Mother may I?: Different standards for Grandma

My daughter has a double standard. I didn’t raise her to be that way, but I can no longer deny it.

You see, what my daughter — whom I love deeply and dearly despite this flaw — does with her children, my grandchildren, and what she expects and allows me to do with them are two very different things. Sometimes, in fact, they contradict one another quite starkly.

To wit:

When I am in charge of caring for my grandsons, meaning Mom and Dad have hit the road and enlisted me to babysit, I’m given rules to follow, rules related to eating, sleeping, personal hygiene and safety.

One food-related rule is that the boys get only their three meals a day plus one morning snack and one afternoon snack. I’m not to give them any more, any less. When my daughter’s in charge, though, those kids snack off and on throughout the day. At times not on the written schedule I've been asked to adhere to. Then my grandsons — not so surprisingly, I must add, with a "nyah, nyah" attached — balk at their plates of healthy foods come mealtime.

While we're on the subject of snacks, I must say that my ever-so-health-conscious daughter swears my grandsons are not to have too much sugar. They eat sugar-free cereals, natural peanut butter, corn syrup-free fruit snacks and a variety of other not-so-sweet sorts of things.

But — and you knew there had to be one, right? — the boys are allowed handfuls of M&Ms and other candies when Mom or Dad are eating a few themselves. Handfuls, I tell you. Well, not really handfuls, as they actually get them in little snack bowls (for M&Ms really do melt in your hand, not just in your mouth, at least when it comes to the hands of little boys).

Bedtime features a similar bending of the rules. I’ve been told the boys must be bathed, rocked, read a story, bedtime prayer said, then huggled and snuggled before being tucked in. On a specific schedule and in that order. Which I do happily. (Nearly) every single time. Does my daughter follow that schedule? Um, not usually.

Use of media is another sore spot for me, another place the double standard can’t be denied. This one I’ve actually called my daughter out on — which I don’t normally do. But I just had to say something when nearly a year ago, I allowed my four-year-old grandson to watch a Batman cartoon, and when my daughter found out (thanks, Bubby!), she chastised me with, “Mom, he’s not supposed to watch that. It has mean men who shoot guns.”

I couldn’t hold my tongue. Especially considering that my letting him watch cartoon men who shoot guns, while surely not a great idea, can’t be much worse than his parents letting that same grandson, at that same age, listen to LMFAO’s unsavory (but, yes, rather humorous) ditty “I’m Sexy and I Know It” so many times that he knew most of the words. Worse yet, he considered it his very favorite song at the time.

In the grand scheme of the grandparenting gig, the contradictory rules for Mom versus Grandma aren’t that big of a deal. Really. They’re not harmful to my grandsons. My daughter is an awesome mother with good intentions. She keeps my grandsons safe, sound, and never doubting they are loved and cherished. Plus, as the parent, it's her prerogative, one not afforded the grandparent.

Still, it is a tad disconcerting to see my daughter so full of baloney (and not just because she wouldn't dare be caught dead eating ever-so-very-unhealthy baloney).

Yet, despite the double standard, I do my best to stick to her rules.

Even if they’re silly.

Even if they’re not fair (I say in my whiniest of whiny voices).

I stick to them because they’re my daughter’s rules, and that’s what grandmas must do.

Because grandmas no longer set the rules.

Which is the one rule grandmas would be most wise to remember.

Today's question:

How does the mom-rules/grandma-rules dynamic play out in your family?

Don't speak: When silence refreshes relationship between Mom and Grandma

My daughter recently emailed me the ticket confirmation for my next visit to the desert. The trip is set for the latter part of April.

I, of course, must work to contain my excitement and anticipation as I look forward to soon spending ten days with my grandsons.

I also look forward — sans the fanfare and excitement, I admit — to the days after the trip, the days when I’ve returned home and my daughter won’t be speaking to me.

Yes, when I get back from that trip, I’m sure my daughter won’t speak to me. Which will be okay, though, for I surely won’t speak to her, either.

That may seem odd, considering I have no doubt we’ll have a delightful time in April. The first few days of the visit will be spent with my daughter, son-in-law and my precious grandsons. Then I’ll have nearly a week of serving as sole caretaker of Bubby and Mac, as Megan accompanies Preston for an out-of-state conference. Then Megan and Preston will return home, and we’ll have even more time together.

That time together is precisely why my daughter and I won’t be speaking afterward.

You see, somewhere along the line of my daughter becoming “Mommy” and me becoming “Gramma,” we fell into the habit of not calling, texting, e-mailing or connecting in pretty much any way whatsoever for a few days after extended visits with one other.

We didn’t plan such a tack; it happened naturally. It’s a natural progression of the ways our roles and connection to one another have changed. And it’s been a boon to our relationship.

My daughter and I thrive on the times the miles that typically separate us geographically are erased, and we strengthen our connection with hours upon hours of real face time. We come together with much to share about our jobs, hobbies, anxieties, accomplishments, family updates and hopes for the future. And, of course, there’s always much to discuss about her children, my grandchildren — how to care for them, grow them, love them best.

We share it all, accompanied by hugs, laughs, tears, good times. Intense times that can be exhausting — in fulfilling ways. Eventually, we've filled up the nooks and crannies of our hearts and souls, the spots that often feel empty when loved ones live far away.

Then, as luck would have it, that’s usually about the time the visit is over. So we separate. And we stop talking.

The mother/daughter relationship is one of those tangled webs we unwittingly weave. The web only grows tighter, more tangled, the more time we spend together, especially when we’re used to having our own space, our own place. It takes time to untangle, to return to our separate realities.

After a few days, we'll little by little start conversing again. By text, by phone, maybe through email. Now that I have FaceTime on my iPhone, it may just even happen in a pseudo face-to-face this time.

However it happens, it happens naturally. More importantly, it happens to work — for us and for our relationship.

Today's question:

How often do you communicate with your children — in person, by text, by phone, etcetera?

Dad's cool profession

My son-in-law, Preston — father to my two grandsons — is a financial advisor. Now, adults likely get the importance and necessity of a person who is whiz-bang awesome with money. Kids, though? You might think kids wouldn't see financial advising as all that cool of a profession, especially for their papa.

If that is what you think kids might think, I'm here to suggest that you just might want to think again.

You see, there are plenty of cool aspects to financial advising, especially from the perspective of kids whose dad just happens to be a financial advisor.

For one thing, financial advisor dads have supercool piggy banks they give their clients to share with their kids.

Supercool piggy banks that the financial advisor dads share with their own kids, too.

Piggy banks that look sort of like this (for copyright reasons, I can't share the real thing here):

 

Even cooler? Financial advisor dads regularly give presentations on money to businesses and organizations.

Using a projector.

A projector that — every once in a while — the financial advisor dad brings home for his family to have the most awesome of movie nights.

Movie nights that look exactly like this:

Now how cool is that?

(And how cute is that? Especially that Mac's little body doesn't even fill the entire ottoman as he kicks back to enjoy the show, just like his big brother.)

Yep, financial advising is indeed a pretty cool profession for dads.

Even more cool for their kids.

Just ask Mac and Bubby.

Piggy bank photo: stock.xchng

Today's question:

My dad was a plumber. What was your dad's profession?

Like mother, like daughter?

How are your kids like you?

My friend Lisa from Grown and Flown wrote an excellent piece on exactly that question this past week. Long after reading Lisa's thought-provoking post, I pondered again and again just how my daughters might be like me. I considered just how different they are from me, too.

Brianna, my eldest, is quite similar to me in many ways. From the time she was quite young, my younger daughters — and sometimes Jim, too — called Brianna "Mom 2" because she was a bossy little thing and always stepped in to control her sisters and unsavory situations if I didn't. Occasionally even when I did, to be honest. Brianna enjoys the same books and movies as I do. She has many other similar likes and dislikes, and many of my same mannerisms, too.

Megan, my middle daughter, is the least like me of all my girls. We're quite opposite in the most fundamental of likes and dislikes. She likes to shop; I don't. She likes to talk on the phone; I don't. She runs marathons, and I feel like I'm doing pretty well if I manage to walk the dogs around the neighborhood. The one area she is very much like me, though — which she may or may not willingly agree — is in our approach to motherhood and the parenting principles we hold dear. Since being a mom has been my most important role so far, I guess that in the end, Megan may be the daughter most like me after all.

Andrea, my youngest ... well, Andrea is a nut. The biggest nut of all my daughters. And the one that is probably most like me in many ways. Many ways that make us butt heads yet still consider the other among our most loved and loyal fans. We're both born under the astrological sign of Cancer, so perhaps that's part of it. Of my favorite resemblences: Andrea and I enjoy the same kind of music. The mix CDs she would send me from college are some of my most treasured possessions — and not just because I loved the music.

That's just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to our similarities and differences. I'm continually impressed by the ways my daughters are different from me, always pleased by the ways they mimic me — even when they balk at the thought they, heaven forbid, do and say things just like their mother at times.

In their words and their actions, it's fairly easy to see how my daughters take after me. Physically, though, is a different story. I'll leave it to you to decide which daughter looks most like her mother. If you ask me, there's not a bit of resemblance between any of us.

Like mother like daughter? From the top: Brianna, Megan, Andrea

Today's question:

In what ways do your kids resemble you, physically or otherwise?

Photo replay: Bedtime ritual

Preston reads Bubby and Mac their bedtime story — February 2013

Today's fill-in-the-blank:

My bedtime ritual includes _______________.

Stylin' grandsons

When I was a child, I don't recall ever going to a salon to get my hair cut. My mom cut it. I had long, straight hair, so it was fairly easy to trim up here and there. None of the styling sessions stand out as memorable except for one particularly disastrous cut when I pleaded to have my hair cut like my favorite Liddle Kiddles doll. And my mom gave me exactly what I asked for.

Thing is, there's a big difference between the (artificial) hair on Liddle Kiddles and the hair on my head. My wannabee fancy curls, meant to coil and curl gorgeously around my ears, instead looked like horrendous '70s sideburns that refused to coil, lying straight and flat against each cheek...except when the slightest breeze caught them and they flapped up and down no more gorgeously than mud flaps on a moving van.

Surprisingly, that horrid haircut didn't dissuade me from cutting my three daughters' hair. I did, though, unlike my mother, have a minor amount of training in trimming locks, gleaned from my senior year in high school. Having earned all the academic credits I needed, I was allowed to participate in a certification program at the community college during my school hours. I chose a certificate in cosmetology over one in cuisine.

I never actually continued in the program after high school graduation so I never earned my cosmetology license, but my training did come in handy for cutting my girls' hair. (And for once giving Jim a perm. Hey, it was the early '80s. But we won't go there for he might kill me. Nor will I show you the photo of such only because he'd surely kill me, not because I'm not dying to share it here now that it's crossed my mind and I know exactly where that photo is.)

Anyway...

So I cut my girls' hair for many years. They had a salon visit here and there, especially during the years I was a nail tech/seaweed wrap giver, but for the most part, I was their stylist. Even to this day, Brianna and Andrea will ask me at various times to trim up this and that for them between their visits to a real stylist. I don't cut Megan's hair at all anymore...and I certainly no longer cut—or perm—Jim's hair.

My grandsons have had a different experience when it comes to haircuts. Perhaps it's a boy thing. Bubby once underwent a home haircut from Preston and his buddy Scott. And Mac suffered through a near shaving from Mommy for his first cut. But other than those two trimmings—or maybe because of those trimmings—Bubby and Mac always visit a salon for their hair snippin' and stylin'.

I've been lucky to be in town to witness several haircuts with Bubby. A time or two, the salon visit was made into a guys' day out, as Bubby, Preston, and PawDad had their hair done together.

My first time visiting the salon with Mac, though—who loathes having his hair cut—came only recently, during my December visit, when he and Bubby both hopped into the chairs at Supercuts. Here is my record of the experience:

 

PawDad has yet to visit the salon with both grandsons. Maybe we'll be able to fit that in next time he goes to the desert with me.

(And maybe we can convince Mac to get a perm with PawDad. Just for fun...and photos. And I'll be sure to share those photos here, the prospect of murder and mayhem inflicted by Jim be damned! Stay tuned.)

Today's question:

What is the worst haircut you ever received and who was responsible?

Ornaments of Christmases past

At tree-trimming time every Christmas, I gave each of my three daughters a new ornament, beginning when they were all still quite small. Some years the ornaments given reflected a passion or hobby of each individual girl; other years, all three received similar ornaments with only a slight variation on a common theme. Every year, all were dated and hung upon the family tree.

With three new ornaments added for the girls each year plus a new one for Jim and myself annually, too, our Christmas tree became jam-packed with ornaments by the time the girls were ready to leave the nest. The paring down of the baubles was far more abrupt than the collecting. First it was Megan's collection that we wrapped up and sent with her once she became a newlywed. Next, Andrea moved up and out and on, taking her ornaments with her. Then, just a few years ago, Brianna and her seasonal stash found a new home, as well.

Now that Jim and I decorate our tree with many old ornaments of our own, plus nearly just as many new ornaments to take the place of those relocated to our daughters' Christmas trees, it's been especially heartwarming this past week while visiting my grandsons to see many of the familiar ornaments of Christmases past hanging on Megan's tree. Not only those I had given her through the years, but ones she had made herself or received from others, too.

 

Equally heartwarming to see hung in a place of prominence at Megan's house was an advent calendar I had made for my daughters many years ago, now providing a chocolate-y countdown to Christmas for my grandsons.

It's bittersweet to see old, familiar seasonal decor adorning a home so far removed from mine, in years and in geography. Every once in a while during this visit, I've been hit with the overwhelming realization that things will never go back to what they were, that time has indeed ticked along, those days are gone, and this is where we as a family are, what we will be from now on. Not that I didn't realize that—or be okay with that—already, but the confirmation of such sometimes comes in unexpected and occasionally uncomfortable waves. No more kids' ornaments hanging on the tree was and is just the beginning...and the end.

That serves as the bitter. The sweet? Seeing the enjoyment my grandsons now get pulling foiled Santas and chocolate balls from the very same crudely numbered pockets their mom and aunts once did, counting the days until Santa's arrival. Days that to a child move far too slowly. Days that to a mom—and now a grandma— moved far too fast and somehow, without proper notice, became years.

Today's question:

What holiday ornaments have you passed down to your children?