Lego of your adult notions

I have a 4 year-old grandson, N. He's my pal. Consequently, Legos are now an important part of my life. We have a lot of them, but nowhere near what we (grandson N, husband T, and I) ultimately need to be happy. The only limit to the number of Legos you need seems to be the amount of space you have to store them. 

I went into this whole grandparent thing totally innocent in the ways of Lego. Now they are my favorite toy. I look forward to playing with them.

I am happy to report Lego has a new line in pastel colors targeted for girls! Yes, at first it did seem a little creepy and sexist to me. Then I remembered social change cannot always take the straight and narrow path. Sometimes being subversive is the best choice.

If issuing these building bricks in pastels make parents feel it is okay to buy Legos for their daughters, or entices froufrou girls to play with them, then I approve. Plus, I actually prefer the pastel colors. As a former froufrou girl, let me say I wish I had developed fine motor skills and increased my concentration early on by playing with pink Legos. 

If girls have their own private stash and are willing to share, all those Legos will eventually become community (i.e., sibling) property, regardless of gender. Their brothers will finally have access to the right bricks for making pink and lavender trucks. Pink and lavender trucks? Maybe with black bricks added for dramatic highlights and definition? I'm in!

Why only use Legos to combat sexism? You know how intricate coloring books for adults are now the therapeutic rage? Well, I am sure playing with Legos is way more fun than coloring inside the lines, and equally relaxing. Lego should offer adult kits with colors like silver, gold, zebra stripes, leopard spots, you name it. One could design Lego furniture, for crying out loud. Playing with Legos could become the next trendy thing. It beats the hell out of drinking yourself into a stupor and/or watching TV. I have to confess that I am no longer sure if I am kidding or serious (yikes!). Wait a minute... Nah, I'm almost positive I'm kidding.

I live near the Orlando theme parks. In this strange land of wildly expensive entertainment destinations there is, of course, a park called Legoland. Another place called Disney Springs (formerly Downtown Disney - a huge shopping district on Disney property) is also a Lego-lover hot spot. Disney Springs has a sizable Lego store with some amazingly large "sculptures" outside, including this sea serpent. I wonder if they sell it as a kit? I also wonder how much it would cost, and if it comes in mauve? 

This is how I want to feel every day!

Do you love it?

Counting Calories: 7 weeks

I have been counting calories for 7 weeks and I have lost 10 pounds.  As I heard once in a Weight Watchers meeting, if you hold up two 5 pound bags of potatoes you get an idea of how much 10 pounds weigh. If only the weight I lost equaled the mass of those bags of potatoes. Then I could be done with this counting calories thing. 

10 down and only 35 more to go...  Aaack.  Considering how averse I am to actually dieting and how much I LOVE food (and, okay, wine), I figure it might take me a whole year to lose 20 more pounds. That means it may take me up to two years to reach my final goal weight. I am actually good with that scenario. Slow and steady wins the race, right? Of course, the longer I do this the better chance I have of making healthier eating habits become permanent. 

Don't worry! I am not trying to be thin. I never have been thin, and at 65 thinness is not something I aspire to. That ship has sailed! I am 5'2" and if I reach my goal weight I will be at the absolute tippy top of the healthy BMI for my height. Tippy top is good enough for me. I want to be strong, healthy, and energetic so I can keep up with my grandchildren.

I want to be able to jump up and down and act a fool when our granddaughter grows up and wins an academy award. That's a long term goal.

The little guy, N, expects grandma and grandpa to play tag with him for crying out loud. And he runs like the wind. My immediate goal is to be able to catch that little stinker. I want to win the game.

Still, if losing weight starts to make my neck look any worse then all bets are off.

See what I mean?  Like the wind

Cute Tomato

Well, if you can believe it I ate our second homegrown tomato of the season this morning. I chopped it up and sprinkled it on a split five grain baguette piece, topped it with sharp cheddar and stuck it in the oven until the bread was toasted and the cheese melted. Yum. It was almost as good as a bagel.

We have a couple of teeny raised beds and we are able to start planting some things in March here in Florida. Since we bought tomato plants instead of starting them from seed, we have a nice head start on the fresh produce.

Our 4 year-old grandson, N, took the actual "first" tomato from the garden earlier this month. He wanted to take it home to Daddy. Unfortunately, his father was unable to eat it because by the time he received it the tomato was mush. It seems N used the tomato as a ball. We live and learn.

Little N is my partner in this year's vegetable gardening adventure. He helped me plant seeds for carrots, beets, snow peas, cilantro, green beans, zucchini, and basil. There was much excitement when the seeds started to grow. He likes to water the beds when he comes over to visit. Then he waters the fence, the shed, the house, and me. He loves the power of the sprayer, but he is still learning to control it. When he holds it in his grubby little hands he becomes a de facto sprinkler system. I love that kid. It is a joy watching him learn new things and make new connections in his little mind. It would be wonderful to have a mind so open and uncluttered again.  

and here is the third tomato of the season, coming right up

Another one bites the dust

The other day our once beautiful gardenia succumbed to disease. We have such a hard time growing things in Central Florida. It is kind of weird. Some things we planted last spring are growing in leaps and bounds. But many other plants have died for one reason or another.

Most of our new plants were lost in the moist heat of the summer; during the 3 summer months it rains nearly every afternoon. I blame the rainy season for many of our plant deaths, but wet soil is not what killed the gardenia. It was fine during the rainy season. 

One thing I am learning is you cannot "baby" plants down here. It is standing-water-wet and steaming hot in the summer, dry as a bone the rest of the year, and can generate the occasional frost overnight in the winter. Plants must be a certain kind of hardy to live in this climate and survive the extremes in moisture. I am on board with that concept in theory, I have always been a survival of the fittest kind of gardener.  I have lost plenty of plants to cold winters up north.  But in practice it is always hard when they die.

I loved the idea of having a gardenia. That is my problem, really - liking the "idea" of a plant rather than settling for a plant that will actually grow in our back yard. Still, I thought the gardenia was going to make it. There are lots of them thriving in Leu Gardens about 25 minutes from us in Orlando.

When it was still healthy our gardenia grew steadily, bloomed at the appropriate time, and was both beautiful and fragrant. Then it was attacked by scales and developed sooty mold.  It seems both are common pests with gardenias, camellias, and azaleas.  Had we noticed the scales earlier we probably could have caught it.  By the time we noticed, it was seriously infested.  We had been treating the gardenia for weeks but it did not get better, it got worse.  The scales spread to the Desert Rose Plant.  We started worrying about our camellia and azaleas.  T chopped it into pieces on Halloween and stuffed it into a garbage bag.  Big gardening sigh.

Florida can be so harsh and cruel! 

Is Central Florida someplace I would have chosen to move given free will and full choice?  Absolutely not.  I only moved here to be near my grandkids and help our daughter and son-in-law out with the occasional babysitting gig.

On the other hand, yesterday (November 3rd) we took a dip in the pool. We are having a hot spell that is prolonging the pool season this year, much to our delight.  The water was 81 degrees (cold by our standards), but the temperature was 89 degrees outside.

Nearly every day throughout the year we are able to ride our bikes and see wildlife and wildflowers, or bike downtown to mail a package or drink a latte. I never have to do any white-knuckle driving on snowy roads.  People are friendly and drivers are courteous.  I see my daughter and her family on a regular basis. The grandkids will know me and have stories to tell of their old grandma. 

I am finding it hard to stay mad at Florida for too long.  

Hijinks

Our 3-year old grandson, N, thinks he is the boss of us.  He is a quirky, funny little person, a bundle of bedevilment and raw, wild energy.  He is also a fledgling megalomaniac.  We often babysit for him while our daughter M runs our amazing granddaughter E all over the county to take singing, dancing, and acting classes, or to participate in plays.  Or at least that is what M says she is doing.  For all I know she is at home taking a nap, the babysitting angle simply a desperate ruse to get away from him for a few quiet hours. I would not blame her.  Babysitting for him is exciting on both a psychological and historical level, because what we may actually be observing are his very first attempts at world domination.

Upon arrival, he insists that we run through an entire routine of activities every damn time.  First we play tag, hide-and-go-seek, computer games, cars, and Lego-type assemblage stuff.  He enjoys the occasional tea party.  He pours. 

Sometimes we go into Grandpa T’s music room and then the three of us have a band.  He likes Grandpa to turn on the microphone so he can yell “One, Two….One, Two, Three, GOOOOO!”  Then we all play musical instruments badly and yell loudly.  I like to play the Conga.  Unfortunately, my Conga playing gets on N's nerves so he usually assigns me a different instrument to play, and dontcha know he tells me exactly how to play it, too.

He maintains a fort in our bedroom.  For most of the past year it was simply a quilt over a tubular quilting frame.  Unfortunately he figured out how to disassemble it, which quickly became part of the “routine” so we had to take it down.   It is too complicated to put back together all the time. Instead, we bought a fabric and post, castle-like structure at Ikea and now it takes up a good part of our bedroom.   Spoiler alert: the castle fort is his usual hiding place when we play hide-and-go-seek.

During the hot 6 months of the year we swim in the pool and there are swimming routines as well.  Once again this includes playing tag and hide-and-go-seek, but this time in the water amongst blow-up alligators and large round tubes.  He will hang on to the skirt of my bathing suit (yeah, I’m one of those women) and insist Grandpa hangs on to his (N’s) foot and then it is my job, no, it is my sacred duty to drag them all around the pool. Afterwards we bring out the water guns and he and I gang up on Grandpa.  In spite of our superior numbers, Grandpa usually wins.    

After an hour of swim play we try to coax him out of the pool.  It is helpful that there is a rainy season in Central Florida because we get short storms most afternoons.  He is well motivated to get out of the pool if he hears thunder.  Otherwise, it is a bit challenging to get him out of the water and into the house.  When we manage to get him inside he sits in front of the TV watching animated shows while eating the same exact food every time.  I have tried to trick him into eating different foods, but he notices right away.

After he eats and his “show” has ended, we have to argue with him (every time) to get him ready to drive home.  He simply will not go quietly into the night.  He cries and acts as if we have rejected him.  The guilt!  We really must take him home at that point because 1. All three of us are exhausted, and 2. He is now as mean as a snake.  If we are lucky we can get him to leave the house and head towards the car without further dramatics. Sometimes I just pick him up and carry him out, but then he screams bloody murder and flails his chubby little arms and legs right and left.  It is embarrassing once I realize the neighbors are staring at us. 

Of course, if we are not ready to leave he will bust out of the house and we have to chase him down before he runs into the street.  He knows how to unlock the door.  I am telling you, there is no stopping this kid.  

When we get outside he will inevitably break loose and run around the car, making us chase and catch him before getting him into the car and on his car seat.  He runs really fast, too - the little stinker.  That annoys Grandpa, who is usually on his last nerve by then.  You simply cannot imagine the sense of relief T and I feel when we hear that seat belt click shut, effectively locking him in place.  All three of us are usually screaming and fighting with each other as T backs the car down the driveway, and that is probably why none of the neighbors talk to us. 

Once we are on our way we must play the same children songs on the car stereo while we drive him home.  He lives a really long 12 minutes away from us.  He won't allow us to play the entire CD, only the handful of songs he calls his "silly songs."  Often he makes us replay one particular "silly song" over and over for the entire drive.  T really likes that part, I can tell.

Of course, he can also be sweet, polite, loving, kindhearted, and affectionate, but that does not make for an interesting post. 

Let kids be kids, you know what I mean?  Soon enough they will be subjected daily, hourly, by the minute to nearly constant judgment and restraint.  It sucks to be a grown up. 

You know, I can actually feel people judging me right now for spoiling this kid.  Luckily I am old enough not to give a shit.  I figure my job as Grandma is to love him and give him a safe place to be his stinkin’ glorious 3-year old self. 

N likes to yell, pretend to burp, laugh, tell silly jokes that make no sense, joyously run from authority, and eat chicken sticks.  He is also the last grandchild I will ever have.  I adore him and I love his little hijinks, just like I did with his older sister when she was 3-years old.  I think a joyous childhood can help one endure what life has in store for grown ups. 

In fact, I think it is just as important for a child to learn to be a stinker as it is for them to learn their ABC’s.  OK, I am starting to feel the judgment again.  My fingers are in my ears and I am singing our favorite "silly song" at the top of my lungs.  There, it is gone. 

I can hardly wait until he comes over again.  And yes, he is much better behaved and well mannered when he is around his parents and his other grandparents.  I am not sure why.  

Bacon and Blockbuster Brunch

Our granddaughter, E, spent a few hours at our house today at what I hope served as our very first Bacon and Blockbuster Brunch.   

She is a young "tween" at that awkward age between child and teenager.  I tend to get on her nerves now, so it is hard to find ways to bond with her.  Making silly faces followed by long, loud, fake burps used to enchant her.  In simpler times we made up stories together, each developing the plot for a few minutes and then passing it on to the other to continue the story line.  The goofier the plot, the better.  It was great fun.  Apparently, not anymore.  Darn!

I am struggling to find ways to relate to her tween mindset.  I need to find things to do with her that she likes to do.  Unfortunately, playing Minecraft on the PS4 makes me car sick.   

FYI, the only person who admires me unconditionally these days is my grandson, who is not yet 3.   He thinks my silly faces and fake burps are hilarious.  In fact, he told me the other day that when he grows up he wants to be a Gwamma.  I still have a few good years left before he stops wanting to hang out with me.  Then I may have to run away and join the circus.  Finally.

This morning I was missing her.  I decided to invite her over to watch Raiders of the Lost Ark.  She was seriously considering coming to the old folks home, but I could tell she was wavering.   I promised to make her brunch with bacon, eggs, AND pancakes.  She was immediately in.  T went to pick her up while I cooked, and we had a lovely few hours together, the three of us.  

She left happy, filled with pancakes and smelling of bacon grease. 

The Happiest Place on Earth

I had been sick for a couple of weeks.  It was intermittent and since I had a physical exam scheduled for the end of this month, I ignored my discomfort.  When I got chills and fatigue I surrendered and went to the doctor.  Until the antibiotics kicked in I was bedridden for a few days and could not do much of anything except read and sleep.

This is a nice thing about being retired.  When one gets sick one can actually go to bed and sleep no matter what time of day it is, and for as many days as it takes to get better.   No guilt, no concern; it is downright sinful.  As always, it felt so good to be bad.

After a few days of antibiotics and inactivity I felt well enough to venture out and visit The Magic Kingdom with my daughter and both grandkids.  We were all excited and happy to go.  It is purportedly the place where dreams come true – and for crying out loud, it is The Happiest Place on Earth.  Can’t beat that!  I probably have a few dreams left. 

Unfortunately, Fate had other plans for us.  She is such a pain in the neck.  I thought she had forgotten about me after she gobsmacked me with anxiety while keeping me stuck in a travel trailer for three months.  No such luck.

FYI, The Magic Kingdom is my least favorite Disney park.  It is every child’s favorite.  It is also the only Disney park that does not sell beer.  Consequently, the place is packed with hysterically giddy children and frazzled parents who must experience the park and their over-stimulated children sober.

We parked in the Heroes parking area (Simba lot, row 21) and from there took the tram train to the boat.  Eventually the boat filled up with enough people and departed for the Magic Kingdom.   M and I have done this before with two year-old N and he likes the tram ride and the boat.   This time, however, he was all hopped up on testosterone and clearly suffering from Baby Attitudinal Disorder (BAD).   Remember, I never had a son.  I was one of your original radical feminists in the late 60’s/early 70’s.  Back then I was pretty sure there was no difference between boys and girls besides the obvious biological thing.  I was anti-nature and pro-nurture.  Consequently, this boy energy thing never fails to catch me off guard.   How could I have been so wrong?

N did fairly well on the tram, although he would not sit still and I had to wrestle him down to keep him from flying out of the moving tram.  His mother had the folded up monster stroller between her and the rest of us at the opposite end of the long seat.   She is so clever, that one.  When we arrived at the boat I found his favorite place so that he could watch the water and the other boats.  No, that was not good enough.  He insisted on walking around the boat to investigate.  It is a double decker boat and we walked up the stairs.  Unfortunately, when we got upstairs they cordoned off the steps and started the boat moving.  That meant we (N, his 10 year old sister E, and I) were stuck upstairs.  Mommie was downstairs with the monster stroller.  The boy was miserable.  I tried to distract him but he was screaming for his Mom.  He got very angry with me and said “Gwamma, you go!  Get up and let Mommie sit down.”   I calmly explained that the captain makes the rules on the boat and he said we had to stay upstairs until the boat stopped.   He did not seem to understand English.  He wanted his Mom.  Like Woody Allen once famously said, “The heart wants what the heart wants.”   The tween granddaughter was sitting not far from us with her head turned as far in the opposite direction as it would go.  She did not have much to say; in fact when I spoke to her she seemed not to hear me at all, as if she was not with us. Odd.

When we got there, he insisted on walking.  Too bad, because when we put him into the stroller he is delightfully docile and cooperative.  On his feet he runs away.  Still, one must save these extraordinary efforts for when they are most needed.  The time would come.

E and I went on the Haunted Mansion ride while M and N went on the Dumbo ride.   Great fun, good start to the day.  E was so happy to show me the Haunted Mansion sights.  It was great to be alone with her for a few minutes.  I love that girl.  We all met up afterwards at the baseball themed Casey’s Corner for hot dogs and fries.  There was actually a vacant table inside the air-conditioned restaurant so we grabbed it.  Good thing, because almost immediately the heavens opened and the rains fell down. Luckily there is a large shopping area attached to the hot dog stand, so after we ate we were able to wander in and shop while it rained.  It rained hard for an hour.  Try keeping a toddler politely occupied in a store for that long.  He runs; he does not walk.  He has to touch everything, and he has a penchant for jewelry racks.  Specifically, he likes to put necklaces on with great force.  There were toys, and that kept him busy for a while.  Of course they were all in boxes and we would not let him open them so that frustrated him a bit.  There was, however, an open bin filled with long plastic swords… The sword was retractable and opened in 5 different layers, which was dangerous on so many levels.  Thank you Disney.  He was entranced.  Then he wanted to play hide and seek inside the store.  Or maybe he just wanted me to chase him.  Hard to tell.

My sweet tween granddaughter had money burning a hole in her pocket and wanted me to shop with her.  I tried, I really did; however, I kept catching sight of N as a flash of light running down the aisles and I simply had to grab his chubby little self to keep bad things from happening.  His mother was doing the same, but he is a fast little stinker.   It takes a village and all that.  It might require the infantry with this kid.

Finally we could take it no longer.  It was still raining but it was winding down.  We opened our umbrellas, harnessed the boy into the stroller and went on our merry way, nerves shot and minds muddled.  Oh, and I bought one of those swords.  Seriously, I did.  It made him SO happy, and it gave him something to do while we walked around.  Of course he kept leaning over the stroller dragging the sword underneath which drove his poor mother crazy, or retracting and opening it quickly so that bystanders were endangered, but what the hell – he was happy and occupied.  Trust me when I say that was all I cared about at that point in time.  M, E, and I were miserable.  I was a little nervous that his father was not going to be happy with me when N brought the sword into their house, but it was only $10 and he was happy.  I am pretty sure there is no other toy at Magic Kingdom that only costs $10.  Someone had to be happy in the Happiest Place on Earth.  Let it be the boy.

We had fast passes for a few more rides, so we found our way to The Little Mermaid ride.  We parked the stroller and let him out in order to get on the ride.  Big mistake.  He immediately made a break for it and I had to chase him into the Peter Pan ride across the way to catch and carry him back to the Little Mermaid.  I am so thankful for fast passes, otherwise we would have had to wait in line with him for 10-30 minutes.  Can you imagine?  With a fast pass you can pretty much walk right in.  He loved the Little Mermaid ride from the moment the restraining bar came down and hemmed him in.  When the ride ended we were going to walk to the final ride for which we had fast passes, Winnie the Pooh.  But it started raining again and he was kicking and screaming as M put him in the stroller.  She suddenly announced we were going home. I concurred with great feeling.  E was understandably pissed. 

We were able to keep N in the stroller for the ride on the boat to the tram.   He was great and played with his sword.  E was not talking.  M was only communicating with her iPhone. I was grateful for the quiet moments and the sound of water slapping against the boat. Or maybe it was the sword hitting the stroller wheels?

Unfortunately when we got off the boat we still had to get on the tram train to take us to the parking area.  Getting on the tram meant we had to take N out of the stroller, fold up the monster stroller and lug everything onto the long seat while convincing N to sit still until the tram started moving.  Horrors! 

N wiggled, squirmed, and yelled during the whole tram ride.  I was terrified he would fall out, even with me at the end of the row.  Finally we arrived at Heroes Parking, Simba lot, aisle 21.  The train stopped and we all lumbered off the tram.  M lugged the monster stroller off and struggled to open it quickly in the middle of the street.  It was not easy.  She might have been swearing at that point.  N refused to get off the tram.  I had to grab him and carry him off.  As I set him down he crumbled into a heap of sobbing baby flesh in the middle of the street.  He refused to stand up.  He weighs a ton.  I picked him up and lugged him across the street to the waiting stroller.  I may or may not have been dodging oncoming cars.  I felt my back go out.  I was on my last nerve.  I deposited him into the stroller.  N and E were not speaking and their eyes were glazed.  They walked fast with the boy in the stroller to the other end of the lot where the car was parked.   I could not keep up and decided not to try because, well, I was afraid I hurt my back lugging the boy across the street.  Plus, if you remember from the beginning of this post I had been sick.

When we got to the car M was struggling to get N out, harness him into his car seat, fold down the stroller, lug the heavy-ass diaper bag into the car, get him water, treats, etc.  I wandered back in her general vicinity to help.  She looked a little scary.  She said in a very controlled voice, “Mom, just go sit in the car.”   I did.

N fell asleep in his car seat.  No one else spoke. Well at one point I jokingly said to E, “Next time you find out we went to Magic Kingdom while you were in school you won’t be jealous, instead you will feel sorry for us.”  She did not laugh, reply, or even look in my general direction.  She was steaming mad.  I felt so sorry for her.   It is not easy having a two year-old brother.  I said “I am sorry it wasn’t fun for you.”  She replied “It would have been more fun going to school.”  Ouch.  I will make it up to her, never fear.

N woke up just before we got home. He was happy after his little catnap.  He was sweet and funny.   I remembered why I love him so much.  It had rained hard and there was water running down the gutters on the side of the street outside his house.   He and I like to go down and splash in the water barefoot after a heavy rain.  We took off our shoes and splashed around.  It was lovely until he made a break for it and starting running down the street.  I managed to catch him and carry him home just as M came outside to see what was up.  Then I went home and took a three-hour nap.   True story.

Growing Down, Not Up

Oh Man! (said in the voice of Swiper from Dora the Explorer) - is my hair ever crazy from the humidity!  It is so damn hot in Florida, like fry-an-egg-on-the-sidewalk kind of hot.  I kid you not.  I am letting my hair grow long enough to pull back in a ponytail so I can cool off.  Then I can wear a baseball cap or a bike helmet without looking like Bozo the Clown.  It is almost long enough now.  If that doesn't work out (i.e., I look ridiculous) I will cut it all off.   I have just been promising myself for so long that when I retired I would let my hair go gray, grow it long and become an eccentric old lady.  I hate to give up on a dream.

I have been babysitting our two and a half year old grandson, N, a lot this summer.  We play well together.  We do a lot of running around the house.  Literally.  He likes to chase me making monster sounds and I scream and run and pretend to be afraid of him.  We play hide and seek, although I am always the one who has to hide.  We pull the cushions off the sofa and make a fort.   I am unable to fit into it, but he insists that I at least get down on my stomach and push my head into the entrance.   Then we stand up inside the fort to break it all up.  Pillows fly, cushions crash.   Great fun.   He has one of those little trampolines where kids hold on to a bar and jump like crazy.   He “encourages” Grandpa and me to give him balls to throw at us with one hand while he jumps, holding on to the bar with the other hand.  When we swim in the pool he likes it when he and I gang up on Grandpa, squirting poor T without mercy using squirty bath toys we have turned into weapons.  It is Grandpa’s own fault because he is the one who first showed N how to turn bath and pool toys into weapons of mass destruction.  It is fun being a little boy.  I quite enjoy it.  The other day I babysat for him.  When his father came home from work at the end of the day, he asked N if he had seen Grandma that day (conversation starter, I guess).   N replied with great enthusiasm, “I saw Big Gwamma.  She’s a PARTY!”   I love that.  When you are a grandma, you have no pride.   You just want to be a party.

My granddaughter E, on the other hand, came in the house the other day after spending the night with her other Grandmother (Granny).  Wielding a wicked smile she threw her arms around me, gave me a heartfelt hug and announced “Sorry Grandma, but Granny is way more fun that you.”   I could not help but laugh out loud at her outrageousness.  E was thrilled that I let her get away with that.  Apparently my skills at entertainment do not extend to 10 year olds, but not for lack of trying.   I must hone my skills.  Perhaps Granny can give me some tips.   Granny, by the way, is my dear friend and she reads this blog.   She really is fun.  In fact, I wish she were MY Granny.  I can hear her laughing in my head right now.  She also thinks the things N and E do and say are funny.   In fact, so do Grandpa and Poppa and Granddaddy.   Come to think of it, I will soon call my mother to tell her about the “Big Gwamma, she’s a party” statement and she will laugh out loud from her nursing home bed.  It will make her day. 

Why do we think these things are so hilarious and precious?   Apparently it is genetically programmed into grandparents.  I remember my own sweet Grandma laughing hard at every precocious little thing any of her grandkids said or did.   Our antics gave her joy.  It was fun to make her laugh, and I took it quite seriously.  I had her in my life until 2000, and right up to the end I could make her laugh like a Gwamma should, and I still tried every time I saw her.  I would look her in the eye, flash a big smile and say something outrageous.  She loved me unconditionally and deeply.  I felt it.  I still feel it.  I really, really, really wish she were still around to see me being a Grandma.   She would then know how much of my Gwamma shtick is patterned after her.  Love is not something that diminishes with use; it only grows and extends itself through the generations.  Practice makes perfect.   


 

Still Waiting, Dammit!

Ok, now it is beyond waiting. It is about control. I have none. I want some. What is a woman to do? I am afraid the answer to that is “get cranky.”

I like to do things on the spur of the moment; the lack of planning makes everything more fun. Yesterday at 2:45 pm I came up with the brilliant idea of driving into town, picking up E (who I happened to know was home from school faking illness) and going to the theater to see the new Spiderman movie at 3:45. It takes 35 minutes to get from our trailer to their house, then 15 minutes to get from M&MV&E&N’s house to the theater. We could do it! I had faith in us.

My husband, T, agreed and we jumped in the car and headed to pick up E.  Unfortunately, T must have been on slow motion drugs yesterday afternoon because he consistently drove under the speed limit. We have a GPS and it tells us what the speed limit is, and what speed we were going. I could not believe it. He must have known how important it was to get there on time. I felt the need to shout out the speed limit to him so that he would know. As you can imagine, he REALLY seemed to like my help in that regard. The other drivers on the road were purposely driving slow, too. Bastards!  I cursed them roundly, and not quietly.  I screamed: “I hate your guts!” to a school bus filled with children.

I messaged ahead to give M instructions to have E come out as soon as we drove up so we would not have to go inside. I did not want baby N to know we were there because 1. It would break his heart when we left right away, and 2. It would slow us down to interact with him. I called again when we were punching in the access code at the gate for their housing development. Why, oh why do so many Floridians live in gated communities? Coming to a stop and punching in the numbers and then waiting forever for the hateful gate to slowly swing open cost us at least 20 seconds. E did not come out immediately when we drove up 20 seconds later. So I called again. M messaged that E was going to the bathroom. Fine. I guess they do not plan ahead either.

It took forever to get from E’s house to the theater. OK, maybe because I insisted T take a new “short-cut,” and I miscalculated how short the cut was, whatever. We arrived at the theater at 3:50. I ran to the ticket counter, E and T trailing behind. What is it with slow motion drugs, I wondered? Don’t they know how to run?

Previews were being shown and there were only seats left up front, so the ticket person suggested we pay a bit more and go to the 4:00 3D showing. I glanced at E&T to see if they wanted to go to the 3:45 non 3D (as planned) or the 4:00 3D showing. I sincerely thought I heard them say, “No, we want to stick with the plan – go to the 3:45 show.” I paid for the 3:45 tickets. When we got in they stupidly were trying to veer into the 3D cinema entrance. I yelled at them that it was not the one we were going to. I could not believe they were wasting more TIME. With what I can only call shock they informed me that they both had told me at the ticket counter that they wanted to go to the 4:00 3D movie instead. Sheesh.

We walked in and took seats in the 3D theater. We had about 7 minutes to kill. I immediately began to relax. T went to get snacks for all of us. You can drink beer and wine in this theater, plus they sell fries with cheese sauce. So, snacks are pretty great here. Then sweet E turned to me with frightened eyes and asked what we would do if we got arrested for going into the wrong theater? Ouch, the heady responsibility of being a grandparent!  I reassured her I would go out and tell the authorities we were in the 3D theater, and I would pay the additional $6 cost. Good thing, too, because we did not have 3D glasses…

I walked up to the nearest authority (a tall, skinny, pimply faced 16 year old boy) and confessed our sins. He shook his head at me sadly and told me that was not the way we were supposed to do this. My eyes glazed over as I successfully managed not to punch him in the head. Over the right ear would have been good, I thought. He gave me 3 pairs of 3D glasses and I returned to my seat.

T then came back with a tray full of food and drink. E had fries with cheese sauce, a humongous box of cookie dough candy, and a Sierra Mist that was at least a foot tall. T got fries and a glass of white wine. I am on a life-long diet so naturally I only got wine. As he went to sit down the tray tipped and HIS glass of white wine spilled over and onto him, the tray, and the floor. We moved up to the next row, cleaning up as best we could. The floor, however, remained sticky.

Spiderman was great! It was fast paced, and included lots of fighting, lots of crashing and plenty of yelling. Just what the doctor ordered. I was refreshed. I worked out a lot of anger issues watching Electro get his butt kicked by Spidey.  Although I felt kind of sorry for Electro because it was not really his fault that he turned bad. Sigh. My nerves are shot. I may need to go see the Captain America movie today. Alone.

Settle Down!

The people who live next door to our daughter's family have odd ideas about reality.  Of more concern is that since M&MV&E&N moved in last summer, these neighbors have been displaying "big nutball" behavior towards our granddaughter, E.

They have two daughters who E plays with and their parents often judge E harshly because she does not go to church, and they try to make her feel bad about herself and her family.  And the reason they know she does not attend a church is because they quizzed her about it the very first time she was in their house, alone, without her parents.  They NEVER talk to E's parents about these things, by the way.

E is very imaginative and created a "game" all the neighborhood kids are now playing involving wizards turning kids into animals.  Fun stuff if you remember what it was like to be a kid.  The neighbors told them to stop playing wizards because it was "demonic" and then made my granddaughter go home.

These same neighbors called the police on M&MV when M&MV first moved in because they had a moving pod parked in front of the house over a weekend...waiting to be picked up.  They have been telling other neighbors that M&MV are Satanists because M&MV have a collection of Mexican Alebrije (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alebrije) and also Day-of-The-Dead painted skeletons.  (These are actually Mexican Catholic religious icons "The meaning of the Dias de los Muertos, or Day of the Dead figures in Mexico is to honor those who have died. The figurines are often colorful and playful. They are meant to represent the individuals who have passed away."  see http://www.ask.com/question/what-is-the-meaning-of-the-day-of-the-dead-dolls-in-mexico).  Well, apparently to fearful and narrow minded people these kitschy decorations appear to be proof of devil worship.   Seriously.   It boggles the mind.

This constant judgment, criticism, and general meanness of spirit directed towards 10 year old E has been heartbreaking and confusing for her.  Last night she was at their house playing, was scolded and sent home. You can imagine how upset she was.  Her father, MV, went over to talk with the mother and I tagged along.  Not one of my best ideas.  I told the neighbor lady to leave my granddaughter alone (and maybe some other stuff) 😜 and then she ordered me off her property.  OK, I might have then said something along the lines of: "Fine!  I'll just walk over to their property line and stand THERE and yell at you."  Hopefully MV had a more productive discussion with her after I was "sent home" (seemingly a common theme for visitors at their house).  I know I misbehaved, but I could not help myself.   Sigh....  I hope they do not try to burn me at the stake.

Circumcision

OMG - let me tell you about the circumcision!   It was heartbreaking but memorable.

Yesterday my son-in-law, MV, had to go back to work so he could not go to the circumcision.   Because my daughter, M, still cannot drive I took M and N to get N circumcised while my granddaughter, E, was in school.   The hospital (a prestigious Women and Babies Hospital) had given MV a referral to a pediatric practice that regularly did circumcisions for them, a husband and wife team.  All sounds good, right? 

We had an adventure finding the place to begin with.  When we finally got there it was a small practice in a funky little inner city shopping center.   Just one waiting area (no "well" waiting room with a separate "sick" waiting room like M & MV have become accustomed to with their pediatrician).  The floor of the waiting area was tile, and obviously had not been mopped in recent years.  There was only one other family waiting, but they had a very sick little boy, so we sat all the way on the other side of the room from them and I held up N's blanket over his face to block him from germs. 

The woman in the other family was a skanky, skinny, white street momma with obscene tattoos all over her arms.  I cannot figure out how she had two children because she had the skinniest butt in the world; absolutely no hips and 0% body fat.  Her lank hair hung to her waist.  She could not sit still.  Her eyes were messed up and unfocused - maybe on drugs?  Apparently she had been there for a while because she was super angry, bitching out loud to her equally skinny Goth husband about the doctors making their kids wait and taking others in before them.  She also ranted on about how the doctors spent too much time with their patients and should just get a better system to move people through more quickly.  I found that to be an interesting argument for a young mother to make when her kids were sick.  She kept interrupting the secretary to give her a hard time every 5 minutes or so.  She just would not shut up or sit down. She was working my last nerve. 

I scoped her out, figured I could take her down if I had to (she was really skinny and obviously distracted) and passed the time by fantasizing about beating her to a pulp.  She stayed on her side of the room.  At one point she caught my eye and said, "I'm so mad at these damn doctors, I'd like to just clean this room."  That made me laugh, and then I felt less inclined to kick her ass. 

When an African American family came in, both parents with their children, it made the skanky white woman settle down.  The African American mother was clearly a woman of substance.  She had three small children and would not let them play with the toys because of germs, and had the children singing church songs while they waited.  Cutest damn thing - those kids sang so sweetly and were trying to remember the words to "He's Got the Whole World in His Hands." 

M texted MV the whole time we waited, seemingly trying to get information to fill out the forms.  She told me later that she was texting him about leaving because the place was so skeevy.  He was helping her plan her escape.  She was just getting up to tell the secretary we changed our minds when they called her name.  So we went in.   Keep in mind that we expected this surgery to happen in the hospital, but the hospital dropped the ball.  MV took him to his regular pediatrician last week, and that doctor said she did not do circumcisions.  This poor baby needed to get this circumcision done before he was old enough to remember!  I decided that if the doctor did not wash his hands I was going to grab N and run with him.

I really liked Dr. W (we got the husband).   He wore superhero scrubs and was funny and friendly.  He talked to N, and laughed at my jokes.  He was kind and thoughtful to Mother M.  The room we were in was clean, and the nurse was sweet and attentive.  The doctor said that, although we were welcome to remain while the procedure was done, most people opted to go in the waiting room.  We wanted to stay.  I asked if I could watch.  He said "Sure, as long as you don't get queasy."  I am the woman who wanted to be awake for my hysterectomy, so I knew I was going to be fine. 

I am not one to display (or even feel) emotions in the midst of a crisis.  Well, that's not exactly true - I do feel anxiety.  If that is an emotion.  Mostly, I am just there... in the moment, rolling with the punches.  I fall apart later, when I am alone.  Crying in public is not an option for me.  I would not be able to cry if I wanted to in most situations.  Good thing, too, 'cause I look God awful ugly when I cry, and I need an entire box of Kleenex.  Plus, in this particular situation curiosity got the best of me and I could not pass up the opportunity to see exactly how this infamous surgical procedure was done - up close and personal. 

I could not believe my good fortune.  At first M was up there with a touch to his face and the pacifier handy, but when N started raging and turning all red faced (he has never cried that hard before) she just could not bear it; she had to sit down next to the desk where she cried her heart out at the idea of her baby suffering.  They both cried their way through it, actually.

Of course that meant the way was clear for me to move in and get a closer view, and also to provide some emotional support and love to that sweet, sweet baby boy.  I was there like a shot!  I put my left hand on his hair to make sure he knew he was not alone and then I sang to him.  I sang every nursery rhyme and children's song I knew.  He actually stopped crying a couple of times to listen.  All of this while I struggled to contort my upper torso to keep out of the way of the doctor AND continue to keep my eyes on the task at hand.  

Actually, they had numbed his private parts, so I do not believe he felt any pain after the needle delivered the pain killer.   The needle hurt him, I am sure, because that is when he started crying.  But what REALLY pissed him off was that they tied down his hands and legs so he couldn't move - and this boy is a mover and a shaker.   It freaked him out and he was raging against the injustice of it all.  The reason I know this to be true is because if you could have seen what I saw, and if that baby could have felt what was happening, he would have been shrieking in pain. Which he was not.  He was red faced and mad.  Totally different cry.  Anyway, that's my story and I'm stickin' to it.  I hope it is true.

By the time I drove them home, I was shaking.   All three of us were overwhelmed by what we had been through.  I just wanted to drink a beer and stare off into space for an hour or two.  But I needed to pick up E from school instead.  That's another story.   Next time.