No filter necessary

While I admit the truth hurts in many a case, unfiltered truths coming from the mouth of a three-and-a-half-year-old do no harm at all. Especially when the pint-sized truth-bearer is Bubby.

Bubby has a lot of toys. More toys than many a kid needs or could possibly ever play with. So when choosing a small gift to send my grandsons for Valentine's Day, I settled on some dinnerware from the Target dollar bin that sported robots on the plates, bowls, and eating utensils for Bubby. I packed them into a gift bag decorated with a robot, and added a box of chocolate/peanut butter candies and a lollipop decorated with a scene from The Adventures of Tin Tin.

I thought it was a pretty darn good gift, considering that Bubby and I—at his urging—did a lot of conversing in robot talk when we were last together, that chocolate and peanut butter are the only food groups he willingly consumes, and that he joyfully expressed his love for the Tin Tin movie when he and I saw it together.

I got a call Valentine's Day evening. Bubby's sweet little voice on the other end immediately announced, "Happy Valentimes Day, Gramma. Thank you for the package."

"Oh, you're welcome, sweetie!" I said. "How did you like it?"

"I really needed a toy," Bubby replied in a serious tone.

"Yeah, but you have lots of toys," I told him. "Now you can think of Gramma every time you eat on your robot dishes."

"Oh," he said, still quite serious. "I really needed a toy."

At that point, Megan took over the phone. "Ah, the truthfulness of a three-year-old," she said.

If it were anyone else responding to my gift in such a way, I might be offended. Not at all with Bubby, though. He probably really did feel like he needed a new toy and Gramma's lack of compliance clearly disappointed. Nothing wrong with him telling it like it is.

Bubby's response to the gift didn't surprise me a bit as he usually does tell it like it is. And sometimes his lack of a filter is just so darn sweet that he's forgiven for those times when it's not.

The purpose of my recent trip to the desert was for me to stay with my grandsons while Megan and Preston attended an out-of-state conference related to Preston's job. Late into the third day of babysitting duty, I sat in the rocker feeding Baby Mac when Bubby, who had been in the nearby playroom, sidled up to the side of the rocker, leaned his head on my arm and said in the most woebegone of voices, "I have a picture of Mommy and Daddy. I just wish it was real. I miss them double."

Oh, sweet sorrow unfiltered.

Bubby's expressions of love and joy are equally unfiltered. Later that same day, Bubby was tickling Baby Mac, causing them both to giggle up a storm. Bubby finished up the tickle session, nonchalantly walked away from his baby brother, and turned to tell me, "I love him bad. And he loves me bad."

When I later relayed both Bubbyisms to Megan, she responded with, "Awww...my little love bunny."

And a love bunny he certainly is. An unfiltered love bunny, that is, for better or worse.

I'm crossing my fingers Bubby remains unfiltered for many more years to come, for I wouldn't want my grandson any other way—even if it means hearing the truth about gifts from Gramma that weren't exactly what the little love bunny had hoped for. Or needed.

Today's question:

Which of your relationships would most benefit from a better filter—on statements made by you or to you?

Love manners and matters

When I was a child, I rated my affection for something based on one question: Did I love it more than I loved my mom? To me, love was a hierarchy, and Mom was firmly and forever at the top.

Sure, I loved macaroni and cheese, I loved mashed potatoes, I loved listening to the Bay City Rollers and wearing my ever so stylish elephant pants. But did I love those things more than Mom? Not even close.

I soon started applying the same question to people. I loved my sixth-grade teacher, but not more than Mom. I loved my BFF, but not more than Mom. I even thought I loved a boy or two, but certainly not more than Mom. (Their failing the test, I now see, was truly a blessing for me.)

Then came Jim. I soon learned a very important lesson: My love test was silly, my love test was naive. Love isn't a matter of degree, I realized, it's a matter of manner, and I loved Jim in a far different manner than I loved my mom. Not more, not less, just different.

Yes, I loved my mom, but I sure didn't want to spend the rest of my life with her. I did, though, want to spend the rest of my life with Jim. Fortunately he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me, too. So we married. And had kids.

When the first baby was born, there was the struggle of coming to terms with the fact—for Jim and for me—that the manner of baby love was such that it required more attention, more nurturing, more time than anything else in our world. It wasn't a matter of loving the baby more than Jim, though it took a while to convince him of that.

When the second baby was set to arrive, I had to convince myself that I wouldn't love my first more than the second. I had yet to learn how much the heart expands with each child. The lesson was confirmed when that second baby arrived. And again when the third baby arrived.

Again and again I've learned—and did my best to teach—that each and every one of those loves of my life were loved the very most I could possibly love, just all in a different manner. I've never loved one child more than another; they're loved in manners befitting them. Sure, there were—and continue to be—days when one drives me more batty than another, but that has nothing to do with love. I love them all fully, love them all completely. I just love my oldest daughter in a manner far different than the second, which is far different than the third. I like to think, and continue to hope, that the manner in which I love them is the manner in which they need, deserve, love in return.

If you're a mother, you get that.

When I learned I'd be a grandmother, though, I clearly didn't get it. Not fully. I wasn't sure I could love my grandchild as much as I loved my children. How, how, how could I, I wondered, when I loved my girls so fully and completely?

Again the matter of manners came into play. The manner in which I love my first grandson is so very different than the manner in which I love his mom...and his aunts. No one more, no one less, all of them different.

Which made it easier when my second grandson came along. I now fully and completely love him, too, yet in a manner so different from how I love his brother.

It's been more than thirty years since I first learned the lesson that love isn't a hierarchy or a matter of degrees, that it's a matter of manners. My love has grown to encompass so many in that time. I love my grandsons. I love my daughters. And I love my cats, my dogs, my house, my home. I do still love macaroni and cheese, too, and do still love potatoes. The Bay City Rollers? Well, not so much anymore.

Through all the additions, though, I still love my mom.

And I still truly and deeply love Jim.

And despite all that we've been through in our decades together, all the other manners—and the oft-heartbreaking matters—that have been thrown into the mix, I do still want to spend the rest of my life with him.

All of my manners of love matter, but today, that is the manner that matters the most.

Happy Valentines Day!

photo: stock.xchng

Today's question:

What love manners and matters are on your mind today?

The Saturday Post: National Old Rock Day edition

Thought the holidays were over? Think again, for today is a holiday of a special sort: It's National Old Rock Day!

In recognition of National Old Rock Day, here is a video of some of the oldest rocks in town, my town: the glorious rock formations of Garden of the Gods. And to double your pleasure for National Old Rock Day, the video is accompanied by a rendition of a popular tune by some old rockers themselves, Led Zeppelin. (If you don't like Zeppelin—or if the rendition grates on your nerves as it did mine after a mere moment or two, despite being a huge Zeppelin fan—just mute it; the imagery is worth viewing in silence.)

Not only is Garden of the Gods mere minutes from my home (25 to be exact, per Google), it's where Preston proposed to Megan in 2005...at sunrise. Sweet!

Happy National Old Rock Day!

Today's question:

What does the term "old rock" make you think of?

Meet the (great) grandparents

Bubby and Baby Mac arrived to Gramma and PawDad's house on Christmas Day for their extended holiday visit. Awaiting their arrival were their maternal great grandparents—my mom as well as my dad and stepmom, Ann.

My dad and Ann had met Bubby before, of course, but this was their first introduction to the ever-curious (and ever expressive) Baby Mac.

Baby Mac didn't give a hoot about introductions and photos; he wanted only to grab hold of Ann's hair. Which he did:

Also ready to hand out Christmas hugs though both boys had seen her in October was my mom, aka Nonnie Kelly to them. (Not to be confused with the Nonnie Kelly Grandma's Briefs regular who, although awesome and someone I'd love to have in my family, is not our Nonnie Kelly. No, my mom is the Grandma's Briefs commenter Ann...not to be confused with Ann who is my dad's wife. Yes, things get a tad confusing around here at times.)

Anyway, when Bubby and Baby Mac visited with our Nonnie Kelly in October, I realized far too late that I had forgotten to get a four-generation photo of the gang while we were all together. Thankfully I had a chance to rectify that on Christmas Day:

Just one more reason (or technically three, I suppose) my new DSLR from Santa came in handy.

Today's question:

When did you last have a photo taken with one or more of your grandparents? What about great grandparents?

Running the Tough Grand Mudder

There is a hardcore obstacle course event my daughters, my son-in-law, and many of Jim's and my nephews—and thousands of other unrelated but equally crazy competitive athletic sorts—hope to one day run. The Tough Mudder adventure series bills itself as "probably the toughest event on the planet" and it looks like this:

Last week I ran my own Tough Mudder of sorts. I call it the Tough Grand Mudder. It was a test of stamina, strength, grit, grace, and ultimate grandma skills as Bubby and Baby Mac, along with their parents, traveled over the river, through the woods, out of the desert and up to the mountains to spend the Christmas holiday at Gramma's house. Those who run the Tough Mudder have their strength and stamina tested in one day; this grandma's event ran pert near six days. (Take that, Tough Mudders!)

For much of the Tough Grand Mudder I was merely a secondary team member for when Megan was around, she served as Ultimate Champion and I her wingman. There were, though, many events I ran alone, as Megan and Preston took Gramma up on offers to babysit while they participated elsewhere in shopping, dining, happy-houring, and movie-going events. Whether running solo or accompanying Megan, fact remains that for nearly six days I braved not mud but harrowing liquids of another sort spewed, spilled and squirted from a three-and-a-half-year-old and a seven-month-old, in addition to braving obstacles and challenges sure to trip up even the most built and most brave of the Tough Mudder competitors.

A small sampling of my Tough Grand Mudder challenges:

• The solo event of spooning pureed bananas into the mouth of the youngest grandson while the other called from the bathroom, "Gramma, I'm done, I need wiped" then dashing to do the wiping, washing hands, and racing back to the child left alone in the highchair in record time.

• Tag-team bath time of two kiddos in the tub, Mommy doing the scrubbing and shampooing while Gramma photographed the session, then the hand off of Mommy taking youngest, Grammy taking oldest, then getting both dried, lotioned, dressed while the desert-bred babes shivered. (One run-through featured more liquid than inticipated—due not to the bath water but to a delay in diapering.)

• Another solo event requiring Gramma to entertain oldest grandson while changing a disgustingly stinky diaper on the baby then dash up a flight of stairs, out the front door, off to the garbage can to dispose of the disgustingly stinky diaper outside as it reeked far too much to keep inside then race back with mind-blowing speed in hopes of getting down the stairs before Baby Speedy Gonzalez entered unsafe zones of the family room. (Yes, baby could have been toted for the trip outdoors but with temps below freezing, that wouldn't be a wise route to take.)

• A family event in which all but baby sit down for dinner in the dining room and take turns taking a bite then quickly dropping utensils and jumping up to move baby away from the Christmas tree in the adjacent living room. Bonus points went to Gramma, Daddy, and Aunt B for being the only ones to actively participate in this event.

• Another solo event of attempting to make breakfast while oldest grandson requested every pot and pan (plus a few bowls) along with magical mixing utensils for banging then proceeded to set up a baking-and-banging shop for himself and his brother at Gramma's feet in the kitchen.

• Cleaning up after holiday meals while dodging a three-and-a-half-year-old racing through the living room, dining room, and kitchen while pushing his monster truck in the noisiest Monster Truck Race of the Century. Required consistent "Ready...Set...Go!" starting-line shouts from Gramma (and others) as well as appropriate cheers and awarding of trophies at the finish line...again and again and again.

• Feeding the baby a bottle while, for the three-and-a-half-year-old, making popcorn in Gramma's old-timey popcorn machine, serving it up in festive popcorn cups, and getting a sufficiently attention-grabbing flick going on the big screen. Another solo event—one in which feeding the baby his bottle was put on hold far more often than he appreciated.

• Non-stop chasing and non-stop redirecting of the quickest seven-month-old non-stop crawler, non-stop climber, non-stop curiosity seeker this grandma—probably this entire country—has ever seen.

I did all those events. And more. Maybe not with the best time, maybe not with the greatest of grace and ease, but I did them. I admit there were a few major events outlined in the original course that I couldn't fit in—making a snowman with Bubby, taking him to the PJB restaurant and to the soda shop, to name a few—but I completed the majority of the course as originally set. And—something I'm sure Tough Mudders cannot lay claim to—I even managed to get a blog post published each and every day during the event.

Competitors who complete the Tough Mudder likely get a T-shirt, possibly a medal, and they surely leave exhausted but with an immense sense of incredible accomplishment. I was handed no T-shirt, no medal for completing the Tough Grand Mudder. My rewards were far better—hugs and kisses, "I love you"s and "Thank you"s and giggles and grins galore. Plus photos, lots and lots of photos. And I, like the Tough Mudders, was utterly exhausted at the end but felt an immense sense of incredible accomplishment.

I've heard—and have seen in my daughters—that participating in running events and athletic challenges can be addicting. I now understand the addiction, the attraction. There's another Tough Grand Mudder event scheduled for the end of January, this time in the desert. My battle cry? Sign me up! I'm one tough grandmudder and I'm ready for more!

Today's question:

What was your biggest challenge over the holidays?

Magic, dreams & good madness to you

 

May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you’re wonderful, and don’t forget to make some art—write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. May your coming year be a wonderful thing in which you dream both dangerously and outrageously.

I hope you will make something that didn’t exist before you made it, that you will be loved and you will be liked and you will have people to love and to like in return. And most importantly, because I think there should be more kindness and more wisdom in the world right now—I hope that you will, when you need to, be wise and that you will always be kind. And I hope that somewhere in the next year you surprise yourself.

~ Neil Gaiman, for 2010

Graphic: The Graphics Fairy

The Saturday Post: NYE edition

Just in time for the holiday, a version of What Are You Doing New Year's Eve performed by Zooey Deschanel/Joseph Gordon-Levitt has become quite popular on the internet. It's simple fun by two adorable celebrities. I must say, however, that I'm especially partial to the following version of the song, performed by a young non-celebrity gal from Branson named Madeline Huerta. (Chalk it up to the grandma in me, I suppose.)

Today's question:

What are you doing New Year's Eve?