From Huff/Post50: Who puts baby in a corner? Not this grandma

This post, sans the photos, was originally published on Huff/Post50, my first post as an official Huffington Post blogger.

Different grandmas, different styles

My favorite grandma never spanked me. She also never yelled at me, reprimanded me, restricted me.

My not-so-favorite grandma? Well, she never spanked me, either. She did, though, once make me drink grape juice I didn’t want. I immediately vomited up the purple stuff; Grandma immediately yelled at me for doing so. From that moment on, my “Favorite Grandma” title went to my other grandma—and my “Least Favorite Juice” designation went to grape.

When it came to being disciplined by my grandmothers, things could have been far worse. Back in the day—yes, that day—it was common for grandparents, heck, even neighbors and strangers, not to spare the rod when they deemed necessary, even when it came to children not their own.

I got lucky. Not in that I was a child above reproach and reprimand, but that my grandmothers pretty much left such things to my parents. Except when it came to drinking one’s juice.

Now that I’m a grandma, I consider those grandparenting styles, the disciplinary actions of my grandmothers, as well as the way the grandparents to my own children—my parents, my in-laws—conducted themselves with their grandkids.

The (step) patriarch of my husband’s family regularly swatted upside the heads those grandkids who committed minor infractions. I often wondered as a new member of my husband’s family if his step-dad’s popping kids for this and that was how he became known as “Pop” to the family.

My own mother, grandma to my three daughters, didn’t pop grandkids upside the head, but she often spanked on the rears the children of my younger sisters, regularly made them sit in the corner for misbehaving.

My sister-in-law and my sisters were okay with Pop and Grandma coming down hard on their kids. Both grandparents played a prominent role in helping the single moms raise the kiddos, so that may be why they were given more authority. It worked for their families. To each his own.

I, though, wasn’t okay with such disciplining of my own.

Not that my children were perfect by any means, or that they didn’t deserve to be disciplined upon breaking bad. But if the discipline necessary went beyond a stern look or word, perhaps a slight swat upon a diapered bottom for safety’s sake, we had an unspoken “hands off” policy. Nobody puts my babies in a corner—except for their dad and me.

Yet my husband and I didn’t put our kids in the corner. Nor did we pop them on the head now and then. We did, though, hand out some fairly strict disciplinary action when our daughters needed it. We sent them to their rooms, and we took away privileges. On occasion, we even spanked them.

When it comes to my grandsons, though—ages four-and-a-half and one-and-a-half— spanking, shaming, popping upside one’s head just isn’t my style. I know some grandmas do it, but I won’t. I simply cannot imagine inflicting the slightest bit of pain upon my grandsons.

That doesn’t mean I’ve not inflicted emotional pain, though. Unintentionally, I assure you, just as my not-so-favorite grandma did with the grape juice.

Case in point: As a long-distance grandma, I pack a pretty hefty lot of luggage when I visit my grandsons. In that luggage is always what we call my “Grandma Bag,” filled with crafts, books, and fun to fill the time with the boys. The rule is that my grandsons must wait until I share treasures from my bag, not go into it themselves.

Also in my luggage—as surely applies to many a grandparent—is medication. Pills and more that should never, ever be touched by little ones and one of the reasons my grandsons are not allowed in “Gramma’s room” unless I’m with them.

Most can likely guess what happened: I entered my room one morning to find my oldest grandson sitting on the floor, happily going through the goodies in my Grandma Bag, the bag that had been in my suitcase, right beside those other things he was to never, ever, touch. He peered up at me with a grin over all the fun Gramma had in store—then immediately realized the mistake he’d made. He burst into tears, I calmly reminded him that he’s to never, ever touch Gramma’s things without first asking.

After lots of tears from him and lots of lecturing from me, my grandson apologized for the bad choice he’d made. I, of course, forgave him. The question is, did he forgive me? I know firsthand that grudges toward grandmas can run deep, and I didn’t want my grandson to forever hold against me the Grandma Bag incident.

Regardless of whether my grandson forever revokes from me the “Favorite Grandma” designation or not, I hope he will eventually realize my response could have been far different, could have included a spanking.

With the holidays upon us, what other grandmas might do may be tested. Families will gather, kids will act up. Some grandparents will spank or send kids into corners, some parents will bristle. Or not. To each his own.

I just know that when it comes to my own, nobody puts my grandbabies in a corner—except, maybe, their own mom and dad.

Today's question:

What is your experience with grandparents disciplining your children or you disciplining your own grandchildren?

To give or receive? Which one I prefer and why

News flash: It's far better to give than to receive!

Okay, that's not really a news flash. We've all heard the adage again and again. Many of us even agree with it.

I'm one of those who agree. I thoroughly enjoy giving gifts of any sort—time, service, something tangible of varying dollar amounts—to those I care about. This holiday season, most of the gifts I'll be giving will be handmade by me. Not because I'm uber crafty like so many other grandmas, but because after years and years of telling my family, "Okay, things are tight this year so Christmas is going to be smaller than usual," this year it really will be smaller than usual. The smallest ever, in fact, at least in terms of money spent.

All I want to add about that is Hallelujah for Pinterest! I'm so thankful the latest and greatest in social media has removed the stigma from presenting homemade presents. Or so I'm counting on regarding the gifts I'll be wrapping up and placing under the Christmas tree.

So, I like giving things, making things, presenting presents of varying awesomeness to my loved ones. Without a doubt, I prefer the giving far more than the receiving.

It's not only for the obvious reasons, though. While I love giving gifts, I'm not an incredibly selfless, altruistic person who wants nothing more than to give and give and give without ever getting in return. I like getting stuff. I like when someone has thoughtfully considered what might please me, make me smile, warm my heart.

The part I don't like is the pressure to make sure the one presenting me with a gift knows to their very core that I am indeed happy as a clam with what they've given. I'm not good at that part. I don't whoop nor holler nor scream in delight upon opening a gift. Even if it's something I have yearned for, begged for time and again. Not even when it's something special I never in my wildest dreams thought I'd receive (think DSLR camera from Jim last Christmas, an original The Eloping Angels from him many years before).

I sincerely appreciate every single gift ever given to me and every single gift that just might come my way in the future. I think it's the giving part of me, though, that really throws a wrench in the whole receiving part of the gifting tradition. Primarily because I want to give in return exactly the response the giver hopes to see from me. And, as I mentioned, I suck at that. No matter how much or in how many different ways I try to express that I lovelovelove whatever it may be and how thrilled I am it was given to me, I always feel I fail at being exuberant enough, loud enough in my thanks and hoorays.

And I hatehatehate that kind of pressure because I don't want to let down anyone who gives me anything.

My family—bless them, each and every one—continues to give me gifts, despite my neuroticism. They know me well enough, have seen enough Christmas mornings when I wasn't whooping and hollering, to understand I express my thanks and appreciation differently. Quietly. Sometimes with tears. In fact, it's become a bit of a game in my family to see whose gift will make Mom cry.

Which, alas, only adds more pressure. (See? Neurotic.)

I don't look forward to such pressure come the exchanging of Christmas gifts. I do, though, look forward to giving my homemade gifts to my loved ones. For it is indeed—to neurotics such as myself, as well as to selfless, altruistic folk—far better to give than it is to receive.

Sometimes and for some people, it's just the easier thing to do.

Today's question:

What percentage of your holiday gifts will be homemade this year?

Grandma's snafu and some Fun.

Yesterday I posted the One-Word Wednesday post, with the one word being neighbors. It should have been snafu, for that's what my Wednesday turned out to be: one big snafu.

I typically write my blog posts the day before they're posted. But after spending the majority of Wednesday sitting at the hospital, not having taken a shower nor eaten except for two slurps of oatmeal as I headed out the door in a rush, creative and like writing are words the very furthest from what might describe how I felt after inhaling the last piece of pumpkin pie and finally jumping in the shower at 5 p.m. That's P.M.

Bottom line: I didn't feel like writing this post.

What I felt like, no, what I needed, was a little fun. Fun to counteract the day-long snafu.

Fortunately it's fairly easy to find such things online, and I quickly found the following Fun.—with a capital F and a period at the end:

That's not the Fun. I originally set out to share (I do so enjoy the band), but once I stumbled across that song, the message to carry on fit more perfectly than the other Fun. I had in mind.

A final note: Do know that I'm fine, my family is fine, everyone is fine. Wednesday was just a sucky, snafu of a day.

Also know—especially those who may think once the kids leave home it's all fun of the lower-case sort for parents in an empty nest—you will always be a parent, always be the one called when they're scared, always be the one to help when asked or needed, even when it makes for one heck of a non-fun, non-productive snafu of a day.

Carry on...!

Today's question:

What kind of fun do you prefer after a snafu of a day?

Grandparenting as a second chance: 15 things I'd do this time around

Some grandmas and grandpas consider being a grandparent their second chance at parenting, their opportunity to do things right, do things forgotten.

Not me. I don't see my time as Gramma being a do-over for my time as Mom. I've already had the headache, hassle, heartache of being a parent. I'm happy now to enjoy my time with my grandchildren without feeling the need to make good on all the things I neglected, all the ways I screwed up with my children. For one thing, there's no way to make up for what was—with those kids or with the kids of those kids.

If it were, though, if being a grandparent really did provide an opportunity for do-overs, here are a few things I'd do better the second time around:

• Go on more family bike rides.

• Complete a doll house for the girls. Boys, too, if they wanted one.

• Be more adamant about flossing.

• Allow them to order dessert now and then when dining out. Or an appetizer, instead of saying the budget's too tight for either.

• Teach them to sew, regardless of their gender.

• Not allow them to quit musical instruction, be it band, choir, guitar lessons.

• Not allow them to quit sports mid-season, either.

• On the other hand, I'd be more adamant about them quitting bad relationships sooner.

• Take them camping as teens, even if they didn't want to go. Once they got out in the boonies, they'd surely appreciate the s'mores, stories, and sky of endless stars regardless of their protests from home.

• Go on more picnics. And Sunday drives, with no particular destination, agenda, goal.

• Buy them each a camera at a younger age. (A far easier consideration now that the cost of developing photos is no longer a factor.)

• Allow more slumber parties. Though not co-ed, as seems currently in fashion.

• Sing more.

• Hug more.

• Remember more.

Today's question:

What would you do differently if given parenting do-overs?

5 things my husband has never done (plus 5 I've never done either)

Yesterday morning as I chopped my apple to place in my instant oatmeal before nuking it (good stuff; you should try it), I thought about all the apples Megan had at her house while I was there last week. She has a lot. All different kinds, too, from galas—my fave—to honeycrisp and yellow ones of some sort and more.

"Preston won't stop buying them," she told me, followed by a wish he'd buy fruit that's a little easier for Bubby and Mac—especially Mac— to eat rather than crisp and crunchy apples. (That require coring and slicing and, in Mac's case, peeling and dicing, too.)

As I cut my apple yesterday morning, I thought about Preston picking out apples for his family and realized that Jim, my husband, has likely never, ever bought an apple. Not for his family, not for himself. I buy the apples. All the apples...which are usually gala because those are what I like. Even when the girls lived at home, I was the family apple buyer.

Considering my apple for yesterday's breakfast and all the apples I've bought in the past while Jim has never bought a single one, I thought of some other things that Jim has never done in our 30+ years together. Things he's never done because I did them. For example:

Five things my husband has never done (because I did/do)

1. Not only has Jim never bought apples, he's never done the weekly shopping for our household.

2. He's never wrapped all the Christmas gifts. Or birthday gifts.

3. He's never played Tooth Fairy.

4. He's never done the back-to-school shopping. Or any clothes shopping with and for our daughters. (A special hell all its own, one you may know if you've had teen daughters.)

5. He's never cooked breakfast for the family.

Seeing how it's the political season, though, and I don't want to seem as mud-slinging as those running for office, in the interest of providing fair and balanced coverage here on Grandma's Briefs, I offer this:

Five things I have never done (because my husband did/does)

1. I've never changed a tire. Ever. Embarrassing but true.

2. I've never climbed an extension ladder and hung holiday lights on the outside of our house.

3. I've never worked three jobs at one time to keep our family afloat.

4. I've never wired a light fixture, a ceiling fan, an outlet that needed repair.

5. I've never changed a catheter bag. He did—mine, twenty or so years ago during an especially scary time. (Probably more scary for him than me, to be honest.)

Now is the place in my post that I should be wrapping it all up with a point. That point, though, has morphed, the more I wrote, the more I considered my lists.

I originally planned to point out what a helpful son-in-law I have, for Preston not only buys apples and has even done the weekly shopping, he changes poopy diapers and bathes my grandsons pert-near as often as does my daughter. While that's cool and admirable and something I appreciate, it's no longer my point.

My point now is this: Who needs a husband to buy freakin' apples when they're willing to change your pee bag?

Not me.

photo: stock.xchng

Today's question:

What is your favorite kind of apple? (Bet that's not the question you expected, is it?)

Brave chickens

My girls — No longer this crazy but now twice as brave.
 

The spookiness of the season seems to be taking its toll on my grandsons.

Mac, who's 16 months old and has been sleeping through the night for quite some time, has awakened screaming in the middle of the night for more than a week now. After ruling out illness, teething, earaches and pains, the only logical reason may be nightmares attributed to spider and ghost decor, plus viewings of Mickey's House of Villains at Bubby's side.

And Bubby, who loves those cartoons of Donald and Mickey braving scary places and villains in his current favorite DVD, doesn't fare as well with his own made-up tales. Megan said Bubby asked for a flashlight a few evenings ago and for Megan to join him in a spooky storytelling session. Only, once Bubby started telling the spooky made-up tale he hoped to share, he declared, "No, I gotta stop! It's too scary!" Megan tried to convince him that as he was the storyteller, the degree of spookiness was completely up to him, yet Bubby refused to go on.

Megan's concerned a bit by Mac's fears, chuckles a bit at Bubby's. I told her to consider what a chicken she was as a child. This is the daughter who, all the way up until leaving for college, would literally run to and from the bathroom if she had to pee in the middle of the night and who used a night light up until she got married. Heck, I'm pretty sure she still uses a night light—disguised as two baby monitors she swears she can't yet give up, for the boys' sake, of course.

Megan is a chicken. Her boys clearly take after her.

In so many other ways, though, Megan is far from a chicken, and brave far beyond what I ever expected of my chicken little girl. She was the first daughter to go far away to a college where she knew no one, a place seven hours from home. She also was the first to move far away from the family home after college to make her own home with her husband. And she was the first to bravely run an official half marathon race—a challenge she asked her sisters to do along with her, for their first times, in just a few weeks.

Her sisters accepted the invitation and will fly to the desert the first weekend of November to run 13.1 miles with Megan. Which shouldn't surprise me as my girls—typically so very different in so very many ways—are very much the same when it comes to bravery in the face of challenge and opportunity.

My youngest, Andrea, has from day one done crazy, daring acts that forever live in family lore. Things like the time she unexpectedly jumped from our boat while no one was looking, right into the cold waters of a mountain lake where we vacationed, just to shock us all. Or touched her tongue to the frozen wrought iron stair railing to see if it really would stay stuck to it (it did). And like yesterday, when she flew off—alone—on yet another solo vacation to parts of the country she's not yet seen.

My oldest, Brianna, may not (yet) take vacations on her own, but she regularly stares down fear and faces challenges of other sorts. One example: This weekend she is riding a bike down Pikes Peak. Yes, you read that right. Early tomorrow morning, Brianna and a friend will, starting at the summit, hop on bicycles—not motorcycles—and pedal down the 14,000-foot-plus mountain. For fun. Crazy, crazy, crazy. And brave, I must admit.

How that happened—how my daughters ended up brave in so many ways—I have no clue. They definitely didn't get it from me. They didn't get it from Jim, either, to be sure, as we're both rather chicken-like in myriad ways of our own.

So when it comes to Bubby and Mac being scared—whether at Halloween or of harrowing acts in the future—I'll continually advise them to look to their mommy and aunts as role models on how to be brave, how to feel most any fear yet do most anything anyway.

For models of bravery are what my daughters have been to me, and what they will always be.

Regardless of how long they use a nightlight.

Today's question:

What about Halloween used to (or still does) make a chicken of you?

Fare thee well

Last evening, PawDad and I had a farewell chit-chat on the trampoline with Bubby and Mac.

This morning, we're on our way home.

Farewell to thee, farewell to thee
Thou charming one who dwells in shaded bowers
One fond embrace ere I depart
Until we meet again.
      ~Queen Lydia Kamakaeha Lili’uokalani

Today's fill-in-the-blank:

I recently bid farewell to _________.