Mom 2.0 redux

Not too long ago, I wrote a post called Mom 2.0 better than Mom 1.0 highlighting nine ways Megan (Mom 2.0) has outdone her mother (me, Mom 1.0). Well, she's gone and done it again -- taken what I've taught her and bumped it up a notch.

Consider this post reason No. 10 why Mom 2.0 is better than Mom 1.0.

As many of you know, Megan and Preston hosted our Thanksgiving gathering this year. Megan has never prepared the Thanksgiving meal and has only once cooked a turkey by herself. Yet she took it upon herself to do something I have never done, something I had previously never even heard of: Megan brined the Thanksgiving turkey.

And I must admit, it turned out to be the most delectably moist and flavorful turkey I think I've ever had.

Megan soaked the turkey in a savory solution for a day or so. Then she seasoned it well (before taking off for the Turkey Trot, I might add).

She baked it and basted it and recruited Preston for the heavy lifting of the 20-pound tom in and out of the oven.

Once roasted to golden perfection, Preston carved the bird -- his first time ever charged with Thanksgiving carving duty.

What a turkey! What a team!

Yes indeed, Mom 2.0 once again improves upon Mom 1.0. And it's only right to throw in a few props for Dad 2.0 (Preston) for doing the carving honors -- something Dad 1.0 (Jim) has yet to attempt.

In light of the savory success of Megan's turkey brining, I'm thinking about trying out the method soon myself. I just so happen to have a spare turkey in the freezer, happily waiting to be brined and baked.

And maybe -- just maybe -- Jim will be happily waiting to try out carving the bird himself once it's done.

These kids of mine continually amaze me. I thought I was the one who was supposed to be teaching them a thing or two, yet they've been pretty darn good so far at teaching me a thing or two. For starters, that soaking a turkey in salt water really does make it more moist.

And that it really is possible to run a 5k in the morning and still get Thanksgiving dinner on the table by early afternoon. Doing both while pregnant.

Did I mention that my kids continually amaze me?

Today's question:

What's something you've learned from one you're more typically in charge of teaching (a child, grandchild ... pet?)?

Can he hear me now?

For the past month or so, Megan and I have had several conversations regarding Bubby's speech. Sometimes it seems he has a vast vocabulary; other times it seems he's regressing in his ability to pronounce words.

Bubby's preschool teacher casually mentioned to Megan that she might consider speech therapy for Bubby. When I heard that, I suggested that the first thing she should do is have his hearing checked. When Andrea was young, she had speech problems, all related to too many ear infections and an ignorant doctor who refused to put tubes in her ears, despite my insistence. (She eventually got the tubes as well as speech therapy and is now a masterful speaker.)

During my recent visit to the desert, it became clear that the fears and worries about Bubby's ability to talk appear to be unfounded. Bubby talks up a storm, all the time, about all things. He did, though, have a tendency -- especially at dinner time -- to interrupt the adult conversation with "What you say, Dad?" or "What you say, Mom?" Megan said she thinks it's more his way of having things explained to him that he didn't understand than it is a hearing problem. I agreed with her.

So other than needing work on a few vocabulary skills such as blends and digraphs -- for which I suggested activities from lessons that are part of the tutoring program I follow as a tutoring site coordinator -- Bubby's speech and hearing seem to be a non-issue.

At least it was until last Friday.

Megan called me Friday evening and said in a very serious tone, "You won't believe what your grandson has done." Of course, I imagined all kinds of deadly or dastardly deeds and feared for the physical and psychological well-being of my grandson.

The story from Megan was that she had come home from work Friday afternoon, bid goodbye to GiGi -- Bubby's paternal great-grandma who babysits him on Fridays -- then went about her usual afternoon activities. Bubby, though, was acting rather unusual. Again and again he asked Megan, "What you say?" and kept saying "What? I can't hear you" and "Turn it up, Mommy, I can't hear it" regarding his television programs.

His insistence led Megan to inspect the little guy's ears, where she found what appeared to be excess wax build-up in one ear.

So she and Preston proceeded to remove the wax. All the while Bubby insisted "It's a seed." Megan explained to him that, no, it's not a seed, it's ear wax and Daddy's gonna get it out.

Daddy skillfully removed the gunk. Only it wasn't gunk, it was indeed, as Bubby tried to convince them, a seed. A popcorn kernel, to be exact.

Instead of telling Mommy, "See, I told you it was a seed," as I imagine Megan herself would have said as a kid, Bubby simply announced of his now clear-as-a-bell audio ability, "I can hear!"

Funny thing is, Megan said she can't recall the last time they had popcorn!

Bubby later told Mommy he found kernels under the couch and proceeded to put one in his mouth and one in his ear. Why in the world he would stick a popcorn kernel in his ear is beyond any of us.

The real question, though, is how long has the darn thing been in there?

Even more so, how did all of us who have bathed Bubby in the last month -- or hugged or kissed or played with him -- miss seeing a popcorn kernel in the little dickens' ear?!

Today's question:

Because of Bubby's silliness, the song "Beans in Your Ears" ("My mommy said not to put beans in my ears ... I can't hear the teacher with beans in my ears ...") has been stuck in my head for days now. What wacky childhood song or nursery rhyme do you find gets frustratingly stuck in your head now and again?

Hungry heart

I mentioned earlier this week Bubby's momentary thrill upon hearing his tummy growl. "Did you hear that, Gramma?" he said to me. "The baby in my tummy went RAAAAR!" Such a sweet sound of confusion coming from my grandson who thought there was a baby in his tummy, not realizing he was just hungry.

Bubby's empty stomach was a source of amusement, not pain. Other than crying as an infant when he was hungry or simply stating "I want something," as he often does now when he wants to snack, I think it was the first time Bubby was aware of his stomach growling.

I distinctly recall the first time I knew what it felt like to be so hungry it hurt. It was the early '70s and my family was packed in the station wagon, driving from Minnesota to Florida. We were on our way to Disneyworld, the one and only time all seven kids and both parents went on a true family vacation. Across several state lines. To a place every kid dreams of going. Just like normal families do.

My dad was -- still is -- a "drive straight through" kind of traveler. So with all seven of us kids making the most of the limited space allotted each, our pale green station wagon with seating for nine ticked off the miles. "Delta Dawn" and "The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia" played on the AM radio, and visions of Mickey Mouse, Haunted Mansion and Cinderella's castle danced in our heads as we headed south, paying no heed to the national gas shortage.

Restaurant stops were few and far between, due equally to the desire to knock out miles as well as my parents dreading the logistics of seating nine -- and paying for nine -- in a dining establishment. At one point, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, I recall waking from having dozed off in the backseat. My arm on which I'd slept was drenched in drool, my stomach clenched and uncomfortable. When I complained about the sensation and voiced worries that I was going to throw up, my sister snarled that it's nothing, that I was just hungry, to be quiet.

So I was quiet. And waited. And marveled that this, my aching gut, was what all those hungry kids in Africa must feel and why they'd be happy to have the food my siblings and I often picked at instead of eating.

Eventually a restaurant appeared on the horizon and all was soon right with the world in general and my growling stomach in particular.

I was blessed to not know true hunger, to not feel such pangs and worse on a regular basis. I was fortunate that the discomfort of not having enough food was so rare that I can recall one specific incident, not a childhood marked by it. I was lucky that the lack of food was due to traveling -- going to Disneyworld, for heaven's sake -- not poverty.

The same goes for Bubby. He's fortunate that the only reason the baby in his tummy "raaaared" was because he had refused to eat what he'd been given for lunch. A lunch that included many options from which to choose, many morsels to fill his tiny tummy. He had made a conscious choice to not partake.

Not all children are as lucky as Bubby is. Or I was. Not all children giggle at the noises from their tummies; many cry as their tummies gurgle and groan.

Thoughts of those gurgles and groans make my heart hurt.

Today's question:

With the holidays -- and requests for holiday donations -- bearing down upon us, what charities do you typically help out this time of year?

Somewhere in time

Sunday at 11 a.m., Jim and I settled into the car for a six-hour drive home from South Dakota. We spent the the first half of that drive, nearly three hours, without conversing, listening only to the iPod on the stereo. Mile after mile, we spoke barely a word to one another, both of us lost in thought, considering the weekend, absorbing what we'd learned.

We had left for South Dakota early Saturday morning, arriving that afternoon at the nursing home where Jim's mom resides. She was propped up in her wheelchair watching "Giant" on the tiny television on her nightstand.

We said our hellos, hugged her fragile body, taped together her broken glasses that had the lens inserted upside down, commenced a visit. "Giant" served as the primary focal point, fodder for filling awkward moments as Jim and I attempted normal conversation with his once vibrant, talkative, normal mother.

Our attempts were met with stories from Mom about her outings to various places from her past -- visits she believed had happened just days before, despite not having left the nursing home for about a year. She talked of how grand it was to have attended and be escorted down the aisle in her wheelchair at her brother's wedding, a wedding that took place more than 50 years before -- 50 years before the amputation that took part of a gangrene leg and committed her to a wheelchair earlier this year.

She talked about recently attending church at the church she and I attended together 20 years ago, when the girls were young and Jim worked on Sundays and couldn't go with us.

She talked about phone calls and visits from relatives who, in reality, rarely call, never visit.

She talked of how beautiful Elizabeth Taylor was in "Giant."

We wrapped up with a promise to return in the morning, to spend more time with her before heading back home after the quick trip. Then we went to Jim's sister's house. His oldest sister, his medically trained sister, his sister who visits their mother each and every day, his sister who best knows what to do about Mom.

My first question to her as we unpacked our bags was, "Do we go along with Mom living in the past?" Or do we call her out on such things, try to jog her memory, try to bring her back to reality? The latter was the original tack when Mom first suffered a stroke and mental impairment from violently hitting her head during the associated seizures. It no longer felt like the right tack.

Sue assured us it's not. "She's too far gone and that part of her brain will never return," she said. We learned it's best to play along, to not frustrate and confuse Mom. We learned it's best to let her reminisce about days when she felt happy, content and whole. Days now lost somewhere in time.

That's not all we learned during our too-short weekend trip. From the last boxes of Mom's personal items, the final remnants to divvy up between siblings, we learned of a few of Mom's prized possessions, things that mattered most to her.

We learned of hundreds and hundreds of photos Mom had saved in her cedar chest, many of them photos she rarely shared with the family. Treasured photos of her grandparents, her parents, her siblings, herself. Beautiful decades-old renderings of lives well-lived: births, parties, communions, weddings, new homes, new babies, new starts on life.

We learned teenaged Mom was an avid fan of the glamorous movie stars of the '40s, collecting -- and keeping -- old-time studio shots, postcards, autographs, from Dorothy Lamour, Lana Turner, Spencer Tracy, Humphrey Bogart, Gene Kelly and more.

We learned she still had Jim's baby book, achievement records, locks of hair.

We learned she had carefully tucked away the newspapers containing my very first published articles.

We learned she kept in a manilla folder in her desk every card, every letter, every thank-you note that Brianna, Megan and Andrea ever sent their beloved Granny.

We learned of these and many other things Mom held on to in hopes she'd never forget.

Mostly we learned -- during those hours of silence as Jim and I reclaimed the miles between South Dakota and home -- that we're not yet ready to fully consider the loss of Mom, of Granny. We learned we're not yet ready say the words that open the floodgates.

As we got closer and closer to Denver, we made comments here and there, turned up the radio a little louder. Jim sang. I whistled. Soon we were discussing the girls, the coming week, the never-ending to-do list.

We didn't discuss Mom.

Eventually we will.

Eventually we'll talk. Eventually we'll cry. Eventually we'll mourn.

Somewhere. Sometime.

Today's question:

What is among the treasured photos and papers you're saving?

Mom 2.0: Better than Mom 1.0

I've always considered it a parent's duty to create a better life for their children than the one they had themselves, to improve the family's lot with each generation. Regardless of how grand -- or not -- a person's life may be, there's always room for improvement, and their kids should be the beneficiaries of such.

With that in mind, I've worked hard to ensure my daughters are more content, better educated, more financially secure than I was at their age, along with myriad other upgrades in comparision to how things were for me. Now that they're all adults, I'm seeing the fruits of my labor in all of them, in numerous ways.

But as Megan is the only one of my daughters to become a mother so far, in her I see that not only is she better educated and more financially secure than I was in my mid-20s, she is a much better mom than I was at her age.

Here are nine reasons why I say that:

1. Megan has tricks and techniques for discipline, character building, motor-skill encouraging and more that I never dreamed of when my kids were Bubby's age. Most come by way of her early childhood education training and her work as a pre-K teacher, but that simply means there was a two-fold payoff from my "better educated" goal for my girls.

2. Megan is better at spacing her children than I was. I wouldn't give anything in the world for the way my babies came in rapid succession, as things really do (and did) happen for a reason. But allowing Bubby some time as an only child, with his own room and gads of attention before Baby No. 2 comes along, seems a much better plan than my non-plan nearly 30 years ago.

3. Megan swims. And hikes. And runs. And engages Bubby in outdoorsy pursuits that keep him healthy and happy. I'm a rather sedate, indoorsy kind of mom. I think outdoorsy is better.

4. Megan looks forward to Bubby playing football. I'm just thankful I never had boys and had to endure years of watching my child get knocked around on the field. I honestly don't know that I could have -- or would have -- done it. I may have ended up not allowing a son to play football ... and that son likely would have hated me for that.

5. Megan is more fearless than I ever was. She allows Bubby to find his own footing on play structures, lets him figure out how to get up and down stairs on his own at an early age, lives in the desert where rattlesnakes and scorpions roam, lets Bubby ride Roxy like a horse until Roxy gently decides enough is enough. I'm overprotective to a fault. (Brianna, Andrea, Megan: You never heard me admit that!)

6. Megan let Bubby take the lead in his potty training, making it a non-issue -- and completely accomplished in less than a week. I, on the other hand, scarred Brianna for life, I'm sure, by adherence to the idiotic ideas in a book called "Toilet Training In A Day." A day which was marked by tears, not success.

7. Megan chose godparents according to what was best for Bubby. I (along with Jim) chose godparents with the intent of honoring those chosen.

8. Megan tries new recipes for dinner every night in hopes of widening her family's culinary horizon. Well, not every night, she says, but nearly every night ... and far more often than this mother who tended to go with the tried and true far too often.

9. Last but not least, Megan taught Bubby from a very early age how to make good choices -- something I'm still trying to teach my daughters.

Megan has only one child at this point, whereas when I was her age, I had three. So the real test of my assertion that she's a better mom than I will come when babies No. 2 and No. 3 come along.

Do I question whether she'll pass? Not at all.

I have no doubt whatsoever Megan will pass with flying colors -- colors I likely would never have even dreamt of.

Wah, wah and cootchie coo

Whining and baby talk are for babies ... only!When my daughters were young, I had a crafty little sign over the doorway to the kitchen that said "No whining." Whining simply was not allowed in our house.

The girls knew early on that asking, complaining, begging, crying in a whiny tone led them nowhere. If they did that, my only response would be, "I can't understand you when you're whining."

Even as a manager in the workplace, I had a "No Whining" sign at my desk. It's incredible the number of adults who think whining will get them somewhere. With anyone. Luckily my daughters aren't one of those adults. They're not whiners. And I'm pretty sure whining now annoys them just as much as it annoys me.

One of the few things that grates on my nerves, gets my briefs in a bunch and makes me want to bop someone on the head with a Nerf bat more than whining does is baby talk.

Now, lots of grandmas engage in baby talk. I'm talking about the "Cootchie, cootchie coo" babbling that takes place over a new little one. Or the "Oh, my sweety bug, you're so precious!" kind of complimenting passed along to boys and girls alike. That's fine, I guess. To each his own -- as long as it's out of my earshot. But you'll never hear that from me. Bubby will never hear it from me. Even my dogs and cats will never hear it from me.

That doesn't mean I don't gush over cute things; I just gush in a non-baby talk manner. I love my little Bubby with all my heart and soul and I adore everyone else's little ones just as much as the next grandma. But there's something patronizing bordering on demeaning about talking in sweetsy high-pitched voices to kids. Believe me: It really is possible to let babies and others know how much you adore them without hitting the upper range of your vocal abilities and using nonsensical words. It's annoying.

More than the annoyance factor, though, I think baby talking to kids teaches them from the get-go that baby talk from them is acceptable. For, at what point do you stop the baby talk to your children or grandchildren? As they get older, they surely -- though likely subconsciously -- figure that if grandma can do it, they can do it, too. And they can't. Or at least shouldn't. And they definitely shouldn't do it in public.

I'm a site coordinator for the local children's literacy center, so I come across a lot of kids. I'm continually amazed at the number of them -- children in elementary school and older -- who talk in baby talk. To adults! It drives me nuts. I find it not only annoying, I think it's sad. The poor kids haven't been empowered to use their words to say what they mean, what they want, what they truly wish to express. Instead, they've been taught to depend on a cutesy, baby voice (or worse yet, whiney baby voice), in hopes that baby talk will get them what they want. Or soften the blow of what they're really trying to say. Or endear someone to their cutesy ways.

Which it doesn't. At least not with me ... and surely not with their teachers or other adults, I would venture to say.

So moms, grandmas -- dads, aunts, uncles, any other adults who interact with children, too -- do the kids in your life a favor and put an end to baby talk. From our mouths and the mouths of the little ones. It's annoying.

And it's just as bad as whining.

Which I can't imagine being taught as acceptable by any grandma or other adult, not just crabby non-baby-talking grandmas such as myself.

Today's question:

Which do you find more annoying -- whining or baby talk?

ARE the kids all right?

Over the weekend, I finished reading The Kids Are All Right by Diana and Liz Welch, with Amanda and Dan Welch. The memoir, in which the four Welch siblings take turns writing chapters, tells the poignant, often heartbreaking story of their once-normal childhood turned upside down by the deaths of their beloved parents: first their father in a car accident, then their mother of cancer.

Many of the chapters scrunched up my heart and made me wonder, as The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls did, how children come through such things and grow into seemingly whole, functional, successful adults.

One chapter in particular gave me pause, stopped my heart, brought tears to my eyes. Not wholly out of sympathy for the Welch kids, though, but because it rang eerily similar to an incident from my childhood.

Soon after the death of their father, the Welch children's mother encouraged a relationship between Amanda, the eldest daughter, and a young man named Duncan. Mom hoped a masculine presence would be good for her son, Dan, so she was pleased with the progression of the budding romance between Amanda and Duncan as it led to Duncan's regular visits to their home.

One night while Amanda, Duncan and Liz, the second oldest sibling, shopped for groceries, Duncan shockingly professed to Liz his love for her while Amanda was in another aisle. Once home with the groceries, he continued elaborating on the inappropriate confession to Liz, cornering the young girl in the pantry and asking her to make it "their secret." Instead, the scared Liz told Mom. Mom immediately banished Duncan from the family, leaving Liz to worry that Amanda would blame her, hate her.

When Amanda learned of Duncan's come-on to her sister, though, all she said was, "What a jerk." No anger, no disappointment ... at least not toward Liz. She renounced Duncan. She stood by her sister.

When I was 13 years old, my parents were divorced and I occasionally stayed with my dad. My younger siblings did the same; my older sister much more sporadically.

Once when I spent the weekend at Dad's, my older sister and her even older boyfriend returned from a night of partying and climbed the stairs to where our bedrooms and a bathroom were. My sister headed into the bathroom; her boyfriend headed into my bed. He aggressively snuggled up to me, trying to climb on top of me.

As I woke from my deep sleep and grasped what was going on and the danger I was in, I pushed and kicked at the boyfriend, trying to get him away from me and out of my bed. My sister emerged from the bathroom, heard the rustling and came into my dark room. She turned on the light, saw her creepy boyfriend in my bed and started screaming and screaming -- at me. In her drunkenness and insecurity, my older sister thought I had somehow lured her boyfriend into the compromising position, was somehow trying to steal him away from her. The vitriol spewed from her drunken mouth ... and continued for weeks.

My sister was mad at me -- stayed mad at me -- instead of being mad at the jerk she'd unknowingly stopped just short of molesting her little sister.

I often wonder how different things might have been if my sister hadn't come into the room just in the nick of time.

And I often wonder how different things might have been -- for both of us -- if my sister had done like Amanda in The Kids Are All Right, if she had renounced the inappropriate lout and stood by her scared little sister.

Disclosure: I received a FREE copy of The Kids Are All Right from the publisher for participation in the From Left To Write book club.

Today's question:

How would you describe your relationship with your siblings?