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

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?

Battling my personal lemons

I keep seeing featured in the JCPenney ad the red loveseat Jim and I bought just after moving into our house. Because we have so many stairs, we needed a spot for his mom to sleep on the main level when she visited, and the loveseat was the perfect solution because it pulled out to a single bed but would look fine the rest of the time as a loveseat in the study.

Well, each time I see it in the ad I cringe because that loveseat is The. Most. Uncomfortable. Piece. Of. Furniture. Ever. At least in the "loveseat" configuration. (I've never slept on it as a bed; the few who have haven't complained).

Unfortunately that little loveseat expenditure is not the only unwise purchase we've ever made. Here are a few others:

Boxed gnocchi. One of my goals this year is to try out more recipes instead of relying on old standbys. What I've learned so far: boxed gnocchi = yucky. Jim agrees.

Our hot tub. We bought a hot tub at our old house and the girls used it more than we did. We left it when we sold our house because our new house has one. Jim's never been in it; I've only been in it once ... when I fell in it by accident. We clean it, fill it, keep it chemical-ed up -- we just never use it.

Cheri, starring Michelle Pfeiffer. This one's not technically a purchase as it was a Netflix movie rental, so it didn't really cost us any money. But it did cost us time -- and it was the biggest waste of our time ever.

My Reebok EasyTone walking shoes. Both my doctor and physical therapist call them a "gimmick" -- and attribute a portion of my current disc trouble to them.

Black & Decker appliances. Toasters, food processors, mixers, coffee pots. Many throughout the years. None worked correctly or for very long. Why did it take me years -- and lots of money -- to realize B&D may be good at making tools but they stink at small appliances?

Smooth-Away. Yeah, an infomercial sucked me in. I bought FOUR -- one for each of the girls and myself. (Well ... they were BOGO, for heaven's sake!). Never again.

Squiggles. I thought I'd amaze Bubby with the magical squirmy thing. I couldn't get it to squirm or squiggle ... but Bubby did enjoy dragging it around on its string as if it were a trained caterpillar.

Keurig 'My K-Cup' insert. Megan and Preston kindly bought us a Keurig for Christmas. We drink a lot of coffee and thought the insert would be nice for using our own coffee instead of the K-Cups. Um, no. We'll stick with the K-cups. (It does work well, though, for using a tea bag to brew a single cup of tea.)

Photo: flickr

Today's question:

What is on your list of unwise purchases?

My dreams for my grandson

These are my dreams for my grandson as he grows:

That he always shows gratitude, curiosity, strength, forgiveness.

That he exercises his body and mind in equal proportions.

That he laughs daily, with others, at himself.

That he loves himself, is proud of himself, treats himself kindly, compassionately.

That he shows kindness and compassion to others, to animals, to nature.

That he turns a deaf ear to intimidation and ignorance when it comes to thinking and doing what's good, what's right.

That he understands the value of patience, compromise, silence, restraint.

That he always loves learning ... and teaching.

That he uses his hands for hugging not hurting.

That he accepts responsibility.

That he does his part.

That he has -- and is -- a true and loyal friend.

That he makes time for silliness, pleasure, play.

That he appreciates and cultivates strong bonds with his siblings, from youth to old age.

That he embraces productivity and pursues careers that matter to him, to the world.

That always -- always -- people are more important to him than things.

That he keeps his word.

That home, family, tradition matter.

That he communicates -- in small ways, large ways and when it may not seem to matter ... but does.

That he never fails to see the beauty, the delightful, the admirable, the awesome.

That he never fails to see those less fortunate.

That he takes nothing for granted.

That his fears and nerves lead him to greatness not despair.

That he appreciates differences of opinion, culture, ideas.

That he has abundant supporters, cheering him on. When he can't hear them cheering, that he doesn't hesitate to cheer for himself.

That he finds a loving forever mate and together they create a loving forever family.

That he makes a positive difference in the world, be it as simple as a smile to a passing stranger or as complex as contributing to global change.

That he never breaks his mother's heart. Or his father's.

That he builds people up, not tear them down.

That he's slow to anger, quick to reason.

That he leads more than he follows, listens more than he speaks.

That his body, mind and soul stay strong, growing and bending but never breaking.

That he dances, sings, eats, enjoys, cries, giggles, dreams without worrying what others may think.

That he sets goals far and high and reaches them ... then goes beyond them.

That adversity makes him stronger not hopeless.

That he uses the words I will more often than I'll try or I can't.

That his heart is gentle and generous yet strong and resilient.

That he keeps an open mind.

That the words misogynist, racist, hateful, liar, addict, or bully are never used to describe him.

That he never, ever doubts he's loved.

That the love he gives in return is never in doubt.

That he travels.

That he dares.

That he excels.

That he lives.

That he depends on God's guidance, comfort, forgiveness, love always, in all ways.

That all who touch his life help make these dreams a reality.

More importantly, that he makes these dreams a reality. Plus every single dream of his own.

Holiday question of the day:

If you could give one gift that can't be wrapped -- the realization of a dream, goal, wish, trait -- to one person, what would you give and to whom would you give it?

This post linked to:

Mom 2.0 redux

Not too long ago, I wrote a post called Mom 2.0 better than Mom 1.0 highlighting nine ways Megan (Mom 2.0) has outdone her mother (me, Mom 1.0). Well, she's gone and done it again -- taken what I've taught her and bumped it up a notch.

Consider this post reason No. 10 why Mom 2.0 is better than Mom 1.0.

As many of you know, Megan and Preston hosted our Thanksgiving gathering this year. Megan has never prepared the Thanksgiving meal and has only once cooked a turkey by herself. Yet she took it upon herself to do something I have never done, something I had previously never even heard of: Megan brined the Thanksgiving turkey.

And I must admit, it turned out to be the most delectably moist and flavorful turkey I think I've ever had.

Megan soaked the turkey in a savory solution for a day or so. Then she seasoned it well (before taking off for the Turkey Trot, I might add).

She baked it and basted it and recruited Preston for the heavy lifting of the 20-pound tom in and out of the oven.

Once roasted to golden perfection, Preston carved the bird -- his first time ever charged with Thanksgiving carving duty.

What a turkey! What a team!

Yes indeed, Mom 2.0 once again improves upon Mom 1.0. And it's only right to throw in a few props for Dad 2.0 (Preston) for doing the carving honors -- something Dad 1.0 (Jim) has yet to attempt.

In light of the savory success of Megan's turkey brining, I'm thinking about trying out the method soon myself. I just so happen to have a spare turkey in the freezer, happily waiting to be brined and baked.

And maybe -- just maybe -- Jim will be happily waiting to try out carving the bird himself once it's done.

These kids of mine continually amaze me. I thought I was the one who was supposed to be teaching them a thing or two, yet they've been pretty darn good so far at teaching me a thing or two. For starters, that soaking a turkey in salt water really does make it more moist.

And that it really is possible to run a 5k in the morning and still get Thanksgiving dinner on the table by early afternoon. Doing both while pregnant.

Did I mention that my kids continually amaze me?

Today's question:

What's something you've learned from one you're more typically in charge of teaching (a child, grandchild ... pet?)?

Wah, wah and cootchie coo

Whining and baby talk are for babies ... only!When my daughters were young, I had a crafty little sign over the doorway to the kitchen that said "No whining." Whining simply was not allowed in our house.

The girls knew early on that asking, complaining, begging, crying in a whiny tone led them nowhere. If they did that, my only response would be, "I can't understand you when you're whining."

Even as a manager in the workplace, I had a "No Whining" sign at my desk. It's incredible the number of adults who think whining will get them somewhere. With anyone. Luckily my daughters aren't one of those adults. They're not whiners. And I'm pretty sure whining now annoys them just as much as it annoys me.

One of the few things that grates on my nerves, gets my briefs in a bunch and makes me want to bop someone on the head with a Nerf bat more than whining does is baby talk.

Now, lots of grandmas engage in baby talk. I'm talking about the "Cootchie, cootchie coo" babbling that takes place over a new little one. Or the "Oh, my sweety bug, you're so precious!" kind of complimenting passed along to boys and girls alike. That's fine, I guess. To each his own -- as long as it's out of my earshot. But you'll never hear that from me. Bubby will never hear it from me. Even my dogs and cats will never hear it from me.

That doesn't mean I don't gush over cute things; I just gush in a non-baby talk manner. I love my little Bubby with all my heart and soul and I adore everyone else's little ones just as much as the next grandma. But there's something patronizing bordering on demeaning about talking in sweetsy high-pitched voices to kids. Believe me: It really is possible to let babies and others know how much you adore them without hitting the upper range of your vocal abilities and using nonsensical words. It's annoying.

More than the annoyance factor, though, I think baby talking to kids teaches them from the get-go that baby talk from them is acceptable. For, at what point do you stop the baby talk to your children or grandchildren? As they get older, they surely -- though likely subconsciously -- figure that if grandma can do it, they can do it, too. And they can't. Or at least shouldn't. And they definitely shouldn't do it in public.

I'm a site coordinator for the local children's literacy center, so I come across a lot of kids. I'm continually amazed at the number of them -- children in elementary school and older -- who talk in baby talk. To adults! It drives me nuts. I find it not only annoying, I think it's sad. The poor kids haven't been empowered to use their words to say what they mean, what they want, what they truly wish to express. Instead, they've been taught to depend on a cutesy, baby voice (or worse yet, whiney baby voice), in hopes that baby talk will get them what they want. Or soften the blow of what they're really trying to say. Or endear someone to their cutesy ways.

Which it doesn't. At least not with me ... and surely not with their teachers or other adults, I would venture to say.

So moms, grandmas -- dads, aunts, uncles, any other adults who interact with children, too -- do the kids in your life a favor and put an end to baby talk. From our mouths and the mouths of the little ones. It's annoying.

And it's just as bad as whining.

Which I can't imagine being taught as acceptable by any grandma or other adult, not just crabby non-baby-talking grandmas such as myself.

Today's question:

Which do you find more annoying -- whining or baby talk?

Rated M for mature

Related Posts with ThumbnailsIt's been one month since I last saw Bubby and in those few passing weeks, my grandson has grown by leaps and bounds. It's not so much that Bubby has grown -- he hasn't shot up several inches or moved on to a bigger size of clothing. It's more that he has matured.

To wit:

  • Bubby no longer wears a diaper. Woo-hoo! Big boy underwear is the garment of choice -- adorned with trains and more -- and Pull-ups are worn only at night. Even so, the nights have been dry. (If you ask me, it was far too easy for Megan. Aren't boys supposedly much more difficult to potty train than girls?)
  • Bubby is now a seasoned school boy, attending preschool five days a week.
  • Thus far into his school career, Bubby has already been attacked by bullies three times. The first came in generic bully form: a tough little cuss who also serves as one of Bubby's best friends. Apparently this little kid likes to push and shove and make other bad choices when it comes to interacting with his fellow classmates. The second bully Bubby faced was strep. An antiobiotic helped him face down this particular bully. And this one did carry a silver lining: Because of the strep, Bubby was absent the day Bully-Boy pulled out the big guns -- his chompers -- which he used to chomp nearly every other two-year-old in the class. The third bully? A stomach bug. I gotta hand it to Bubby for his response to this bad guy. Despite the yuckiness that goes along with stomach bugs, my little trooper maintained status quo on potty training, with no backsliding into diapers and no messes. Well, no messes that come from the diaper end.
  • As the ties of friendship between Bubby and Bully-Boy remain strong despite Bully-Boy's treatment of Bubby, Bubby has participated in making some not so great decisions. He's not been busted by the teacher for his infractions, though. Only his buddy has. Yet after witnessing Bully-Boy complete a time-out handed down by the teacher for an unnamed act, Bubby confronted the teacher, told her he needed a time-out for something he'd done, and proceeded to take his turn in the time-out chair. After a minute or so, Bubby told the teacher "All done" then merrily went on his way, satisfied that he'd done his time ... for a crime the teacher didn't even know he'd committed.
  • Bubby has mastered the art of conversation ... and how to cut it short when a Chatty Cathy invades his space. Megan told of a recent day after school, with Bubby chilling in his car seat in the back while Megan drove them home. Questions from Megan of "How was your day?" and "What did you do in school?" were met with brief answers from Bubby followed by, "Stop talking, Mommy. No more talking." End of story, end of conversation. He needed to regroup after hours of interaction with toddlers, and he had no difficulty whatsoever letting Mommy know the time for talking was over.
  • Bubby also is mastering the art of golf, the swinging of the club in particular. By watching Mommy and Daddy practice golf on the Wii, Bubby has picked up a masterful technique he practices with his toy clubs and ball in the backyard. Just like Mommy and Daddy, he lines up the ball, grabs hold of the club, pulls the club back and ... swings! And just like Mommy and Daddy, when Bubby misses the ball or it goes in an unintended direction, he lets out an unmistakeable "Dammit!" (With this one, Mommy and Daddy learned a quick lesson themselves in finding more appropriate ways of expressing frustration with sloppy golf swings!)

Yessiree, my Bubby is maturing at a mind-blowing rate. What more will he master before I see him again? He's already figured out one of the most important lessons in life: the need to accept responsibility for your actions, your poor choices. Proved by giving himself a time-out for something the teacher didn't even see him do, my mature little Bubby already understands that regardless of whether anyone has witnessed it or not, if you do the crime, you do the time. It's as simple as that.

The real question: Will it remain as simple as that as Bubby's toddler years all-too-quickly become his teen years?

 

Today's question:

What lesson, action or experience (first child? first house? first divorce?) made you feel like you had matured and officially become an adult?

Lessons from Bubby

During my recent tour of babysitting duty, I taught Bubby a few things, such as how to do a puzzle.

And that peanut butter play dough is an incredible, edible art medium. And the wonders of Baskin Robbins.

In return, Bubby taught me lots of things ... things I probably used to know but have forgotten along the way to grandmahood.

Here are a few of the lessons I learned while babysitting my Bubby:

Garbage trucks are the coolest thing in the whole entire world -- except for bunnies who live outside the bedroom window ... and bubbles.

BFFs come in a variety of shapes,  sizes and colors.

A pile of books beats out a pile of toys any day of the week.

Daily creative expression is good for the soul. As are regular haircuts and impromptu jam sessions.

Several days of rain and being stuck inside the house make the sun's return all the more glorious.

Macaroni and cheese and chocolate pudding are THE very best culinary creations EVER!

And that diversions make saying "goodbye" to loved ones a little bit easier to handle.

This post is my diversion.

Today's question from the "Loaded Questions" board game:

What one thing that you do can you genuinely admit is not that cool?

I recently bought a dorky pair of sweat pants that are designed to look -- from far away -- like a pair of jeans. I would never, ever wear them in public, but they are oh-so comfortable to wear around the house. Jim and Brianna have made it clear how very UNcool my comfy "jeans" are ... but I don't care.