Pomp and certain circumstances

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In recognition of graduation season, here are 9 reasons I'm glad I don't have a teen graduating from high school.

1. Been there, done that. Three times over.

2. The cost: senior pictures, announcements, class rings, yearbooks, caps and gowns, and more.

3. Aforementioned senior pictures. Not so sure how it goes with boys, but with girls there's the trauma, the drama of portraits. (Tho I must admit my girlies' senior photos were lovely ... and they kept their bodies appropriately covered, unlike some senior portraits I've seen of late.)

4. The cost, part two: graduation gifts. No cars for my kids, but there were computers for college.

5. Gah! College! Graduation from high school means college plans or at least considerations. So, so, SO glad to be done with college app fees, FAFSAs, food plans, and travel to and fro.

6. Senior prom. Enough said. If you've ever gone to one — or had a child go to one — you know what I mean.

7. Graduation night parties. Fear and trembling on the part of parents with kids who think the flip of a tassel has made them an adult and they're ready to party like one. (Kids who don't realize that adults typically party hearty in a less hearty — and more safe — manner. Usually.)

8. The summer before college. Again, fear and trembling on the part of parents with kids who think they're adults ... except when it comes to picking up their room, saving money, packing all the right stuff for college, and being considerate of parents who still expect them to come home before the crack of dawn (or at least call if they're not).

9. The next chapter: The empty nest. It's a tough one to get used to. Been there, done that, too. Am now finally used to it. And am so glad I don't ever have to go through the transition again.

All kidding aside, to those who do have lovelies marking the end of their high-school careers this graduation season, I sincerely say Congratulations! (And good luck!)

Photo: stock.xchng

Today's question:

What is one of the more valuable lessons you learned from high school?

The grandma two-step

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When my children were babies, I made all the decisions. Big or small, it was all up to me. And Jim, too, of course.

Soon my girls grew. And tested my choices, my decisions. Their wishes and input were taken into account ... with the understanding that the last word belonged to Mom.

When the teen years hit, so did the realization that the last word doesn't have to belong to Mom. They were older, thought they knew it all and that Mom knew nothing. So they occasionally rebelled, made wrong choices, eventually came back to Mom with unspoken apologies. As long as they came back, that was all that mattered.

Then my little girls become adults. They've long since gone their own way, have their own say.

Decisions are no longer mine. But the girls — fortunately — still share their trials and tribulations, their challenges and changes ... and their choices related to such. Maybe the choices are about day care or tonsil surgery, partner selection, where to live, when to change jobs, how to make the most of the lives they've been given.

As they share, I read between the lines, hear the tone of their voices, the music behind their words that sings — sometimes with joy, sometimes with desperation — "I want your opinion, your advice, your approval."

So we start the dance. Two steps forward, two steps back, one step forward, one step back. I give my opinion, my advice, my approval. They accept it. We rejoice. We dance.

Sometimes it's that easy.

Other times it's not.

In the not-so-easy times, they share, I temper my opinion, my advice. And sometimes I withhold my approval, my support. Because I don't approve, don't want to support. We still dance, only at such times it's often gingerly, occasionally angrily. I want to support them, validate their choices, approve of what they're doing. I want to give them exactly what they seek. Yet experience, age — and yes, sometimes fear — make it impossible for me to do so without reservation.

They don't like that tune. And I can't change it with any degree of sincerity. So we both end the dance feeling hurt, slighted, misunderstood. But we dance around saying those things out loud. Usually.

I'm getting pretty good at figuring out right away which tunes are likely to trip us up, end on a sour note. It's at the outset of those dances that I'd like to say, "I love you with all my heart, my dear, but I think I'll just sit this one out."

But I've not yet figured out how to do that. Because just exactly how does a mother, a grandmother — a lifelong friend, confidante, advisor, protector — sit out the big ones and maintain a clear conscience, a clear heart?

Especially when the possibility looms large that turning down an invitation to dance may result in being invited no more.

Photo: stock.xchng

Today's question:

Do you find yourself more often GIVING advice or SEEKING advice?

This post linked to Grandparent's Say It Saturday.

Bugging me

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Megan's scorpion, heroically nabbed by Preston.My parents transplanted our family of nine from Minnesota to Colorado nearly 40 years ago. Three talking points I recall of their spiel trying to sell my siblings and me on the move were 1) "The people are so nice, even strangers on the street say 'hello';" 2) "Out west, everyone wears blue jeans;" and 3) "There are no bugs."

Nos. 1 and 2 registered slightly above a "meh" with me. No. 3 had my attention. As a child who was traumatized by had memorable run-ins with leeches, walking sticks, and woodticks that turned white and grew to the size of marbles when not removed from dogs or the hairline of a little girl who thought she might be feeling a tumor growing on the back of her scalp and was too scared to seal her fate by telling Mom about it, the idea of no bugs sounded pretty darn good. More than just good, in fact, it sounded worth the move. I was sold.

I've lived in Colorado the biggest chunk of my life now and I'm still sold. I'm sold on Colorado for myriad reasons, but after Megan's revelations the past week about the critters in her part of the world, I admit minimal bugs are still one of the greatest appeals. I've actually said such a thing to Jim in the past week, and he agreed. Yes, we'll stay put in Colorado. Likely 'til Kingdom comes.

The revelations from Megan that heebie-jeebied me so involved scorpions. Just days after their visit to fairly bug-free Colorado was over and she headed back with Bubby to their desert home, Megan spotted a scorpion in the corner of her living room ceiling. A vaulted living room ceiling that she couldn't reach on her own, not even with the tube of the vacuum cleaner stretched to the max to suck up the critter. In her third trimester of pregnancy, climbing a ladder to reach the scorpion wasn't an option. Especially because it might skitter away causing Megan to fall from the ladder in fright, threatening the well-being of not only herself, but her unborn Birdy and the surely freaked-out Bubby below. So she and Bubby kept tabs on its location until Preston could leave work early to get home and save his loved ones from the ceiling-bound scorpion.

Disaster averted, thanks to Preston, a vacuum tube, and duct tape. Except that they spotted another scorpion in the same room upon their return from a weekend trip to Sea World. The scorpion professionals were to be scheduled to rid their home of the critters. For this month, anyway. Apparently such pest control is ongoing, a monthly service required of residents of the desert. At least those who don't want their babies stung by the little cussers.

When I shared Megan's scorpion story with one of the tutors I oversee for the literacy center, a woman who has lived in various spots around the country in the past 50 years or so, she shrugged off the tale. She'd gotten used to such things while living in desert climes, she said. You shake out your shoes before putting them on, you shake out your clothes before dressing, you shake out your bed covers before jumping under them. She'd lived with worse, she said, including rattlesnakes coiled up in bushes she'd started to trim ... then slowly had to back away from to keep from being bit. Now that was scary, she said. But the fear of the rattlesnakes was balanced out by the harmless geckos that climbed the walls, she added. The little critters that were oh-so cute ... except when you forgot to shake out the toaster before pushing down the handle on your breakfast bread. Toasting up a crumb-savoring gecko is not a good way to start your day, she stressed.

Shaking toasters, shoes, and bushes or sucking up scorpions with the vacuum don't sound like good ways to spend any portion of a day, if you ask me. I honestly don't understand how folks live in such places.

I especially don't understand why Megan hires scorpion zappers to make floors and cribs and ceilings safe for my grandbabies instead of packing up the brood and heading to the hills. Specifically, heading to the hills of Colorado ... where she was raised ... and where she knows there are no bugs to threaten the lives of her — and my — loved ones.

Disclaimer: Yes, I know there are brown recluse spiders and spotted ticks and rattlesnakes and more in Colorado. But they're up in the high country for the most part, not in residential areas where we have to fear for our lives and the lives of our babies on a daily basis.

Today's question:

What memorable run-ins have you had with creepy-crawlies of any sort?

16 things I learned from my daughters

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Megan and Bubby will be here this weekend, which means lots of time with not only my grandson but my entire family, including my lovely girls who have taught me so much.

16 things I learned from my daughters

1. The answers can't always be found in books.

2. Trust my gut. Most times. Other times, ignore it because it's not really my gut trying to tell me something but the ravings of a paranoid, overprotective mother with an overactive imagination.

3. That brined turkey is the best turkey. And that it's not difficult to do.

4. Eminem can be worth listening to. DMX not so much. Actually, not at all. Still.

5. Jumping without a net often reaps the biggest rewards.

6. Yes, sometimes I am just like my mother. But also that, yes, sometimes, they are just like theirs.

7. An awesome, heartfelt wedding is possible on a shoestring budget.

8. Let go and let God. Or at least let someone else now and then.

9. Those who love me will wait while I work my way through a verklempt state. And that they will laugh when they realize they've inherited the very same verklempt gene.

10. Agreeing to disagree is sometimes the best we can do. And that's okay.

11. My babies can survive -- even thrive -- miles away and with no direction from me.

12. I can survive -- even thrive -- with my babies miles away. Even though it's not what I wanted.

13. "Sorry" is indeed the hardest word, but one of the most important.

14. An empty nest doesn't have to be lonely. And is full of possibility ... and plenty of space for return visits.

15. Laughing so hard it hurts is so worth the pain.

16. Most importantly, that despite all Jim and I lacked from the outset, we did indeed teach our children well ... and they took what we taught them, ran with it, improved and added to it, then returned with wisdom beyond our expectations.

Today's question:

What is one lesson you are thankful for having learned?

10 things I want(ed) to be when I grow up

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Last week I had dinner with one of my favorite people, a dear friend who is very much like me on many things, but oh-so different from me on one very big thing. That big thing being parenting.

It's not that my friend and I have different parenting philosophies, it's that she isn't a parent at all, never wanted to be a parent, a mom. Ever. I, on the other hand, am a mom, have always wanted to be a mom. From the time I was a child, the position of Mom has been at the very top of my list of things I wanted to be when I grew up.

Being a mom wasn't the only thing on my list of things I want to be when I grow up, though. Here are more:

10 things I want(ed) to be when I grow up

A writer. I remember as far back as middle school, dreaming about being a writer. I became a writer, made a decent living for a short period of time as a writer, continue to be a writer.

A disc jockey. In elementary school, I worked on a presentation with a group, and we chose to present our findings on Mary McCleod Bethune radio style, with intermissions featuring snippets of music. The presentation made me realize I loved playing the part of DJ. Every now and then I still get a hankering to host a radio program ... featuring music, not news or blathering bumbleheads.

A cosmetologist. I wanted to be not just a hairstylist, but a cosmetologist. I went to school for it, was on my way to earning my license. Then I got pregnant, the chemicals weren't a good idea for the baby, and "Beauty School Dropout" became my theme song for a while. (Was soon thankful this dream was never realized!)

Interior designer. Again, started classes. Again, got pregnant ... and decided continuing school was too much for a mom with two little ones and an overworked husband.

Backup singer. I'd still like to be this. I don't want to be in the forefront, the glaring spotlight. But providing backing vocals for the star -- and maybe a solo during the bridge now and then -- would sure get my toes tapping, my hands clapping, and heart soaring.

Parenting magazine editor. Ann Pleshette-Murphy, editor of Parent magazine when my girls were little, was my idol. I've accomplished this one. Not to the degree of Ann, only on a regional parenting publication level, but accomplished just the same. 'Twas one of the highlights -- and much-missed positions -- of my writing/editing career.

Librarian. This was at the top of my list for many years, just below writer. Still is some days. Too bad a library science degree is required.

Bookstore owner. Plan B for sharing books, since a degree isn't required to sell them. Cash is required, though, and I never had it. Proof that things happen -- or don't happen -- for a reason, as I'd surely be suffering the plight of today's independent booksellers.

Pie shop owner. I make pretty good pie. I wanted to share it with others. I planned to call it Pie in the Sky. Or Pie Hopes. Again, no money -- and the rise of the cupcake -- brought those hopes to a fizzle. Although, I've been reading lately that pie is the new cupcake. Hmm ...

Restaurant owner. Witnessing hundreds of college classmates of Megan and Andrea, miles from home and craving Mom's cooking, got me seriously considering starting up a Homesick Restaurant featuring daily specials from mothers across the country (credit to Anne Tyler for the name). The girls graduated before I put the plan into action -- fortunately, as the location was seven hours away in a town I never planned to visit again once they were done with college.

Looking at this list, I see that nearly everything on it, attained or not, has contributed to or enhanced my position as Mom. Cosmetology class provided the tools for cutting and styling the hair of three little girls. Interior Design courses helped me in creating the desired ambiance in my home. DJing and backup singing? Well, I love and share music with my kids; always have, always will. The words I write and share -- whether magazine articles, books or blogs -- are often related to parenting in one way or another. Food fancies require no expanation, as that's what moms do: show their love through food.

Bottom line is this: I may not have done all I once dreamed of, but those dreams made a difference in the one that mattered most, the one that became a reality -- being a mom. And who knows? There's still plenty of time to achieve a few of those on my list I still find appealing.

Anyone up for leading a granny band? If you've got the vocal ability and nerves for centerstage, I'd be all over supporting you with a few doowops and handclaps from behind.

Photo credit: stock.xchng

Today's question:

What did you want to be when you grew up?

Now I lay them down to sleep

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Well, it's happened. Jim and I have become those people. You know, the ones whose animals take the place of their children once the children are grown and gone.

Sure, I have plenty of friends whose animals have always been their kids. Which has worked well for them. It's what they do. It's what they've done. It's their normal.

But it's not been our normal, my normal. Until recently. So it's a bit disconcerting.

We've always had animals, if not a dog or two, at least a cat or two. And in the last few months, I've come to realize that I now pay just as much attention to their eating, sleeping, pooping and entertainment schedules and options as I once did with my kids. Oh yeah, and bathing options, too.

This past weekend, Jim and I converted the shower in our downstairs bathroom to a DOG shower, with a fancy little hand-held shower head with an on/off button that makes it easy to wet down the kids dogs, pause the water, lather 'em up, then unpause and rinse. It was quite simple showering up the little ones on Saturday. So much easier -- on us and them -- than taking them to self-wash at Petco or Petsmart or to a groomer. Going forward, our spoiled little Mickey and Lyla will bathe in the comfort of their own home, the comfort of their own cussing bathroom.

Come to think of it, that's more than our daughters ever had. The girls shared a bathroom -- all three of them plus me -- until one by one they moved out. Yeah, our dogs are spoiled.

In return, they do for us something the girls never did: They go to bed each night without complaint. At their scheduled bedtime. Without a single delay tactic.

Each night at 10 p.m., Mickey and Lyla, who have been hanging out with us in the family room -- on their beds pulled from their bedroom (yes, the dogs have their own bedroom ... well, they share it) -- get up, stretch and head to the back door for a final drink of water and potty before bedtime. I open the door, they trot out to the back yard -- in the dark, mind you, with no begging, "Can you please turn on the light, Mom?" Then they do their business, head back to the patio for a final slurp of H20, then stand at the door, waiting for me to let them in.

Once I let them in is when the real fun begins. At least they think so. For some reason, Mickey and Lyla -- especially Lyla -- believe that bedtime is the most wondrous time of day, the reason for getting through the day, the reason for living. The second I slide open the glass door, they scurry through the family room, tails wagging like mad, past Jim and his "goodnight, guys" brush along their sides, and into their bedroom. They climb aboard their newly fluffed beds -- pulled from the family room and returned to the correct positions while they were out pottying. Then they circle a time or two and plop down in their little nests. I rub their heads, their necks; they nuzzle my hand. "Goodnight, kids. See ya in the morning," I tell them as I back out of their room.

Just like tucking in the kids. Only these kids don't request another sip of water or remind me that the tooth fairy is scheduled to visit in the night or remember at the very last second that they are going on a field trip the next day and need an extra-special packed lunch with a drink for the trip. Yep, the dogs are so much easier to put to bed than the girls were.

There is one part of the bedtime ritual that the girls did so much better, though, so much sweeter. That was the bedtime prayer. Brianna would come from her room to join me and the other two in Megan and Andie's room. We'd sit on the edge of their beds, fold our hands, bow our heads, ask for guidance through the night, then request "God bless Brianna and Megan and Andrea and Mommy and Daddy and everyone we love and care about. Amen." I miss that. The dogs don't do that.

I'm wondering how much work it might take to get Mickey and Lyla to fold their little paws in prayer each night.

I'll get back to you on that.

Today's question:

What time do you typically go to bed?