Grandma's No. 1

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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.

Three cheers for my third child

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Today my baby is 25 years old. Get that? TWENTY-FIVE! My baby! Who's no longer a baby! (And who wishes I'd get that through my thick head!)

Andrea was born 25 years ago today, forever changing the makeup of our family, the makeup of my heart. She's my wild child -- and readily admits it! -- my child who dares to be different and manages to make different look so good.

Not long ago I wrote a post for the soon-to-be-defunct Rocky Mountain Moms Blog about the challenges -- and charms -- of the third child. In honor of my Andie, this is that post:

Three's a charm ... and a challenge

A friend recently had her second child and when I went to meet the little guy, one of the topics of conversation was how integrating the new baby into the family hasn't been as difficult as she thought it might be. No, the second baby isn't all that hard, I told her. It's the third child that completely upsets the family balance.

I've told many people this throughout the years. As a mother of three girls, all born in relatively quick succession, I learned 24 years ago when baby No. 3 arrived on the scene that going from one to two babies, while initially a juggling act, was doable without any major trauma or drama, but the transition from two babies to three was -- and continues to be -- one of my greatest challenges as a mom.

"But you already had two," people marvel. "How could it be that much more difficult to add one more to the fold?"

It's a matter of logistics, I counter. Mom has two hands, which is one short when there are three babies. In a home with two parents, there are exactly that: two parents. If all kids are in need of attention, who gets left out? Mom can take care of one, Dad can take care of another, and the third has to hold that thought and wait until Mom or Dad is free and ready to offer belated comfort.

Dinner tables are best suited to an even number of chairs, most typically four. When baby No. 3 comes along, a bigger table needs to be purchased, a table that seats five. But tables aren't made for an odd number, so a table for six is required.

Same goes for the family vehicle. Two kids work just fine in the backseat of nearly any car. But transporting three kids requires a larger vehicle.

And don't even get me started on visiting play areas or, in the later years, amusement parks. Rides at amusement parks are typically made for two; Mom can sit with one child, Dad with another. Which leaves one kiddo -- or one parent -- riding alone or watching from the gate.

Travel by plane presents a similar problem.

So yeah, having the third child requires a bit more thought, planning, and cost.

But the payoff makes up for that.

Siblings argue, that's all there is to it. Having a third kiddo in the group means that if two are arguing, there's always another playmate waiting in the wings.

Another advantage of three kids: easy lessons in the democratic process. Majority rules and an uneven number in the group makes it very clear early on that every vote counts and can change the outcome of family votes, be it for vacation places, what to watch on television or what to have for dessert.

But one of the best things about having three children? The realization that three truly is a crowd -- which makes for the absolute best-ever group hugs, as six arms squeezing one Mommy are so much better than four.

When it comes to kids, yes, three's a challenge. But more importantly, three is forever a charm.

  ~ Originally posted on Rocky Mountain Moms Blog March 21, 2010

Yep, Andrea was the third, the challenge, the good luck charm. She remains all three.

She continues to be the one to raise eyebrows, to rock boats, to make me laugh the loudest, cry the hardest, worry the most.

She and I -- so very much alike in so many ways, so very much Cancers -- butt heads ferociously ... yet love each other fiercely.

She's my favorite third child, my sweet baby Andie, my strong, independent woman.

She's my friend. She's my birthday girl. She's the one for whom I wish the very, very happiest of birthdays ever!

Too pooped to pop: My mom and music

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As part of the From Left to Write book club, I'm currently reading "If You Knew Suzy: A Mother, A Daughter, A Reporter's Notebook" by Katherine Rosman. In it, Rosman, a reporter to her core, documents her "investigation" into the life of her mother in order to pay tribute to Mom upon her death.

In one chapter, Rosman describes her mother's love for dance and music. Rosman's mother danced alone, she danced at parties, she danced in dance classes. And she enjoyed a wide range of music, from Peter, Paul and Mary to disco. The chapter reminded me of my own mother and her love for dance and music. Only my mom -- as always -- was a bit less conventional in her musical tastes and performances.

Of my most vivid memories of my mom and music, none have to do with lullabies or nursery rhymes or the music most might associate with Mom. My very earliest recollection of my mom and music has to do with a record album cover -- an altered album cover.

When I was about five or six years old, I remember thumbing through the stack of records in the living room, albums that must have been purchased to set the ambiance of one of Dad and Mom's parties with friends. The cover was typical of the 60s and early 70s, with a hazy shot in muted colors. It featured a seemingly naked man and woman, face to face in an embrace. The specifics of their bodies aren't clear, literally ... because my mom had used a green color crayon to draw leaves on the semi-nude cover models. Surely thinking the photo was far too risque for public consumption, Mom artfully censored it to seem more like Adam and Eve.

I have no real idea what the record was of -- for some reason, "Hitchin' a Ride" sticks in my mind -- but it had to have been a pretty darn good one for Mom to go so far as to purchase it despite those nearly naked folks on the cover. In retrospect, those carefully colored leaves so perfectly epitomize my mom: She wanted to be hip, cool and part of the in-crowd, but her prude sensibilities prevented her from going all the way.

Another memory that stands out when I think of my mom singing and dancing is the song-and-dance routine she performed when making popcorn. It was back in the day when popcorn was made in a big pot on the stove. As she heated the oil then dropped in a test kernel, Mom would start up with the popcorn song, a song that sticks in my head to this day, a song I think of when I make popcorn. Every. Single. Time. It goes like this (and you gotta do the groovy swaying of the hips and clapping of the hands to get the full effect):

Too pooped to pop, and I ain't lying.

Too pooped to pop, just sitting here frying.

I wanna get to the top,

but I'm ... too pooped to pop!

As most popcorn nowadays is made in the microwave, that song is likely lost on the younger crowd. But even when hitting the "Popcorn" button on the microwave, "Too Pooped To Pop" pops into my head and plays until the ding declaring the popcorn done.

Most of all, though, when it comes to Mom and music, I think of Tevya. Specifically, Topol's portrayal of the poor Jewish peasant in "Fiddler on the Roof." Mom had the most magical way of absolutely and perfectly mimicking Topol's charming -- yet somehow quite sad -- exclamation of how life would be different if only he had money. I have no words to describe it, so here's a short clip of Topol's dance. Ignore the subtitles, insert a petite, red-headed Irish woman and you'll get the picture:

SORRY! THIS VIDEO DISAPPEARED IN BLOG REDESIGN!


That is what I think of most of all when I think of my mom and music. Fortunately my daughters have witnessed Grandma in full Topol mode, too. It's one of their favorite memories of Grandma. One they'll remember long after Grandma becomes too pooped to pop!

UPDATE: After reading this, Megan told me she thought "Too Pooped To Pop" was a made up song. Oh, no, no. It's for real, and here it is:


Today's question:

What do you remember about your mom and music?

Two thumbs up

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As I've mentioned before, we are a movie-going family. We love movies and we love going to them together, sharing the cinematic experience.

Bubby went to his first movie with me and Jim (and Megan and Preston, of course) when he was just days old. We saw "Wanted" with Angelina Jolie. He did great: no crying, no screaming, no fussing. Grandma didn't do as well. "Wanted" is an insanely loud film, with gunfire, explosions and more, and I spent the entire time worrying that we had made a huge mistake in taking Bubby with us and that we'd ruined our brand-new grandson's hearing beyond repair. But he seems to have done just fine with it and (as usual) my fears were unfounded.

We also took Bubby to his second movie: "The Dark Knight." Again, it was a loud movie. But as he was just one year old, he did okay with it, pretty much sleeping through the whole thing. I do believe Megan had to do a little walking around with him, but nothing outrageous, nothing to curb the movie going.

So we took him again. To see the last "Indiana Jones" movie. No major problems there. Bubby seemed to do quite well with the adult fare. Although from that point on, Bubby hasn't joined us -- or his parents -- for a film. Common sense prevailed over our movie fanaticism, and we didn't want to reach a point where Bubby would actually cry during a movie and upset other viewers who had paid a high price to watch a big show on the big screen.

This past weekend, while Jim and visited for Bubby's second birthday, we decided to forego the adult fare and give Bubby a shot at seeing a film on his level ... with popcorn and all ... and trillions of other kids in attendence. We went to see "Toy Story 3". And Bubby loved it!

He patiently awaited the beginning of "the big show," sitting nice and tall --and quiet -- in his booster seat:

Once the big show began, he watched ... and watched ... and watched ...

... until he didn't want to watch anymore. But in all fairness, his antsy-pants didn't kick in until about 15 minutes before the movie ended. And he had Grandpa to visit when the antsy-pants kept him from sitting in his seat.

All in all, Bubby's first real movie-going experience was a success. This final scene says it all:

Yep, a true success! 

Next up: subtitles! He's already such an advanced movie-goer that I don't see it being long before subtitled fare is on the bill.

Looks like we'll be keeping this kid in the family!

Today's question:

What's the first movie you remember seeing at the theater or drive-in?

My answer: "Benji" on a school field trip.

Jumping for joy

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It was thirty-six years ago this month that my parents, six siblings and I arrived in Colorado by station wagon from Minnesota in search of a new life, one that might keep my parents' rocky marriage together. I was a preteen and pretty excited -- and scared -- about the new venture. The house my parents purchased in advance wasn't yet ready, so we stayed a week or so in one of the log cabin motels dotting the highway of the tiny mountain town we'd call home.

Across the highway from our cabin was the motel office, and outside the office was the motel's coin-operated trampoline. The trampoline itself wasn't operated by coin; it was the length of the jumper's turn that was dictated by quarter. For 25 cents, a kid could jump to his or her heart's content ... for about three minutes. Then the timer would ding and the next one up would plop in his or her quarter and jump for joy. Bouncing past the bell would result in jeers from the others in line; when there were no other kids in line, the motel owner or his progeny (not much older than my siblings and me) would come outside and menacingly enforce the rules.

Despite the limited access to quarters for a family with seven kids -- and a fear of the crabby motel owner and his kids -- it was the beginning of my love affair with the "tramp," as the trampoline became affectionately called by those lucky enough to become well acquainted with it. When our time at the cabin was up, we reluctantly bid farewell to the motel tramp ... and rejoiced upon seeing the tramp nestled in the ground in the backyard of our new neighbor.

It took us a while in our new digs to feel comfortable enough with our neighbor -- a family of five that included three awesomely hip teens that made me shrink in their presence -- to knock on their sliding door and ask for permission to jump. It was okay to do so, our new friends living near the tramp house assured us, as long as the resident teens weren't jumping themselves. For several months, my siblings and I encouraged our friends to do the asking, as we were the new kids in town and figured we were less likely to get a "yes" from the tramp owners.

We soon learned that regardless of who initiated the request, permission flowed freely and the neighboring tramp was ours to enjoy for hours on end. My new friend and I bonded as we bounced, competing against one another in seat wars, back wars, games of add-on. We'd acquiesce to the older siblings when they showed up -- including our older sisters who had become best buds as well -- as they were much more fluent in trampe-eze. Even my older sister, just as new to the sport as I was, had quickly become a pro, flying through the air with the greatest of ease, performing front flips, back flips, swan dives and one-and-a-halfs.

I longed to be as good as the older kids. I'd peek out the window and watch the resident teens expertly enjoy their trampoline, then put some of their moves into play when it was my turn. Little by little I mastered the front flip, back flip, swan dive and, finally, after a few terrifying turns, the satisfying slam of my stomach on the mat when I successfully managed the derring-do of a one-and-a-half. Double flips soon followed. Never before had I felt so in command of graceful moves, a graceful body.

In hopes of maintaining neighborly relations, my dad eventually purchased a trampoline for our own yard. No longer would seven rug rats be knocking on the neighbor's sliding door, begging to jump. We were thrilled to have our own tramp, but it wasn't the same. It was new and stiff and didn't bounce as easily and as high as the in-ground beauty next door. But we and our friends jumped ferociously, purposefully in hopes of breaking it in, all the while doing our best to ignore the screaming and crying and fighting we could hear through the windows, evidence that it was Mom and Dad's marriage that had been broken, irreparably.

After the divorce, my dad got custody of the tramp. Custody of the kids was a far less desirable affair for him, so with few kids in residence and even fewer visiting, the tramp was never fully broken in. It was eventually sold, and we kids moved on, grew up, never dared to look back.

Except that the lure of the tramp couldn't be forgotten. Luckily Jim -- who also had frequented the coin-operated trampoline in town, long before I ever knew him -- fondly recalled the joy of jumping as much as I did. So together we purchased a trampoline for our daughters.

The girls and their friends spent many a summer day bouncing away and several summer nights attempting sleepovers on the tramp, usually ending in mid-night scrambles into the house because of scary neighborhood noises or dampness from the dew soaking their sleeping bags.

My daughters had their own versions of bouncing bliss that included front flips, seat wars, add-on and a game I never really understood dubbed the Uncle David Game, concocted during an extended visit from my brother. The girls never mastered the swan dive or the one-and-a-half -- at least not that I ever saw. Not because they weren't capable but because I had become an overprotective mom and although I wanted them to experience the incomparable joy of jumping, I worried endlessly that one poorly executed flip would break their neck resulting in certain death or at least paralysis, so I limited the tricks they were allowed.

I myself wasn't allowed to do much jumping on the new tramp either, not out of fear of a broken neck but out of fear of how my bladder may perform, battered and bruised as it had become by three pregnancies in rapid succession. So I'd jump carefully only now and then, do a few knees, seats, backs, a stomach here and there. Sometimes I'd even engage in a seat war with the girls.

But never again did I do a flip -- front, back or otherwise. Never again have I felt as in command of graceful moves, a graceful body as I did thirty-six summers ago when I very first mastered the tramp.

Today's question:

When have you felt the most graceful?