She came in through the (bedroom) window

I write picture books. I've yet to have one published. Thanks to a particularly challenging last week or so as it relates to such things, picture books have been on my mind lately. A lot. And not just as they relate to kids.

As a mom, I had a favorite picture book I regularly read, regularly cried to, regularly gave as a baby shower gift to moms-to-be.

As a grandma, I learned the error of my ways—at least as far as giving that favorite picture book to new mothers.

The book of which I speak is Love You Forever by Robert Munsch. It's not a literary classic by any means, but it resonated with me. For those of you who don't know the story—is there really a mom who doesn't?—it's about a mom and her beloved baby boy whom she loves tirelessly throughout the years. Her son begins as an infant, and, as baby boys are wont to do, grows into a man. Through each phase of his life, his Mommy rocks him and tells him...

I'll love you forever,

I'll like you for always,

As long as I'm living

my baby you'll be.

In the story, Mommy grows older, too. And bolder. At one point, once her beloved boy is a man with home of his own, Mommy drives across town in the middle of the night, leans a ladder up to her son's bedroom window, and climbs the darn thing. She goes through the window into the bedroom, where she cuddles and rocks her sound-asleep man-sized boy.

Ladder-climbing Mommy continues to get older...and older and older, and eventually it's the adult boy's turn to rock his Mommy, singing basically the same song.

So sweet. To me, at least.

So creepy, though, to Megan. Megan, my daughter. Megan, mother to my grandsons. Megan, recipient of what I thought was a love-it-forever baby shower gift—a hardback copy of Love You Forever. Not long ago I learned Megan didn't find the gift sweet, that she actually hated it. Always has, she eventually admitted. Mostly because a mom climbing through the bedroom window to express her love to her grown child hits the high point on the creep-o-meter. At least for Megan.

Creepy never crossed my mind when reading and crying over Love You Forever. It just seemed a sweet tale of never-ending loyalty and love between mommy and son.

Now it seems it's yet another way I show my age.

Like so many other things related to parenting, reading and loving Love You Forever is apparently outdated, not how the current generation of parents does things. Nor how they want things. Like picture books. No, kids nowadays—meaning adult kids nowadays, parents themselves—eschew the sweet, the sentimental, opting instead, it seems, for all things practical, pragmatic.

A friend of mine who is a bit younger than I and clearly not of the sweet and sentimental sort (at least not before having kids; motherhood, though, has softened her significantly) received from me for her baby shower a couple books from the Baby Be of Use series: Baby, Mix Me a Drink and Baby Do My Banking. They were given in jest, obviously not to be taken seriously.

That was several years ago. One of the current top books for giving new parents—parents who understandably likely already or will soon want to scream the title to their kid—is Go the F**K to Sleep. Fortunately I don't currently know any moms-to-be, because though I like to give picture books as baby shower gifts, I'm having a hard time wrapping my head around giving the particular popular picture book. I've considered buying a copy for myself, for the novelty of it and the chuckles it will surely elicit. (I'm not that much of an old fogey.) But when it comes to baby showers, Go the F**K to Sleep is surely not this grandma's cuppa tea. (Okay, maybe I am that much of an old fogey.)

Maybe like everything else, though, the picture book pendulum will swing back to the sweet, the sentimental. Just like what happens with parenting rules—such as recommendations for placing a sleeping baby on his back...or stomach...or side...or whatever is the current wisdom—what was once old will eventually be new again.

In the meantime, while I wait for that pendulum to swing back my way, I'll just go read Love You Forever another time or two.

And cry.

And consider the logistics of lugging a ladder to the desert for my next visit to Megan. (Mostly just to creep her out.)

Today's question:

What picture book has creeped out you, your children, or your grandchildren?

Long-distance grandma = long-distance mom

Baby Mac is sick. Again. Seems like my youngest grandson has continuously battled bugs of this sort and that ever since he was just a few months old.

This time Baby Mac has an especially nasty bug, of the croup and bronchiolitis sort. Megan called me Tuesday on the drive home from the pediatrician, where Baby Mac and his Mommy had to endure the trauma of Mac's first-ever nebulizer treatment. It was horrific—for both—with Mac screaming from beginning to end.

My poor babies. I imagine it was no fun at all for either. I can only imagine such treachery because as a mother, I never had to do such a thing, never had to administer a breathing treatment for a sick child. In all honesty, my kids were—thankfully!—relatively healthy. Now that Megan's a mom, she realizes that. It's something we've discussed often, as both my grandsons seem to be sick a lot, and Megan thinks there's some magical answer to keeping kids healthy, one she's not yet been privy to.

"Am I just a bad mom?" she pleaded for an answer Tuesday. "What am I supposed to be doing that I'm not?"

Usually when Megan asks that question, my first response—selfish as it may be—is, "You need to move out of that <cuss> desert and back home to the mountains."

Not this time, though. Because Megan was on the verge of tears. Because she was scared. And because she was sitting in the car in the garage having just reached home from the doctor's office and had a sick nine-month-old zonked out in his carseat, exhausted from the traumatic treatment, as well as Bubby sitting quietly beside him, and they all needed to get into the house.

"You're doing everything you're supposed to, Megan," I told her. "You got the baby to the doctor and he's being taken care of. That's what you were supposed to do. There's just a lot of crud going around right now and Mac just keeps getting it, for whatever reason. It's nothing you are doing or not doing."

Jim, who was home for lunch and part of our call, confirmed to Megan that a mom he works with has young kids who are sick far more often than was the norm when our kids were little. It's just the way it is nowadays, he said, for reasons we don't know.

"It'll be okay," I told her. "Just get the kids inside and call me later."

It's exactly such times that the distance from my grandbabies, from my daughter, are the hardest. I couldn't just hop in the car and head over to her place to help her out, to hug my sick grandson or, more importantly, to hug my stressed-out daughter.

The most I could do was text her a few hours later, when I figured things had calmed down a bit: 

Despite the crappy day and a croupy kid, at least my daughter still had her sense of humor. Jamaican or not, Megan is indeed a good mon—just because it sounds so cool.

And perpetually sick kids or not, she is indeed a good mom, too. Just one who needs a hug from her own mom—yet lives too far away to get exactly that.

Today's question:

What are your thoughts on kids being sick more often than they were back in the day—that day being when you were a kid or when your kids were kids?

What grandmas really want

Last week I wrote about what every grandma needs for stocking her home to be adequately prepared when having grandchildren about the place. This post is along the same lines, only it's not what grandmothers want for nurturing their grandkids, it's what grandmas want for themselves—from their grandchildren, from the parents of those grandchildren. 

• Pictures. Regularly. Even text-messaged photos will do. Of course, occasional nice shots appreciated, too, ones suitable for framing.

• Dedicated communication with the grandchildren by phone, Skype, text, email, snail mail.

• Regular updates on health and daily doings. It's not being nosy—it's called caring.

• More updates! Clothing size updates. Interest and infatuation updates. Gift idea updates. Grandmas are always on the lookout for things to give and share with and introduce to their grandchildren.

• "Thank you"s for gifts given, acknowledgement of packages received.

• Realization that Grandma can't read minds. If you want her to do or say or be something, you need to ask her. If you want her to back off, you need to tell her.

• Permission to make unhealthy—but oh-so yummy—food for the little ones. At least occasionally.

• Hugs

• Appreciation for the fact Grandma does indeed have a life and job outside of grandparenting.

• Consideration and kindness when Grandma says "no" to a request from Mom or Dad.

• Meaningful duties to perform when asking, "Is there anything I can do?"

• Understanding of the love grandmas have for their animals even when grandchildren are visiting.

• Invitations to school activities, sporting functions, special gatherings. Even when it's assumed and understood Grandma won't make it to the event.

• Permission to break rules now and then. And understanding if/when Grandma occasionally lives by the motto "It's easier to ask for forgiveness than it is to get permission."

• Understanding when Grandma is jealous of the other grandma(s) in her grandchild's life.

• Original artwork for her refrigerator door and desktop.

• That use be made of the gifts Grandma gives—or at least exchange them for something that will be used.

• Respect and consideration, including when it comes to not all grandmas wanting typical grandma gear such as T-shirts, sweatshirts, and bumper stickers obnoxiously emblazoned with "Best Grandma Ever!"

• Occasional appreciation—possibly even public recognition—for her wisdom and assistance. Unadulterated flattery does wonders for a grandma's ego.

• To see their children succeed at parenting.

• To know their grandchildren—and their children—will overcome inevitable challenges and lead meaningful, contented lives filled with inspiration, enthusiasm, and love.

Today's question:

What else do you grandmas want? What else do you non-grandmas like to give?

How Grandma sees it: Changes in parenting from the firstborn to the second

Bubby, my first grandson, at nine months old:

Baby hair everywhere.

 Baby Mac, my second grandson, at nine months old:

Baby hair buzzed.

 To be continued ... !

Today's question:

When did you last cut someone else's hair and how did it turn out?

The healing power of positive thinking...and puppies

Those of you who follow Grandma's Briefs on Facebook and Twitter know that I've been on nurse duty for my youngest daughter, Andrea, who had her tonsils out this week. At 26 years old. Which had her mama—that would be me—pretty concerned.

The surgery went well, and I think much of that can be attributed to Andrea's positive attitude going in.

I've heard distressing stats on how long it takes adults to recover from tonsillectomies, ranging from two weeks of intense pain (and hunger) to it taking three full months to get back on one's feet. Again, I think (and hope) Andrea's positive attitude will make for the best possible outcome.

Despite moments of debilitating pain and frustration immediately following the surgery, Andrea's sense of humor continues to carry her through. To wit: When the nurse summoned Andie's roommate and me from the waiting area to see Andrea in the recovery room, the nurse said Andrea's first words were, "No grape popsicles!" All Andie and a reference to her concerns medical staff would immediately provide purple pops afterward. Seems purple popsicles and the vomiting that accompanied them is Andrea's only memory from her only other surgery, getting tubes in her ears, more than 20 years ago. Her roommate and I couldn't help but laugh (yes, out loud!) as we followed the nurse to Andrea's bedside.

Another example of Andrea's goofiness and how it's helping her deal with the pain is her novel approach to communicating in the first excruciating hours after surgery when talking was virtually impossible. She started off with pen and paper to relay her requests—and, at times, distress—but that soon proved too cumbersome and Andrea turned to her iPhone, typing all she wanted to say into the Notes application then having her text read by the computerized voice...which involved not only a monotone voice—except when a typed question mark meant text was read with a lilting tone at the end of requests—but numerous awkward and incorrect pronunciations of words. Which got Andrea giggling despite the pain. Which made her repeat the humorous text again and again. Typing song lyrics got her roommate and me giggling as well.

That's not to say it's been easy on Andrea. At all. She's in pain, she's hungry, she's worried about coughing and choking and vomiting, and concerned the recuperation might not go as quickly and smoothly as we all hope. When mustering her own comic relief doesn't come easy, though, puppy love steps in, courtesy of Luke (Andrea's dog) and Lennox (her roommate's dog).

With a cute quotient so high, how could these adorable kiddos not make her feel better?

I head home today, leaving Andrea under the care of her roommate—and the pain relieving power of puppies.

I have no doubt she'll be better in no time.

Shameless self-promotion: 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 per email address through March 21. Thank you!

Today's question:

When you don't feel well, what one thing never fails to help you feel better?

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 curse takes effect — let the gloating begin

For centuries, or so I hear, mothers have placed upon the heads of their daughters The Curse. I'm talking about the doom and damnation of sorts that mothers pass along to their daughters, swearing that once they have children of their own, they will surely get their due for all the drama, trauma and heartache they once put their mothers through.

The Curse is such a cliché.

Well shiver me timbers and consider me cliché, for I've uttered The Curse many a time—and I now gloat about seeing it in action.

When my girls were young, we had a trampoline. A big, round, bouncy gateway to injury and potential paralysis. My family had a trampoline when I was a kid and it was such fun that my youngest sister tried to convince me I simply had to provide similar fun for my daughters, despite the dangers. In 1992, I succumbed to her peer pressure. We got a trampoline. Despite the dangers.

As the dangers of a trampoline were many and my imagination expounded upon all of them, always and in all ways, I spent a lot of my time cringing and wringing my hands while my daughters jumped with joy. They did seats, stomachs, knees, seat and stomach wars, and—ohmyohmy!—front flips, back flips, and swan dives. I trembled with fear and anxiety each time they climbed up on the frame, removed their shoes, and proceeded to jump.

My fear and anxiety multiplied each time the girls invited friends over to jump. It was assuaged a bit—at least the fear Jim and I would be sued by parents of kiddos who had jumped right over the edge and onto their necks, leaving them paralyzed for life—by my requirement that every single child who did not belong to me have a permission slip signed by a parent before they even considered stepping foot on the mat. My daughters often whined and complained about having to hand out the slips to friends they invited over, to which I recited the dangers of the <cuss> thing and how kind and awesome of me it was to even allow such a death trap on my property and that they darn well better appreciate that and abide by my one simple rule regarding permission slips if they want to ever jump again themselves, much less with friends.

Yes, I was a paranoid parent. Allowing my daughters—and their friends—to jump on the trampoline took every ounce of restraint I had as well as never-ending lectures to myself on the importance of letting kids be kids. But I did it. I survived it. And so did they—despite my fears, my worries, my visions of daughters in wheelchairs or worse simply because I allowed my kids to be kids.

Fast forward to this past weekend.

Megan, Preston, and my grandsons moved into a new house over the weekend. They originally considered finding a rental that included a swimming pool (a pretty common commodity in their part of the desert) which worried me like mad thinking of all the ways such a feature could be fatal for Bubby and Baby Mac. Luckily Megan and Preston settled on a place that had no pool. Instead, the back yard features a full-size trampoline built into the ground.

Naturally the idea of the trampoline worries me nearly as much as a swimming pool. At this point I'm not too concerned about whether Megan requires permission slips for Bubby's friends, I'm concerned about Bubby himself. (Thankfully Baby Mac is not yet old enough to be on the trampoline. Or he sure as heck better not be allowed on it yet. Note to self: Ask Megan about that.)

Turns out I don't need to be all that concerned about Bubby's safety. Because despite all the times Megan, as a pre-teen and teen, complained—in unison with her sisters, of course—and told me to "calm down" or "stop freaking out" when my trampoline paranoia reached fever pitch, she finally gets it. How do I know? Because Saturday, just after she and Preston first introduced Bubby to the trampoline (and attempted a few tricks of their own as examples), Megan called me to say: "I can't believe you let us do the things we did on the trampoline, Mom."

In her voice and between the lines, the worry, fear, concern, trepidation, and unspoken WTF did we get ourselves into? was unmistakable. Call me mean but it was music to my ears.

The Curse had finally gone into effect.

And I'm not one bit ashamed to admit that so has the gloating.

I suppose tempering the gloating would be the proper tack at this point, though, so as to not tempt fate. For I'm headed to the desert later this week to babysit Bubby and Baby Mac while Megan and Preston attend a conference, and the request has been made that I help Bubby learn a thing or two on the trampoline while Mom and Dad are away.

I'm thinking I might need to write up a permission slip for Megan and Preston to sign before they hit the road and leave me in charge of Bubby's trampoline use. Just in case. I've never heard of any guarantee that, once enacted, The Curse won't backfire.

Today's question:

Describe ways you've seen The Curse in effect—whether it was placed by you or upon you.