Grandma was a bully

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I'm ashamed to admit that I was a sixth-grade bully. As an individual, I didn't have the personality to be a bully on my own. But in a group, I was just as guilty as the others of hurtful and hateful acts upon fellow students.

Two acts stand out in my memory:

• Once when the teacher had left the room for a bit, my classmates and I managed to hang a shorter classmate from a classroom doorknob by the band of his underwear. The bigger and tougher boys grabbed him and hung him while many of us girls giggled not only at the boys doing the dirty deed, but at the poor kid grasping for all he could to get down from the door knob and away from the embarrassment.

• Even worse was the time a group of us yet-to-develop girls decided to prove a bra-wearing and seemingly better developed girl in the class stuffed her bra. We decided to do the big reveal in front of some boys just to show them that she wasn't as endowed as she seemed and they could stop ogling her and her fakery. Turned out, much to our chagrin and her traumatic embarrassment, that her breasts were indeed real.

How very, very horrible we were.

At the time, these incidents were no big deal to me despite how painful they must have been to the ones we bullied. Since then, as a mother, as a grandmother, it breaks my heart that I participated in such cruelty. I'm sincerely sorry for what I did, but apologies make no difference for the damage and hurt that was done.

Such transgressions have crossed my conscience many a time in the decades since, but they've been especially top of mind since watching the following trailer. Released in select areas in March, Bully is a movie we all should see, consider, share.

As parents and grandparents, we can't shy away from doing our part to prevent bullying and to stop bullying when we see or suspect it—especially if we once were a bully or bullied ourselves. Find more info on the Bully movie Facebook page.

Today's question:

Were you ever a bully or bullied?

Anyone up for show and tell?

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It's Friday. It's been a whirlwind of a week for many of us, me included. And I think we should end on an easy note.

Which means: Show and tell time!

Let's all share something from the past week. Something that was awesome, exciting, exhilarating, or, as in my case, scary as <cuss>.

What I'm sharing is that I was on television on Tuesday morning to promote the Child Hunger Ends Here campaign. I've never been on TV before. I've jumped out of an airplane before (tandem jump, of course), and though I didn't write my will in advance of my television spot as I did before bailing from 14,000 feet, I'd have to say the TV spot was nearly as scary as it was pushing myself out of that plane as my three little girls, my husband, and Jim's niece Amanda watched from below.

Here is my scary as <cuss> moment:

Yeah, I looked older than I'd hoped and more tired than I'd hoped—I did get up at 4:30 a.m.—but at least I didn't look as panicked and scared to death on the outside as I was on the inside. I did get the message across, which is good.

If you'd like more information on the Child Hunger Ends Here campaign and how you can help no matter where you live, you can find details at www.childhungerendshere.com.

Now it's your turn!

Today's question:

What is your show and tell for the week? Sharing via just the "tell" part is perfectly fine and welcome, but do feel free to "show" links to your blog or other safe-for-work-and-families spots if you'd like, too.

Grandma's a chicken

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♪♫ "Grandma's a chicken. ♪ Grandma's a chicken." ♪♫

That's what my sister told me last week.

Well, no she didn't.

I'm not only a chicken, I'm a liar, too. My sister didn't tell me that at all.

That's just what I felt like after getting off the phone with her. Not only did I feel like a chicken, I felt like a party-pooping chicken at that.

See, my sister and her husband own a ranch. With lots of outdoorsy activities for energetic people with get-up and go and gumption. And last week she called to invite Jim and me to spend a day or two at the ranch.

"We can go four wheelin'!" she said.

To which I immediately said, "Uh, no. I'm not a four-wheelin' kind of person."

"Not canyon-wall-climbing kind of four wheelin', you silly goon," she swore.

Still, my answer was no.

"Then you and Jim can ride the ATVs!"

"Definite no on that!" I quickly countered. After many years as editor of a parenting magazine and receiving a plethora of press releases from safety organizations of all sorts proclaiming ATVs the deathtrap of all deathtraps, my invitation to hop on a deathtrap just for the heck of it was DE-CLINED. No ATVs for me. Or Jim.

"Well, you can sit in the hot tub."

We have a hot tub...that we never use...and recently emptied because we never use it. Not a big draw for either of us.

"Jim can shoot things! We have a shooting range and everything you can imagine to shoot with. Manly violent stuff Jim will like."

Jim with a gun? Now THAT is scary?

"And we have horses! Do you like horses?"

Of course I like horses. Who doesn't like horses?

"And would you get on one?"

Umm...maybe.

I texted her a few days ago. Yes, we'll come this weekend, I told her.

And, yes, I'll ride a horse. Which I've not done since the late '90s when a family trip to Estes Park included a horseback-riding excursion. I'm crossing my fingers she'll saddle up one that's more of the walkie-walkie not trit-trot-trit-trot-gallopy-gallopy-gallopy sort.

And, yes, Jim will shoot things, I added. Maybe. (He has no idea I told her yes on that one. The shooting range will be a test of possibly unrealized machismo; this paragraph a test to see if he reads to the end of my posts.)

"Good. Then he can go on an ATV ride, too," she offered. "A sissy one."

We'll see—on all counts.

I'll keep you posted on all counts.

Including whether I chicken out and sit in the hot tub instead.

photo: stock.xchng/jdrjosh

Today's question:

What are your plans for this weekend?

The Saturday Post: Tap Pups wannabe edition

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In my next life, I want to be a tap dancer.

Actually, forget the next life—I want to learn to tap dance in the second half of this life! And I want to be part of something just like this in order to do that:

Not gonna happen though, as Tap Pups classes take place in a land far, far away. Meaning, Pennsylvania. But, that high-energy, toe-tapping woman does sell videos. So I'm seriously considering buying one...and maybe the portable tap floor, too. (Or I may just ask for both—and tap shoes!—for my next birthday. Take note, Jim...daughters...grandsons.)

Today's question:

Do you tap dance? And whether you do or not, what kind of dancing do you enjoy most?

Now that I'm a grandma: Realization #47

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I admit it: I am a prude. I use the word loosely here, not in a sexual sense. I simply mean I've become straight-laced. And I didn't used to be. I've done and said and been all kinds of things in the past that were not very prude and straight-laced at all. Some actually not so far in the past and some still presently going on.

For one, I've always considered myself a pretty rocking grandma. Hard rock is my music of choice more often than not. And I only recently quit going to rock concerts—because of economics, not age.

Plus, while I've never been a cigarette smoker, I sure as heck still enjoy alcohol on a fairly regular basis. I'm talking 7&7s, too, not some girly umbrella drink.

And swearing? I don't say the F-word myself—except when I poke myself in the eye with the mascara wand—but I have no qualms about others saying it. Well, unless, of course, it's mothers saying it in front of children, regardless of their children's age, or people who utter it only when they've downed two or ten too many margaritas, mojitos or Miller Lites. Same goes for GD when anyone says it, regardless of reason.

Yes, I admit that unless I'm around my grandkids, I show little restraint when it comes to spewing bad words, especially those that begin with S, H, D, B, or A. When writing blog posts I typically write <cuss> instead of writing the cuss word I have in mind, but in real life I can be a real potty mouth.

I'm not proud of that potty mouth nor of any other non-grandmotherly things I do. But there was always some twisted sense of pride in being able to say I'm not a prude.

Well, not anymore. Alas, I am indeed a prude.

I lately felt prudeness creeping up on me as I noticed more and more of my friends and family apologizing to me when they uttered certain utterances that typically make grandmas cringe—even if I hadn't cringed, hadn't even noticed the offense. Now, though, I know for a fact that I'm in full-blown prude status. At least when I'm in charge of my grandsons.

I realized I'd officially crossed over to Prudeville when I took Bubby to see The Adventures of TinTin. It's rated PG, so I figured it would be safe to see with my nearly four-year-old grandson. He had no problem with it but within the first five minutes, I did. I had a huge problem with it and actually considered leaving the theater. There were guns and fisticuffs and unsavory behavior from the moment the title sequence flashed across the stage. Guns, I tell you! Shooting! All being deliciously savored by my grandson, who is not allowed to have guns, not allowed to watch violence beyond what takes place in nature, like in, say, The Lion King and Jungle Book.

As Bubby smiled and swayed and reeled from gunfire and leaned over to me to say, "This is a great day and the movie is the best part, Gramma!" I sat there worrying that I was warping the sweet little boy beside me, that the gentle soul who had accompanied me into the theater would transform into the town bully when we walked out. Because of the violence I let him witness on screen.

And the drinking. Of alcohol. Oh my! One of the main characters in the movie was a drunk. A sweet drunk, but a drunk nonetheless.

I think there were actually a few swear words in the film, too. I don't remember for certain, though, as I was just too consumed watching for blood to spurt during the swashbuckling scenes (it didn't) or death to come to one or another of the bad guys who stood in TinTin's way (which it didn't). Or to the drunk, or, heaven forbid, to TinTin himself and his little dog, too. (Again, it didn't. Luckily.)

Bubby loved the movie, talked about it at length on the way home. And he didn't take aim at Baby Mac with imaginary guns or pretend to slice up Mom, Dad, or the dog with a fake sword. And he didn't chug his drink then slam down his glass as if a tankard and tell Mom "Hit me up again!" at dinner. Luckily.

Still, I felt bad, as if I'd tainted my grandchild. Which is ridiculous, I know. It was a PG movie, for heaven's sake. Megan and Preston drink alcohol. They watch violent shows on TV (after Bubby has gone to bed). They use swear words. I'd venture to say they've even let the F-word fly when little pitchers were unknowingly nearby.

It's their taste in music, though, that proved my ultimate saving grace, saved me from being the one who tainted Bubby. It also solidified for me my self-label of prude.

To wit: As Bubby and I drove home from the movie that fateful day, he shouted from the back seat "Turn it up, Gramma" when LMFAO (whom I later learned was the artist) came on the radio. He then proceeded to sing along.

And it was that very moment, as I watched Bubby in the rearview mirror popping about and singing, "Girl, look at that body...I work out!" then "Wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle, yeah!" that I knew I had crossed over. I had become a prude.

Bubby's wiggle dance was truly hilarious as <cuss>, but golly gee, it just seemed so wrong.

That right there, my bristling at a song that clearly made Bubby so happy, was the last straw, the final bit of proof that I've entered Prudeville.

And there's no turning back. Forget the Sexy and I Know It song. The only song this grandma will be doing the wiggle dance to is one a little more tame.

Well, at least in title. My song: I'm Prude and I Know It.

C'mon, fellow grandmas, join in! Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, yeah! Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, yeah! We're prude and we know it.

Maybe?

(One small confession: I'm not that much of a prude because I've actually had a weird affection for the LMFAO song ever since Bubby introduced it to me with his back-seat wiggle dance. Just don't tell anyone. And I won't tell anyone if you click on that link above and listen to it over and over and develop a wiggle song all of your very own.)

The voting continues: If you liked this post—or Grandma's Briefs in general—please vote for Grandma's Briefs in the About.com Favorite Grandparent Blog poll. Vote once per day through March 21. Thank you!

Today's question:

How much of a straight-laced prude are you?

Love manners and matters

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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?