Intentional grandparenting

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I'm smack dab in the middle of some quality time with my grandsons so I'm taking the easy way out today and publishing an old post—with new photos. I chose this one because as I visit with Bubby and Baby Mac, I'm trying to keep in mind the concept of which I wrote about then. This was originally published October 8, 2010 with the title Gramma's my name, being intentional's my game.

Seems the latest buzzword for grandparenting is intentional. Everywhere I look for info on grandparenting, I find books and articles about being intentional.

What the cuss does it mean to indulge in intentional grandparenting, you ask?

The definition of intentional, according to Miriam Webster, is "done by intention or design; intended."

With that definition in mind, I'd first like to say that I had absolutely nothing to do with becoming a grandma; there was no intention whatsoever about getting the position. A position, I'll add, I was thrilled to accept.

Peggy Edwards, in her book Intentional Grandparenting: A Boomer's Guide, calls intentional grandparenting "a process for planning ahead and taking deliberate action to be the kind of grandparent you want to be."

That definition could apply to everyone -- not just grandparents -- because it seems a good idea to strive to be intentional in all relationships. That said, because I'm a grandma and because I'm a grandma blogger, this here little blog post focuses only on intentional grandparenting. And how I succeed -- and fail -- at it.

There apparently are several tenets of the intentional grandparent game, many which just sound like common sense to me, but here are the rules, according to Grandparents.com:

Intentional grandparents ...

1. Plan special times together.

2. Ask the parents to stay away!

3. Take advantage of the resources around you.

4. The simplest pleasures are often the best.

5. Make a plan, but be flexible.

6. See things through the kids' eyes.

7. Give them your undivided attention.

See what I mean? Common sense. (And if you're confused about the "Ask the parents to stay away!" rule, it just means to spend time specifically with the grandchildren without the parents around.)

So I have most of those down pretty well. As a long-distance grandparent, No. 1 comes pretty easily; I have no choice but to plan the cuss out of our visits. I fully intend to be at his place or fully intend to have him be at my place.

But the one I do best? I'd have to say it's No. 7, "Give them your undivided attention." When I'm with Bubby, he is the full focus of everything I say, do, think. He has my undivided attention. Maybe that's where being a long-distance grandma comes in handy, because if he lived nearby, I swear I'd get nothing done. Every second would be dedicated to him. At least until grandbaby No. 2 comes along. (How do you grandmas of many do it?)

The rule of intentional grandparenting at which I fail? In my mind, there's no doubt it's No. 6, "Seeing things through the kids' eyes." I'm not very good at seeing things through Bubby's eyes. I want to show him life through MY eyes because my eyes have been around a lot longer, have seen a lot more, have learned to filter out that which doesn't really matter.

Thing is, I'm starting to realize that the things that don't really matter to me aren't necessarily the things that don't matter to others. In this case, Bubby. While I'm rushing to show him the cool things at the park or in the backyard or in a book we're reading, he's dawdling and heading toward what most interests his little eyes: the balance beam at the park that he surely can't balance on but that makes a great spot for lining up some rocks; the vines that cling to the trees, walks and walls of the backyard require touching and tugging before we finally reach the rustic metal dinosaur legs sprouting from Gramma's garden; the miniature secondary illustrations framing the page of a picture book are much more interesting than the big ol' drawings that depict exactly what's going on in the story.

I need to follow Bubby's lead a little lot more in such things and work at seeing the world through his eyes. I may see what I think matters; Bubby sees what is magical.

My plan is to work on marveling at the magical, seeing things the way Bubby sees them.

My plan is to work at becoming a fully intentional grandma.

Sometimes even the common-sensical can use a little intentional attention.

Today's question:

Applying the rules of intentional grandparenting to any relationship, which do you think you are most and/or least successful at?

The Saturday Post: Project Yosemite edition

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I would love to be a world traveler. Thing is, I've not even seen much of the United States. So before I set sail across seas near and far, I need to spend some time in my own back yard, my own country.

With that in mind, one of the destinations at the top of my National-Parks-I-must-see list is this, Yosemite National Park. The following beautiful time-lapse video does much to tide me over until I can get there:

Today's question:

Which National Parks are your favorite? Which do you hope to eventually see?

Drink up

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Yesterday I told you about my addiction to books. I've always considered myself relatively free from addiction except for that one little vice.

Then Megan called to ask what I'd like her to stock up the house with for my desert visit, and I realized I do indeed have another addiction. My reply was that the only things I need—really truly need while she and Preston are away and I'm babysitting my grandsons—are internet access and coffee. She meant food items but I'll eat whatever she has on hand; no picky grandma am I. What I wanted her to have on hand (and hooked up in her new house) is internet access, I emphasized, and lots and lots of coffee.

I don't consider internet access an addiction; I need it for my job...and to pop in here to see how you all are doing when Bubby and Baby Mac allow for that. The other part of my request to Megan, though, made it clear that coffee is an addiction. I really did say "I need lots and lots of coffee." And I really did mean it. I do need coffee.

Yes, I need coffee. I love coffee. I'm addicted to coffee. Which is why I like this video and want to share it with you. Even if you're not a coffee addict drinker, I think you'll find it interesting.

Drink up! I certainly am (although only until noon as any coffee after that time would require another addiction—to sleeping pills come bedtime).

Today's question:

How many cups of coffee do you drink a day? And what's your favorite blend/roast/brand?

My addiction: The first step

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They say the first step in overcoming an addiction is admitting you have a problem.

Well, I have a problem.

I'm addicted to books.

Here's proof—my rows upon rows, shelves upon shelves of books:

No, those aren't duplicates. I do indeed have that many books, that many bookcases and hiding places.

And no, I've not read them all. Most, but not all. I'm not addicted to reading them, just accumulating them.

I have no idea what the second step is, but I have a feeling it's not gonna be easy.

Today's question:

What is your addiction?

The curse takes effect — let the gloating begin

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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.