Now I lay them down to sleep

Well, it's happened. Jim and I have become those people. You know, the ones whose animals take the place of their children once the children are grown and gone.

Sure, I have plenty of friends whose animals have always been their kids. Which has worked well for them. It's what they do. It's what they've done. It's their normal.

But it's not been our normal, my normal. Until recently. So it's a bit disconcerting.

We've always had animals, if not a dog or two, at least a cat or two. And in the last few months, I've come to realize that I now pay just as much attention to their eating, sleeping, pooping and entertainment schedules and options as I once did with my kids. Oh yeah, and bathing options, too.

This past weekend, Jim and I converted the shower in our downstairs bathroom to a DOG shower, with a fancy little hand-held shower head with an on/off button that makes it easy to wet down the kids dogs, pause the water, lather 'em up, then unpause and rinse. It was quite simple showering up the little ones on Saturday. So much easier -- on us and them -- than taking them to self-wash at Petco or Petsmart or to a groomer. Going forward, our spoiled little Mickey and Lyla will bathe in the comfort of their own home, the comfort of their own cussing bathroom.

Come to think of it, that's more than our daughters ever had. The girls shared a bathroom -- all three of them plus me -- until one by one they moved out. Yeah, our dogs are spoiled.

In return, they do for us something the girls never did: They go to bed each night without complaint. At their scheduled bedtime. Without a single delay tactic.

Each night at 10 p.m., Mickey and Lyla, who have been hanging out with us in the family room -- on their beds pulled from their bedroom (yes, the dogs have their own bedroom ... well, they share it) -- get up, stretch and head to the back door for a final drink of water and potty before bedtime. I open the door, they trot out to the back yard -- in the dark, mind you, with no begging, "Can you please turn on the light, Mom?" Then they do their business, head back to the patio for a final slurp of H20, then stand at the door, waiting for me to let them in.

Once I let them in is when the real fun begins. At least they think so. For some reason, Mickey and Lyla -- especially Lyla -- believe that bedtime is the most wondrous time of day, the reason for getting through the day, the reason for living. The second I slide open the glass door, they scurry through the family room, tails wagging like mad, past Jim and his "goodnight, guys" brush along their sides, and into their bedroom. They climb aboard their newly fluffed beds -- pulled from the family room and returned to the correct positions while they were out pottying. Then they circle a time or two and plop down in their little nests. I rub their heads, their necks; they nuzzle my hand. "Goodnight, kids. See ya in the morning," I tell them as I back out of their room.

Just like tucking in the kids. Only these kids don't request another sip of water or remind me that the tooth fairy is scheduled to visit in the night or remember at the very last second that they are going on a field trip the next day and need an extra-special packed lunch with a drink for the trip. Yep, the dogs are so much easier to put to bed than the girls were.

There is one part of the bedtime ritual that the girls did so much better, though, so much sweeter. That was the bedtime prayer. Brianna would come from her room to join me and the other two in Megan and Andie's room. We'd sit on the edge of their beds, fold our hands, bow our heads, ask for guidance through the night, then request "God bless Brianna and Megan and Andrea and Mommy and Daddy and everyone we love and care about. Amen." I miss that. The dogs don't do that.

I'm wondering how much work it might take to get Mickey and Lyla to fold their little paws in prayer each night.

I'll get back to you on that.

Today's question:

What time do you typically go to bed?

Calendar girl

Yesterday I copied all the birthdays and anniversaries from my 2010 calendar onto my 2011 calendar then added the old calendar to my stack of those I've saved for years -- every year since 1997, to be exact.

I abhor packrats and do my best not to be one, so holding onto reminders of dentist appointments and "No School" dates of years past may seem in opposition to my cause. But the old calendars are so much more than appointment reminders: They are time in a bottle. Snapshots of the hustle and bustle of a once busy household. A record of the good, the bad, the scary, the sweet -- an organic record that didn't require me to journal or scrapbook or keep a diary or update a blog to maintain it.

Most of the markings on the grids of daily happenings are in my handwriting. Others are in the handwriting of one or another of the girls, applied in painstakingly perfect penmanship befitting an occasion important enough to be included on the family calendar for all to consider in their schedule.

Each notation holds much more than just a record of where we had to be and what time we had to be there, though. They hold stories, stories that bring mostly grins (birthday parties and school sporting events) and groans (dentist appointments and work schedules). Others cause my eyes to well up, my heart to grow a little cold, and a lump to form in my throat. Those are the notations of occasions that serve as poignant reminders of our challenges, the growing pains that strengthened our family fabric and made it the resilient, tight-knit one it is today.

As I skim the calendars before placing them back on the shelf for another year, here are some of the scribbles that touch my heart:

April 28, 1997: "Closing" - This is the date we officially bought the house we rented for 10 years before finally getting up the nerve -- and the income -- to ask our landlords if we could buy it. It's the house that became the childhood home of our three girls, the place we raised them all, from kindergarten through college.

July 21-25, 1997: "Brianna in Texas" - Brianna went to Work Camp; we remodeled our new house to add a fourth bedroom while she was gone. Andrea and Megan rejoiced at no longer having to share a room, no longer having to divide the space with duct tape down the center. Jim and I rejoiced that the bickering would end.

May 25, 1998: "Andie leaves" - Andrea spent a week at Sea Camp in San Diego and to this day still dreams of working with dolphins. Somewhere. Somehow. Which is a tad challenging considering she lives in the Rocky Mountains.

March 22, 1999: "5:30 a.m. Brianna skiing" - Clinches the heart a bit as Brianna will likely never ski again after the damage done to her back when her (stopped) car was rear-ended at a stoplight by a landscaping truck.

April 24-25, 1999: "Retaining wall" - One of the many "huh?" markings on the calendars, important at the time but now completely forgotten.

October 15, 1999: "UNC College Day" - Our first visit to check out a college for our first-born.

July 18, 2000: "Test w/HR 2:30" - The beginning of my newspaper career.

July 28-29, 2000: "American Co-ed Pageant" - Megan needed college funds and left no stone unturned. She won no pageant money but we both received an unexpected -- and unpleasant -- introduction to pageantry and "pageant moms." Believe me when I say Little Miss Sunshine resonates.

October 25-27, 2001: "Seward" - Our first visit with Megan to what would become her college town. And eventually Andrea's college town.

June 22-27, 2002: "Disney World" - Our last vacation as a family. <sniff>

June 29, 2002: "Marked words: Brianna will NOT be with Eric at this time next year!" - Too funny now. What's not funny is that marking one's words doesn't make things magically come true ... or eliminate the need to keep marking them.

May 25, 2003: "Andie's Graduation Party" - My baby, my last daughter, graduated and soon off to college.

June 27, 2003: "I'm old" - Any guess as to whose birthday this was?

July 22, 2006: "Meg's wedding!"

June 18, 2008: "BUBBY!" - Okay, it doesn't really say "Bubby," it says his real name. An all-caps pronouncement of joy just the same.

December 5, 2008: "D-Day!" - This was the day my layoff was scheduled ... and occurred. The end of my stint as a special sections editor. The end of my newspaper career.

Sprinkled throughout the calendar pages, amidst notes about the girls going on mission trips, attending prom, graduating from high school and college, are red-letter dates of concerts and performances that Jim and I were to attend: Pearl Jam, Live, Tommy, Black Crowes, Rent, Counting Crows and more. Memorable occasions all. But my pile of ticket stubs serves as a better reminder of those particular dates. And, yes, serves as another large stack of paper this non-packrat refuses to get rid of.

On second thought, maybe I am a packrat after all. A sentimental packrat with lots of memories worth holding on to.

Today's question:

What do you do with your old calendars?

Gone to the dogs

The last week or so I've been yearning to watch A Charlie Brown Christmas. I've not seen the holiday special in probably 15 years, maybe even closer to 20, as it's been that long since my little girls would hunker down in front of the television to watch the annual roundup of holiday goodness. Lately I've been missing that and figured it's high time to partake of the holiday goodness myself, even if I have to do it alone.

So over the weekend I popped in my Charlie Brown VHS (yes, VHS ... why upgrade kids' shows to DVD at the empty nest stage?) to watch on the TV in the study as I worked at my desk. And get this: Despite having no children or grandchildren around to watch such things with me, I certainly wasn't alone -- I was joined by my darling dogs, Mickey and Lyla.

Together we watched Charlie Brown lament the commercialism of Christmas, hanging on every note from Vince G., every Snoopy shuffle and every puff from Pig-Pen.

Since we had the time -- and the TV had their attention -- I decided to pop in How The Grinch Stole Christmas, too. It's been just about as many years since I've seen the Grinch special, I think, and I was sure Mickey and Lyla had never been to Whoville at all.

So we went there together. I enjoyed the sweetness of Cindy Lou Who while my canine companions relished the harrowing heroism of Max the Dog.

Thanks to Charlie's Snoopy and Grinch's Max, Mickey and Lyla were as intrigued by the shows as I was.* I'm not so sure they'd have been as amenable to watching holiday fare with me if the featured selection had been dogless dither such as Santa Claus is Coming to Town or Frosty the Snowman.

While visiting Bubby for Thanksgiving, I caught snippets of Santa Buddies with Bubby, and I've been thinking that's a holiday movie Mickey and Lyla would enjoy. So I'm watching for it to go on sale after Christmas. I figure since my one and only grandson lives 819 miles away and I must rely on my dogs to keep me company -- even when it comes to watching holiday shows -- I might as well include a doggy feature especially for them now and then. I understand there's a Santa Buddies sequel available, too, so if they're good, I'll go all out and make it a double feature.

I'll be buying both Santa Buddies movies on DVD, though, so we can watch them on our 54-incher in the family room instead of on the tiny tube in the study. My TV-watching buddies Mickey and Lyla will surely appreciate life-size holiday buddies on the big screen come Christmastime next year!

*Truth be told, the dogs slept through much of both shows. But it still was nice to have them hanging out with me while I watched the ol' holiday favorites.

Holiday question of the day:

Overall, would you say you've been more naughty or more nice this past year? Do your loved ones -- the ones playing Santa -- agree?

Uncharted waters

We did it. Jim and I made it through our first time decorating the Christmas tree as empty-nesters. Meaning, we did it alone. Just the two of us.

After 28 years of tree-trimming being a loud, festive, family event, this year there were no little ones hanging eight ornaments in a space meant for three. No kiddos closing their eyes and holding out their hands awaiting presentation of the annual new ornament from Mom. No more jokes about the carrot, the pickle, the Russian Santa. No more surly teens swearing under their breath at one another as I ask if they could please just get along so we can get the tree done without someone crying. And no more girls home from college for the holiday and savoring the family time they'd missed while away.

This year, the ornaments are evenly spaced, there was no surliness, and there was no swearing. There were, though, a few tears. From me.

This is a huge milestone and not one I hoped to reach so soon. In fact, I hoped to never reach it at all. I hoped that even once my girls were grown and gone, there would be tree-trimming parties. That I'd have my daughters, their partners, my grandchildren running all about as Christmas music played and they clamored for this ornament or that. All the while we'd be sharing memories of holidays and tree-trimmings past.

But it wasn't to be. Not even close.

Maybe next year things will be different.

Or maybe next year will be the same. But at least having been through it this year, it won't feel so darn empty and strange.

Holiday question of the day:

What is your favorite ornament on your Christmas tree?

Weevils, the heads, and turkey days past

It's one week until Thanksgiving Day, and I can't wait.

This will be the first Thanksgiving that one of my daughters will host the affair. Jim, Brianna, Andrea and I are headed to Megan's for the big day, to include the community turkey trot (the girls are trotting; I'm watching), time with Bubby, and Thanksgiving dinner together as a family.

I'm excited to add this "first" to the collection of Thanksgiving memories that have been rumbling 'round my head and heart the last couple days. Things like ...

Thanksgivings early on as a family, when the girls and Jim and I had to eat two turkey dinners in the same day to accommodate holiday visits to both parents -- both my parents, not my in-laws.

Thanksgiving in South Dakota with the Indians. Real Indians from the reservation, who were friends of Jim's sister and brother-in-law, our hosts. The weekend included horseback rides for the girls, silly nephews pitching olives during the meal and the obligatory visit to "The Heads" (Mount Rushmore, for the uninitiated).

Another Thanksgiving in South Dakota, another visit to "The Heads." The time Granny reserved a room at her church to accommodate her many visiting relatives. Just before the meal, she realized she'd forgotten to make potatoes and cheerfully announced she could throw together instant potatoes she had at home. "My husband will NOT be eating instant mashed potatoes for Thanksgiving," snarled one of Jim's sisters. The sister who eventually left her husband -- for her daughter's ex-boyfriend. The husband who eventually died -- from complications of a broken heart.

Once again: Thanksgiving in South Dakota. The year Megan and Andie wrecked their car on the way home from college. So we drove two cars to South Dakota -- Brianna and my mom in one; Jim, Megan, Andie and I in the other -- so that after the festivities (and, of course, a visit to "The Heads") Jim and I could take the girls back to college. We drove from the Black Hills of South Dakota to the east side of Nebraska to drop off the girls, then home to Colorado ... driving straight through. It was our first introduction to Red Bull and Monster energy drinks -- and the last time we'll ever drive that many miles without sleep.

The long-standing tradition of spreading Indian-corn kernels on the Thanksgiving dinner table, with everyone invited to place kernels symbolizing their personal blessings in the special "gratitude" dish at any time during the meal. The tradition I can never explain to guests because I get all verklempt thinking of my many, many blessings. Thankfully one of the girls always steps in and explains it for me -- another blessing that increases my verklempt state. Every time.

The first Thanksgiving I hosted at my house for all the extended family, including my older sister and her husband, whom I wanted desperately to impress. Naturally it would be the year that when I pulled out my "gratitude" dish with Indian-corn kernels saved from the previous year and dumped the kernels onto the beautifully set Thanksgiving table, weevils -- who'd been happily noshing on the kernels all year -- scattered everywhere. Yes, I made an impression.

The first year Jim and I participated in any Black Friday madness. It was the year of the Furby fracas and each of the girls wanted a Furby. We woke up early, went to store after store in the dark -- and came away with three Furbys (Furbies?), one for each of the girls! Thanks in large part to my brother and his wife who were staying with us for the holiday. My brother who no longer speaks to me or Jim ... hasn't for years ... for reasons I don't understand.

The Thanksgiving Jim and I hosted the family mere days after moving into our current house. Boxes still awaited unpacking, furniture, rugs, curtains and more still needed to be purchased and placed. Yet Megan and Preston came -- it was the visit when they announced they were pregnant! -- Andrea invited a visitor from Brazil (I think it was Brazil), and many from my extended family attended. Truly one of my warmest Thanksgiving memories ever, despite the cantankerous and not-yet-working-correctly boiler system of our new place.

Thanksgiving activities with the family: crafting ornaments, doing puzzles, decorating gingerbread houses, painting canvases to adorn the walls of our new home. Megan's creation the year of the canvas? A depiction of how cold our seemingly cavernous house was thanks to that pesky boiler system, especially to one accustomed to desert temperatures.

The tradition of the girls, when they were too young to cook, contributing to the festivities by making dinner mints -- a cream-cheese and powdered sugar concoction flavored with peppermint, pressed into candy molds then popped out for sharing. A tradition that will be passed along to Bubby this year, so he too can contribute to the meal even though he's not yet able to cook.

It's one week until Bubby's little hands squish and squash like Play-doh the traditional dinner mints. Mints that will surely, in years to come, be remembered as the sweetest dinner mints ever.

And I can't wait!

Photo credit: stock.xchng

Today's question:

What are some memories from your Thanksgivings past?

Know what?

Megan at 2 years old (Bubby's age)

When Megan was young, she had a way of keeping the attention of anyone to whom she was telling a story by saying, "And you know what?" after every few sentences.

She'd be sharing the news of a first day of school or what happened at a birthday party or why she thinks Jeremy is the handsdown cutest boy in the entire third grade, and sprinkled the whole way through would be interjections of, "And ya know what, Mom?"

Every sentence or three, she'd ask it.

Thing was, Megan wouldn't continue her story until I responded, until I said "What?"

I could be looking directly at Megan as she spoke, nodding along, but that wasn't enough. No, I had to vocalize my interest. I had to clarify with words my desire to hear more. Otherwise, she'd say it again.

"Ya know what?" she'd ask.

If I simply raised my eyebrows and leaned forward, seemingly (at least to me) begging for more, she'd respond with an impatient, "And YOU. KNOW. WHAT. MOM!?"

"WHAT!?" I'd growl at her.

Then she'd smile sweetly and continue chattering away, the magic words having appeased her ... for about four more sentences. Then she'd do it again.

"Ya know what?"

Grrr ... ! I sincerely enjoyed conversations with Megan. I loved hearing about her day and all. I appreciated that she wanted to share every last detail with me. But gee whiz! It drove me nuts!

Well ... ya know what?

Here's where you say, "What?"

Megan never stopped doing it. She still does it. I must admit, though, she's become a bit less annoying more adept at it. She uses different terminology now, such as a "Guess what happened?" or "Ya know what she said to me?" kind of thing every few steps throughout the story.

And ya know what else?

"What?" you surely are asking.

Megan recently reported that, get this, Bubby has started doing the Very. Same. Thing!

"Know what?" he asks her mid-story, then waits for her to say "What?" before proceeding with his babbling.

Again and again and again, Bubby annoys the cuss out of his mama, just as she annoyed the cuss out of her mama.

And ya know what?

"What?"

I think that's So. Darn. Funny!

Because you know what else?

"What?"

Seeing payback in action has got to be one of the very sweetest rewards of becoming a grandparent!

That's what!

Today's question:

What is one of the annoying things you, your kids, your siblings or another loved one did as a child -- and continue to do, to some degree, as an adult?

Never again

I recently put a few items for sale on Craigslist, things I no longer want, need or use. Surprisingly, one of the "no longer used" items -- something I've been eager to get out of the garage -- has me waxing misty-eyed and melancholic.

Just what may that item be, you ask? Maybe a crib, signifying the end of babies in the house? A student desk, signifying no more students doing homework the last possible moment before it's due? A dinosaur of a VHS video camera signifying the end of recorded pumpkin carvings, Christmas programs and luau-themed birthday parties?

No, no, and no.

It's our cartop carrier. And selling it signifies the end of an era. The end of family vacations. The end of some of my all-time favorite moments with my tribe.

Never again will Jim and I, along with three crabby as cuss sleepy little girls, get up before the crack of dawn to hit the open road with suitcases, swim gear and more balanced above our heads.

Never again will our family of five load up sleeping bags, tents, camp stoves and a homemade camping shower then head up to the mountains for a long weekend of roasted weenies, s'mores and love-pop-can-chain moments around the fire.

Never again will Jim and I and a nervous college freshman load up new bedding, table lamps, extension cords, closet organizers, posters, first-aid kits, nightlights and family photos and drive off into the sunrise to drop off at college yet another baby girl ... who was no longer a baby.

Never again. Selling the cartop carrier punctuates that.

Never again!

The title of the Craigslist listing should have been "Memories for sale: $60." But that's not what I wrote; I figured not many clamoring for a good deal would understand.

But maybe you do.

Today's question:

What in your life will likely happen never again?