watch music videos. Well, in the later years, that is, because I had the parental lock on MTV when they were younger. Was that right to do? And was it right to make them be home for dinner every single night? Go out for at least one sport per school year? Get a job at 16? But not be allowed to work on Sundays because they had to go to church and be there for Sunday dinner? We made them pay for their car insurance, but we didn't pay for driving lessons. Oh, I just KNOW it warped them in some way for me to teach them to drive for the first time in the cemetery. But at least they couldn't kill anyone there. How horrible of me to say that...in front of them. And how horrible to demand they go to college for AT LEAST one semester before deciding if college was or was not for them. Maybe they weren't cut out for college? Maybe the student loan debt was too much for them. Maybe I was too much for them.

I know the guilt was too much for me. Patience and energy and money are all easily exhausted for parents, but guilt? Guilt continues to grow and multiply and take over one's days. At least a mom's days—and nights, feeling guilty about all those things we may have forgotten to feel guilty about during the day.

Thankfully those guilt-ridden mommy days and nights are over for me. And, fortunately, guilt-ridden isn't a defining trait of the grandma gig. That's not to say it's non-existent, though. The past couple weeks I've been faced with a bit of grandma guilt, an especially nagging grandma guilt when it comes to Baby Mac, my second grandson.

Baby Mac will celebrate his first birthday in a couple weeks. The creative invitation designed like a ticket to a baseball game came in the mail over the weekend. Megan has told me of all the bits and pieces going into the baseball-themed affair, and it sounds like it'll be a home run for pleasing ball-loving Baby Mac and entertaining all in attendance.

Thing is, I won't be attending. And I feel horribly guilty about that. Yes, I'm a long-distance grandma so such absences are to be expected. But I was (and am) a long-distance grandma with Bubby, too, and I managed to attend every single one of his birthday celebrations. There have been only three so far, but I was there for them all. Photographed them all. Sang "Happy Birthday" to my grandson at all.

But I won't be doing that for Baby Mac. Because he—and his brother—will be visiting my house for an extended stay just a few weeks after his birthday. So it's silly to pay the money to fly 815 miles to the desert to sing Happy Birthday, eat some cake, take some photos. We'll just have a second party at Gramma and PawDad's when the boys arrive for their visit.

Actually, we'll have two birthday parties when the boys visit in June, because Bubby's birthday is mere days before the boys come to the mountains, so we'll have one for him, too. We have a fun activities planned: one will include a dinosaur museum visit; one will feature a visit to my sister's ranch so the boys can ride Shetland ponies. Aunt B and Aunt Andie will get to attend. It will be awesome.

But I still feel guilty. For not attending my second grandson's very first birthday party. Well, and for not attending my first grandson's fourth birthday party. Their real parties. The ones Mom has planned for both boys. At their own home, with their own friends.

Grandma guilt. There's nothing worse.

Except, of course, mommy guilt.

Today's question:

How does grandma guilt compare to mommy guilt in your life?

Wherein I pat myself on the back and reveal a secret

I've posted pictures and praise a time or two here on Grandma's Briefs about the accomplishments of my daughters when it comes to races and running. I'm proud of them and their pursuits, and I sincerely wish I could do the same.

On Saturday I came close to exactly that, in a relative sort of way, and I'm pretty darn proud of myself. Hence the "pat myself on the back" part of the title. In order for that pat to make sense to most readers, though, I must first share a secret. Well, it's not really a secret, as I've not hidden it from anyone, I just don't blatantly address it. Most offline friends—and a few online ones—know of my so-called secret. Now you all will.

The secret is this: I have MS. Multiple sclerosis. This coming Sunday—Mother's Day, May 13—marks twenty years since I was diagnosed. I do quite well with it, far better than many, as I was fortunate to end up with the relapsing-remitting form, not the progressive form. In fact, it's been a blessing in my life, to a certain degree, thanks to various things I've learned, changed, accepted because of it.

My MS does not define me, and it's really not important that you know I have it—except when it comes to understanding today's back-patting post.

You see, on Saturday morning I participated in the National MS Society's annual Walk MS event, along with Brianna and Andrea—and Jim, who served as moral support and photographer. I had walked it in 2008 to, in my opinion, rather disastrous results. I finished the walk—finding it far more challenging reaching the finish line than expected, thanks to a dragging foot—but I could not make it to the car afterward. Brianna had to bring the car to me.

Ever since, I've been afraid to attempt the Walk MS event again. Until this year.

In early March, I believe it was, I saw the commercial on TV and immediately texted Brianna and Andrea to ask if they'd join me. They enthusiastically said "yes," and we were off and running. Or, walking. On Saturday.

Saturday's walk featured a one-mile course that continued on for a three-mile course for those who felt up to it. In 2008, the one-mile kicked my butt. This year, I was able to do the entire three-mile course and still managed to walk back to the car, which was nearly another freakin' mile, it seemed, thanks to the thousand or so participants.

Yay for Lisa! Pat, pat, pat on my very own back! I felt like following Baby Mac's lead and babbling, "I did it! I did it!"

Here are highlights:

Not only did I prove I could do it, I thoroughly enjoyed the morning with my daughters as they matched my pace to a military style march much like the one I do when walking my dogs (repeated in my head, not aloud...for the most part). Let me assure you, it's much more fun marching with my girls.

It was a good day.

I just had to share.

Thank you for indulging me.

<pat> <pat> <pat>

Today's question:

What accomplishments have you recently patted yourself on the back for? (And I do hope you have given yourself a pat, no matter how big or small the accomplishment.)

Grandma's ultimate challenge

I cannot lie: The last couple days caring for my grandsons around the clock has been a bit of a challenge. Why? Because Baby Mac has got to be the most strong-willed bundle of energy I have ever come across.

Baby Mac's steadfast determination to keep up with brother Bubby—who will be four years old in June, compared to Baby Mac turning one year old the same month—has kept me hopping, to say the least. He thinks he should be able to do ab-so-lute-ly everything his brother does, despite lacking not only physical ability but also the common sense to know such feats at his age are sheer lunacy. And when I prevent him from risking life and limb in pursuit of his goal, Baby Mac throws fits reminiscent of my biggest battles with my daughters during their teen years.

Every once in a while, though, Baby Mac chooses to imitate his brother in something that isn't dangerous. For example, after watching Bubby place the ball on his T-ball stand several times, Baby Mac decided to give it a try himself with his own ball. This was the result:

Baby Mac's enthusiasm and obvious pride in himself for succeeding at the task at hand is exactly how I will feel, possibly even how I will babble, once I manage my own task at hand—that of making sure the little wild child survives safe and sound while his mom and dad are away.

Today's question:

What are your challenges—and successes!—of the past week?

Bad grandma

I've always fancied myself a pretty darn good grandma, one who goes out of her way to spread love and joy and special acts of kindness and self-sacrifice all for the sake of her grandsons.

A conversation I had with Megan over the weekend made it clear my delusions of grandmotherly grandeur and goodness may be exactly that—delusions. I'm not all that good. And not all that self-sacrificing. At least not all the time.

I'm scheduled to soon babysit Bubby and Baby Mac for the longest duration I have yet. It's a stint of nearly 10 days on my own—no Megan, no Preston, just me and the boys at their place. Such a stint feeds into my "I'm a good grandma" belief.

Well, Megan and I were discussing this and that over the weekend, and she just so happened to mention that Bubby has started pooping his pants. On a fairly regular basis. This is a kid who's been potty trained for, gosh, well over a year.

Sure, potty-training regression is to be expected when there's been a big change in a little one's life. But Bubby's big change happened nearly a year ago when Baby Mac came along. And several months ago when they moved into a new house. No poopy pants at the time of either of those events.

Now, though, Megan reports that at least once a day Bubby will traipse off to a corner where he thinks he's hidden and do the dirty deed in his big boy undies...then wait quite some time before telling Mommy about it.

Megan's perplexed. And I'm concerned only for myself.

"Yuck! You sure as heck better have that all figured out before I get there," was my instant, unfiltered response. "That's definitely not something I want to deal with."

Yep, I'm a bad grandma. A bad grandma who has no problem whatsoever changing poopy diapers of newborns, infants, even young toddlers who've not yet been potty trained. But big butts of big boys who have fairly big poops is, like I said, definitely not something I want to deal with.

Megan's researched solutions and is working fervently to bring success.

I'm crossing my fingers that success comes sooner rather than later. Only 16 days til I head to the desert. And only 17 days til I get really unhappy if I have to clean up poopy pants on a boy who's nearly four years old.

Today's question:

When did you last change a poopy kid—diapered or otherwise?

Long-distance grandma = long-distance mom

Baby Mac is sick. Again. Seems like my youngest grandson has continuously battled bugs of this sort and that ever since he was just a few months old.

This time Baby Mac has an especially nasty bug, of the croup and bronchiolitis sort. Megan called me Tuesday on the drive home from the pediatrician, where Baby Mac and his Mommy had to endure the trauma of Mac's first-ever nebulizer treatment. It was horrific—for both—with Mac screaming from beginning to end.

My poor babies. I imagine it was no fun at all for either. I can only imagine such treachery because as a mother, I never had to do such a thing, never had to administer a breathing treatment for a sick child. In all honesty, my kids were—thankfully!—relatively healthy. Now that Megan's a mom, she realizes that. It's something we've discussed often, as both my grandsons seem to be sick a lot, and Megan thinks there's some magical answer to keeping kids healthy, one she's not yet been privy to.

"Am I just a bad mom?" she pleaded for an answer Tuesday. "What am I supposed to be doing that I'm not?"

Usually when Megan asks that question, my first response—selfish as it may be—is, "You need to move out of that <cuss> desert and back home to the mountains."

Not this time, though. Because Megan was on the verge of tears. Because she was scared. And because she was sitting in the car in the garage having just reached home from the doctor's office and had a sick nine-month-old zonked out in his carseat, exhausted from the traumatic treatment, as well as Bubby sitting quietly beside him, and they all needed to get into the house.

"You're doing everything you're supposed to, Megan," I told her. "You got the baby to the doctor and he's being taken care of. That's what you were supposed to do. There's just a lot of crud going around right now and Mac just keeps getting it, for whatever reason. It's nothing you are doing or not doing."

Jim, who was home for lunch and part of our call, confirmed to Megan that a mom he works with has young kids who are sick far more often than was the norm when our kids were little. It's just the way it is nowadays, he said, for reasons we don't know.

"It'll be okay," I told her. "Just get the kids inside and call me later."

It's exactly such times that the distance from my grandbabies, from my daughter, are the hardest. I couldn't just hop in the car and head over to her place to help her out, to hug my sick grandson or, more importantly, to hug my stressed-out daughter.

The most I could do was text her a few hours later, when I figured things had calmed down a bit: 

Despite the crappy day and a croupy kid, at least my daughter still had her sense of humor. Jamaican or not, Megan is indeed a good mon—just because it sounds so cool.

And perpetually sick kids or not, she is indeed a good mom, too. Just one who needs a hug from her own mom—yet lives too far away to get exactly that.

Today's question:

What are your thoughts on kids being sick more often than they were back in the day—that day being when you were a kid or when your kids were kids?

What grandmas really want

Last week I wrote about what every grandma needs for stocking her home to be adequately prepared when having grandchildren about the place. This post is along the same lines, only it's not what grandmothers want for nurturing their grandkids, it's what grandmas want for themselves—from their grandchildren, from the parents of those grandchildren. 

• Pictures. Regularly. Even text-messaged photos will do. Of course, occasional nice shots appreciated, too, ones suitable for framing.

• Dedicated communication with the grandchildren by phone, Skype, text, email, snail mail.

• Regular updates on health and daily doings. It's not being nosy—it's called caring.

• More updates! Clothing size updates. Interest and infatuation updates. Gift idea updates. Grandmas are always on the lookout for things to give and share with and introduce to their grandchildren.

• "Thank you"s for gifts given, acknowledgement of packages received.

• Realization that Grandma can't read minds. If you want her to do or say or be something, you need to ask her. If you want her to back off, you need to tell her.

• Permission to make unhealthy—but oh-so yummy—food for the little ones. At least occasionally.

• Hugs

• Appreciation for the fact Grandma does indeed have a life and job outside of grandparenting.

• Consideration and kindness when Grandma says "no" to a request from Mom or Dad.

• Meaningful duties to perform when asking, "Is there anything I can do?"

• Understanding of the love grandmas have for their animals even when grandchildren are visiting.

• Invitations to school activities, sporting functions, special gatherings. Even when it's assumed and understood Grandma won't make it to the event.

• Permission to break rules now and then. And understanding if/when Grandma occasionally lives by the motto "It's easier to ask for forgiveness than it is to get permission."

• Understanding when Grandma is jealous of the other grandma(s) in her grandchild's life.

• Original artwork for her refrigerator door and desktop.

• That use be made of the gifts Grandma gives—or at least exchange them for something that will be used.

• Respect and consideration, including when it comes to not all grandmas wanting typical grandma gear such as T-shirts, sweatshirts, and bumper stickers obnoxiously emblazoned with "Best Grandma Ever!"

• Occasional appreciation—possibly even public recognition—for her wisdom and assistance. Unadulterated flattery does wonders for a grandma's ego.

• To see their children succeed at parenting.

• To know their grandchildren—and their children—will overcome inevitable challenges and lead meaningful, contented lives filled with inspiration, enthusiasm, and love.

Today's question:

What else do you grandmas want? What else do you non-grandmas like to give?