Intersections

I have a friend who recently found out she's pregnant. Pam, whom many of you may know in real life -- or from her comments and reviews here on Grandma's Briefs -- received the good news a few weeks ago.

It was surprising news for Pam as she'd pretty much settled into life with the assumption she'd never have kids. It had taken her a long time to find a partner she'd deemed worthy of parenting with her, they'd gotten pregnant, they sadly lost the baby. They were told by specialists -- in their infinite wisdom -- that they'd likely never have children.

So Pam moved on to other pursuits, including studying to become a personal trainer (and being within just the exam of certification) and preparing the home she and her significant other share for putting it on the market so they could move to a place more fitting their lifestyle.

Now their lifestyle has been thrown into surprise makeover mode.

Though it means (and meant) incredible ups, downs, heartbreak and hope for Pam and her SO, such stories are fairly common.

What isn't so common, though, and what I -- along with my friend, the mommy-to-be -- find most intriguing about her story is that, get this, Pam will become a full-fledged mother at the very same age that I became a GRANDmother!

Yes, Pam, who is only a few years younger than I, will be struggling with diapers, doctors and disparate parenting philosophies at the very same time that I'm struggling to get quality time with my Bubby and hoping for the arrival of additional grandbabies sometime soon.

I'm not sure if that says more about me, more about Pam, or more about the current generation of parents ... and grandparents ... in general.

I became a grandmother at a relatively young age, but I'm far from the record of Youngest Grandma Ever. My oldest sister was nearly five years younger when she became a grandma, and I've featured a Grilled Grandma who had her first grandbaby at an age much younger than the one at which I first claimed the crown.

Does that mean strangers might mistake me for Bubby's mother when we're out and about together? Possibly. But I sure hope not. Megan deserves all the credit -- and the craziness -- that's part and parcel of being the one whom Bubby calls Mom. I'm proud to proclaim myself Bubby's grandmother, not his mother.

And with Pam firmly in the "older" mother category -- yet decades from Oldest Ever designation -- does that mean she might be considered little Nubbin's grandmother when she and the sweet one are out and about once Nubbin arrives? Possibly, but highly unlikely. Pam is in the best shape ever (did I mention she's nearly a personal trainer?) and looks, dresses and acts far younger than most women her age -- myself indubitably included. And the youthfulness looks fabulous on her. She'll most definitely proudly proclaim her status as Nubbin's mother, not grandmother.

What I think the situation really underscores is that the women of my generation are doing things far younger than in the past (including becoming grandma) as well as far older than in the past (including becoming mama). And every once in a while there's an intersection of the two.

I'm honored to have met Pam at that intersection.

In the several years I've know Pam, we've been similar in so many ways, each with minor deviances from what we share. We like basically the same movies -- with the exception of her penchant for zombie flicks while I prefer documentaries. We read many of the same books -- with the exception of her well-read list of classics compared to my enjoyment of non-fiction fare. We've worked together, been in book clubs together, gotten drunk together, worried about health scares and aging together, written together.

Now we'll blog together. Pam recently embarked on a mommy blogging venture, calling it 40-Something First Timer. I can't think of a more worthy blogging buddy.

Nor can I think of a more worthy buddy with whom to share the 40-something parenting experience, albeit from opposite ends of the spectrum -- Pam as new mother, me as (fairly new) grandmother.

As many of my readers can attest, Pam is in for the ride of her life -- with both the blog and, more importantly, the baby. I wish her the very best of luck with the challenges of both!

Photo courtesy stock.xchng.

Today's question:

Stereotype, schmereotype! What about you goes against the stereotype of someone your age?

Photo replay

Missing my little Broncos fans today.

Megan, Andrea, Brianna (1991?)

Today's question:

What football team do you root for?

A dog by any other name

As part of the From Left To Write book club, I recently read Cowboy & Wills by Monica Holloway, provided for free through the book club. It's the true story of young autistic boy, Wills, and the golden retriever, Cowboy, that transformed his life. Written by Wills' mother, the book is an unflinchingly honest look at parenting an extraordinary child and the efforts taken to help him lead as ordinary a life as possible. Wills' saving grace turned out to be Cowboy.

Early in the book, Holloway writes of how Wills names his soon-to-be-adopted puppy -- a puppy that would decidedly be female -- "Cowboy" after a quick run-through of ideas with Mom. His first choice (for a female puppy, mind you) was Vincent, of which Holloway writes: "'Vincent is good,' I said, hoping we'd come up with something more upbeat and less like the conniving killer with the bone-chilling laugh in The House of Wax." So she offered up "Ringo." Wills countered with "Cowboy" (from his bedtime song of Cowboys Sing Good Night). "And it's okay that Cowboy's a girl?" Holloway asked him. "Who cares?" was his response. Simple as that, Wills' puppy became Cowboy.

ShannonIt reminded me of Andrea -- the biggest animal-lover in our family -- and her penchant for giving animals unusual names, starting with the naming of her first cat at about the same age Wills named his first puppy.

For many years, our only family animal was a beautiful blue-point Siamese I named Sadie. I can't remember why I chose that name, and I don't recall there being any huge significance to it. The name just sounded good, it fit, it stuck.

Then for animal-loving Andrea's fourth birthday, she was given the kitty she'd begged and pleaded for after seeing it during a July 4 party hosted by a friend of mine. (I'll never cop to a few drinks being the reason I gave in to her requests.)

MickeyFor Andrea, her new itsy-bitsy gray-and-white kitty's name did have huge significance. So she named it Shannon. After one of Brianna's friends. The loveliest of older girls, with long blonde hair, an infectious laugh and a perpetually sunny disposition. All the boys at school pined for her; Andrea idolized her. So she named her cat after her. Which was perfectly fine -- except that Shannon regularly got out of the house and I had to try to lure her back in. Calling out the door or roaming the block calling "Shannon ... Shannon ..." surely sounded like I was the worst of the worst mothers ever, nonchalantly searching for a lost child who'd wandered away.

Soon after, we got Moses, a black lab/collie mix and our first family dog. I gave him that name in hopes he'd live up to it and follow our commandments. Then my sweet Sadie passed away at 19 years old and was (eventually) replaced by tabby Abby. Then, soon after Andrea went off to college, her precious Shannon passed away and was replaced (for me and Abby, not Andrea) with crazy Isabel, a Halloween cat if ever there was one.

KamileahAndrea had no say-so in naming that batch of animals. But when we unexpectedly rescued a sweet 8-week-old pit/pointer mix who'd had both back legs broken by his previous owner, we offered for Andrea name him so that although she was away at college, she'd feel some ownership of the newest family pet. The puppy was white with caramel-colored spots and made Andrea think of her favorite thing in the world at that time: Caramel Macchiatos from Starbucks. She wanted to call the puppy Caramel Macchiato -- but I couldn't go that far in allowing her free reign on the naming. We settled on Mickey. Good enough, she agreed, huffing adding that she'll just name her own animal Caramel Macchiato when she gets one.

LylaAnd her first animal did, indeed, have the same coloring as our Mickey. But she chose to name the calico cat Kamileah, which means "perfection" in Egyptian, Andrea says, and was chosen after much Googling and searching for the absolute perfect name for her very own pet.

LukeHer next very own pet, a rescue dog of black lab/shepherd descent, she named Lyla. Because in Persian it means "dark as night." And Lyla she remains -- although she's been adopted by Grandma and Grandpa (meaning me and Jim) after apartment living didn't suit her style ... and her overactive bladder, constant chewing, and hyper disposition didn't suit Andrea's patience.

It was only with her most recent pet acquisition that Andrea settled on something a little more "normal." A few months ago she purchased the cutest little fluffball of a dog ever, a Zuchon, and she named him Luke. Of course, unlike her mother who names animals just whatever sounds good, she crowned the puppy Luke because he looks like an Ewok from Star Wars, but calling him Ewok would have been a little bizarre, she thought. So she named him Luke ... after Luke Skywalker.

And it was that reasoning, that relatively normal name for a pet -- coming from a young adult who not so long ago thought Caramel Macchiato was an acceptable name for a puppy -- that led me to the most bittersweet of realizations: My animal-loving little girl, the last of my three babies, had truly grown up.

Today's question:

What's the strangest name of one of your past or present pets?

Grandma's No. 1

Grandmas are bonkers for their grandkids ... usually. I know there are some grandmas who are of the sort to offer little more than a "meh" when it comes to their grandchildren. I've seen them, met them, talked to them. But I think those are the exception, the women who had the same "meh" response to their own children.

The moms whose kids were -- and likely still are -- a priority, though, those who put raising their children at the tippy top of the list of Important Things To Do in This Life, well, those are the ones who grow up to be grandmas whose hearts glow and gushings flow when it comes to their grandkids. Those are the ones deliriously bonkers for their grandbabies.

I admit I'm pretty much of the bonkers variety. Lately, though, I've worried that all the mushy-gushy love-love stuff I've got going on for Bubby makes my daughters a little jealous, a little worrisome that I love my grandson more than I love them. Deep inside we all still want to be mom's favorite, no matter how old we get, and I have a feeling my girls see my bonkered state for Bubby as proof that he's No. 1 in my eyes, in my heart. Not that they've said anything, would even consider saying anything, for they all love Bubby to bits (especially his mama, Megan, of course). Let's just call it mother's intuition.

Maybe. Maybe it's not mother's intuition at all. It very well could be my own overzealous and usually unfounded guilty conscience kicking in because of all the verbal backflips and whoop-dee-doos I perform when it comes to talking about my grandson. And because I don't want my girls to think they figure any less prominently in my heart since Bubby came along.

The thing is, when it comes to grandkids -- and any grandma knows this, so I'm pretty much talking to the non-grandmas here -- it's such a fresh, new, overwhelming love that it's hard to not gush and glow over it. New mothers feel the very same world-shaking love for their newborn, for their little ones as they grow, for the one, two or eighteen lights of their lives.

The difference, though, is what happens in the years between a baby's birth and that newborn's entry into young adulthood. For those years from newborn to adulthood are filled not only with knee-weakening love and adoration, but struggles and strife and, if we're all honest here, a lot of screaming and crying and heartbreak as the child tugs this way and mom tugs that way, all in the name of growth, independence, maturity and just plain ol' life.

Sadly, those struggles lessen a mom's enthusiasm a tad, diminish the mushing and the gushing. But they never, ever, ever lessen the love and adoration mom has for a child. At least not for this mom; probably not for most moms. Despite -- or maybe because of -- the battles, a mother's love for her child matures as the child matures. It grows into a more quiet love, one no longer eliciting butterflies and balloons and all-out blasting of horns to announce the bliss.

But it once did. With every child. And grandchildren bring all that back -- the butterflies, the bliss and more. Which is why grandmas act so goofy, so obsessed, so gosh-darn twitterpated. Much to their delight, they're getting a second opportunity to relish the fully-enveloping motherly love for a child.

And relish it we do.

Just like we did when our first child was born. And the second. And the third. And more.

Just like we did and do and will with each and every grandchild to come along.

It doesn't mean we love our original little ones any less. It just means we're keeping the enthusiasm in check. For the adult child's sake, of course. Because we understand how much the mushy-gushy PDAs from mom embarrass the oh-so grown-up kids, whether they're 13 or 30.

And we know kisses on the lips and big ol' noogies on the head no longer make children-turned-adults giggle in delight. So we bestow them on our grandkids and eat up the giggles they gurgle out as if they were Godiva chocolates.

But any adult child of mine is more than welcome to a noogie, a liplock, a great big bear hug any time they ask for it. Sometimes even if they don't ask for it.

Because although I don't say it nearly enough, the love, the bliss, the being bonkers for my babies is still there, still burning hot in my head, in my heart.

And cuss the numbers, the ranking systems, the logic; mothers and grandmothers don't believe in such things. What we do believe in, though, illogical as it may seem, is that each and every one of our babies, of our grandbabies, is truly No. 1 in our eyes, truly No. 1 in our hearts.

Today's question:

Other than relationships, in what would you most like to be considered No. 1?

My answer: I'd like to be ranked No. 1 on the bestseller list ... for children's books.

Mars and scars

Bubby had an accident a couple days ago: Running out to the car with Mommy, he bit it ... on asphalt ... HOT, desert asphalt.

It was his first big owie to leave a mark. Megan wrote on her blog,* "To my horror there was blood covering his poor, no longer perfect, 21 month old knee."

Bubby was okay but he's now marred, no longer perfect.

Those of you who have been a mom a while know that although this was pretty traumatic for Megan -- and Bubby -- this owie will fade, not only on Bubby's knee, but in memory, too.

But, sorry to say, Megan, there are bigger owies to come, ones that will make Bubby's skinned knee pale (probably even disappear) in comparison. Years from now you won't recall this bloody "mess," as Bubby kept calling it. What you'll recall are the bigger owies, the ones that leave lifelong scars.

I vividly recall the first scarring incident with Brianna. She was 15 months old and running around the living room of our small apartment. (Crazy kid started walking at 9 months!) It was all fun and games, of course, until she got hurt -- falling into the corner of the coffee table, gashing open her face near her eyebrow ... and narrowly missing her eye! Blood, blood, blood! Everywhere! It was my first experience with facial cuts -- which bleed like mad -- and my first experience with a seriously wounded baby. It was pretty horrible. And it's the reason why we did without a coffee table for years and years and years. Even now, as a grandma, my coffee table is ROUND with no corners waiting to gash open little faces.

Megan's first scar came on a little less fast and furious but involved surgery. Like I've said before, Megan was always destined to be a mom. She loved kids younger than her from Day One, especially her younger cousins. She played with them, mothered them and carried them around -- and got a hernia to underscore my rants that she shouldn't be lifting the little ones when she was just a little one herself. I can't remember how old she was ... maybe 6 or so ... but my little Meggie actually had to have surgery to repair a hernia at that young age and still has the scar to prove her early mothering inclinations.

The scars with Brianna and Megan were fairly traumatic for me as a mommy, for them as kiddos. But my poor Andie had, without a doubt, the absolute worst initiation into scarring.

It started off painless enough: Andie had warts. She had warts on her hands, she had warts in a spot just below her bottom lip. They weren't huge warts, but they were getting bigger and the doctor decided my 5-year-old Andie needed them removed -- by burning them off. She'd only feel the pin prick of the shot to numb her, he promised, so we went ahead with it.

The warts on her hands were no big deal; the ones on her face required me and a nurse to hold her down for the shot right into her chin ... which obviously hurt my baby like hell. After a moment or two to let the numbing kick in, the doctor had me stand at the head of the table and firmly hold Andie's head down while he approached her face with the burning hot rod (this was before the harmless lasers). When he touched her face with it she SCREAMED! The numbing stuff hadn't numbed her as promised and my baby could feel the burning. Quickly the doctor announced we were already there and needed to go forward as Andie would never in a million years allow us to attempt such a thing again. So as I held down my little girl, with tears streaming down her face and mine and the nurse doing all she could to hold Andie's mouth closed and stifle the screams so the doctor could do his job, the warts were burned off. And that horrible scene was burned into both my memory and my baby girl's, leaving not only physical scars, but emotional ones, too.

So yeah, Megan, poor Bubby is marred. But at least this time it took only an Elmo Band-Aid to make it all better. Appreciate those little mars; with scars, it's not so easy.

*Megan's blog is called "Oh Schmidt!" and, naturally, features pictures of precious Bubby -- and uses his real name ... which is a little odd since I promised to never use his real name on Grandma's Briefs. Anyway, you're welcome to visit there, if you'd like.

Today's question:

How did you get your first scar and where is it?

My answer: My first scar was on my lip. When I was about 4 years old, I fell on the blade of one of those old-time ice cream makers that had real metal blades to scrape the insides of the can. If I use my tongue to press out my bottom lip, you can still see it. (I don't use my tongue to press out my bottom lip very often as it not only shows my scar, it makes me look like a monkey!)

It's starting ...

Megan was by far my most difficult child, at least during the school years. It wasn't because she was a bratty kid who never listened and tested me at every turn. No, it's because she was so darn super-hyper sensitive. And that tested me at every turn.

Megan was crushed by the slightest of slights. Whether it was her new baby sister looking at her older sister 30 seconds longer than she looked at Megan, the new dog wanting to run around the yard instead of letting Megan scratch his belly, a teacher exclaiming over another child's artwork when Megan had worked so hard on her own, or a friend having another friend ... and actually talking to that friend in Megan's presence, she continually had a broken heart and collapsed in tears the moment it was safe (meaning no one but immediate family was around to witness the meltdown).

Because of the perceived potential for heart-crushing, Megan entered new situations cautiously. Joining in was not her forte. And when she did join in, it took a lot of thinking about it, a lot of internal preparation, and a lot of coaxing from her mom. Megan has a long list of extracurricular activities and accomplishments that highlighted her school years (and beyond), but man was it ever difficult getting her through those activities with her -- and my -- sanity intact.

Well guess what? Bubby has started to show some of the same tendencies. His heart's not crushed as easily as Megan's, but he takes a while to warm up to new situations, to venture forth, to join in.

"He's, well, timid," Megan told me the other day, after explaining a difficult time at an indoor play park.

Timid is not what Megan thought she'd be getting with a boy. In fact, I think (but I'm sure Megan would never admit it) that she wanted a boy so much more than she wanted a girl as her starter child because she knew the hell heartbreak that accompanies oversensitive girls.

But she has Bubby. Sweet, silly, happy Bubby, who's the fearless king of his castle, but outside the walls of that castle, he's hesitant about new places and faces. He needs time to fully vet them, to make sure all's safe and sound. Just like his mom, he needs a little coaxing.

Oh, and he needs to ensure that Mom is and will continue to be nearby.

I feel for Bubby, and I feel for Megan being so vexed by his being exactly like her timidity. I encourage her to let him take it slow, don't force him into the unknown, don't get angry. He'll come around.

But behind the words of encouragement, my mean-mom self is doing an internal happy dance and shouting, "Yes! YES! It's starting! That legendary curse of children exacting upon their moms the very same horrors the moms once caused for their mothers is finally starting to come true."

Payback is mine, all mine! Having a boy instead of a girl didn't release my distressing darling  daughter from the age-old curse. Yes!

There is some consolation for Megan, though. She's fortunate she won't have to deal with the increased insanity that comes with periods and PMS.

At least not with Bubby. But she best beware: She hails from a female-laden lineage, so I have no doubt there's a little girl in her future.

And to that I can only offer these words of encouragement: Be afraid, Megan. Be very afraid!

Today's question:

If you had the opportunity (or nerve) to apologize to your mom for just one thing you did while growing up, what would it be?

My answer: I'd apologize for not going back to pick up the muffler that fell off her old but oh-so-necessary car in the middle of traffic while I was driving it as a teen. I would have been too embarrassed to get it, so instead, I created more stress and financial worry for my already stressed and cash-strapped mama. I'm sorry, Mom!

The girls and the boys

Jim and I have three daughters. To us, they've always been "the girls."

From this ...

to this ...

... they've always been and always will be "the girls." My girls. Our girls.

Megan lives in a different world. She has "the boys."

 

More and more often, Megan's conversations are sprinkled with references to "the boys" or "my boys."

 

She thrives on the maleness of her little clan. Which I find interesting because Megan was always our girly girl, the one I thought would anxiously await a daughter to dress cute, talk with, shop with.

But no, when she was pregnant, she made it very clear that she wanted a boy. And she got all boy in Bubby.

With that, she now has her boys.

And I can almost hear the sound of her heart expanding with pride each time she says "my boys" over the phone.

Megan and Preston hope to give Bubby a sibling in the next year or two. My question: What if it's a girl? Having raised only one gender, I'm not exactly sure how that works.

Today's question:

What's the makeup of your birth family? All girls or were there boys in the mix? And how did that work?

My answer: I have six siblings. There are five girls and two boys. As kids, it wasn't a gender issue, it was more of the "big kids" versus the "little kids." Poor Jennifer, the middle child, was the "lig," much to her dismay.