Liam's Grandma or Maggie in Real Life

Thanksgiving Prep

It's that time of year again when we throw everyone and everything into the car and drive for 7+ hours to our place in New York and put on Thanksgiving Dinner amidst constant interruptions by a 2 year old and everyone else.  

I love cooking Thanksgiving Dinner.  It's always a challenge for me to make sure everything is ready at the same time and, believe me, I've gotten it down to a science.  I like these kinds of challenges.  Other challenges, not so much - like shopping for the items on my grocery list that, unfurled, winds once around the grocery store and back again.  

OK...this may come as a shock to some of you, but I hate going to the grocery store.  By the time I get to the last aisle, I'm about ready to leave the cart and walk out.  When you think of the whole process, it's a complete work out.  You go in there, grab a cart, load everything in, double back again for the things you missed, stand in line, run back to the dairy department for the sour cream, get back in line and thank the man who held your spot, load everything onto the conveyor belt, do your own bagging because Selma just had to have a cigarette break before someone got hurt, load the bags back into the cart, truck them out to the car where they are LOADED INTO THE CAR, drive home where they are LOADED INTO THE HOUSE (and no one is ever around to help with that), and then put everything away.  

Most of the time, on these long shopping forays, I just want to stand in the middle of an aisle and scream "I can't do this anymore!" at the top of my lungs until someone calls an ambulance and takes me away for that long awaited rest in a softly padded room with a warm blanket.  Which makes me wonder about nervous breakdowns.

Over the years, I've heard a handful of people say, "Oh that was before my breakdown," or, "Well, you know," as they speak in hushed tones, "that was after her nervous breakdown and after that whole breast implant thing and then she decided that she was really a he and, my GOD, what do you do with those large breasts now?  She was better off before the Pamela Anderson makeover.  Talk about back to the drawing board..."

I mean, how does someone have a nervous breakdown?  What is it anyway?  Standing 1/4" away from the wall, talking to yourself, nervously waiting for the walls to open up and swallow you whole?  I don't know.  Perhaps I don't want to know.  But, occasionally, trying to prepare for big events seems to bring me close to the brink of making friends with the wall or the string that's hanging from my sleeve.  

And, so, this Thanksgiving, we'll fill the car with groceries, a 2 1/2 year old, a bunch of toys, aspirin, Tylenol and a flask of Vodka.  We'll drive 7 hours, stopping only to give the little one time to stretch his legs and allow me to run quickly for a bathroom break.  We'll load ourselves back into the car amidst howls from the 2 1/2 year old who thought we were THERE and is now about to have a nervous breakdown of his own.  We'll arrive Tuesday night somewhere around midnight and the sleeping 2 1/2 year old will think it's morning when we UNLOAD THE CAR and we'll have to give him a good 30 minutes to check the place out again, remark about the laundry room (because he loves laundry), turn on and off the ceiling fan, have a quick snack and, amidst further howls, Nimmy will CART him off and LOAD him into bed and pray he falls asleep soon.

Thanksgiving is about a lot of CARTING, LOADING and UNLOADING and an occasional NERVOUS BREAKDOWN.  But the best part of Thanksgiving is being with family, seeing their beautiful faces, their warm smiles, hearing their laughter, doling out hugs and eating like there's no tomorrow.  It's about a fire in the wood stove, and stories that we've heard over and over again.  It's about playing games that only a toddler loves but games that bring the rest of us back to the basics of life, reminding us that life really is simple.  It is what we make of it.  It's not nervous breakdown-worthy - it's special, it's wonderful, it's a gift.  And family is the biggest part of it.  

Now, where's my grocery list?  I've got to color my hair.  What will I wear?  How much will my husband and I bicker on the way?  Is this sore throat going to be gone by the time we leave on Tuesday?  I'm hungry.  I'm crazy.  I'm having a nervous breakdown....

Happy Thanksgiving, with love, to you and yours.  - Maggie

Copyright 2010 liamsgrandma

Conversations with Druck, Chapter 2

My husband and I recently celebrated 2 years of wedded bliss and 27 years of sheer agony, which leads me to my firm belief that there are some keys to the success of a marriage:

First, appreciate one another.  All of us go through each day, rising and going off to our various places:  some go off to work, some to school, some to daycare, some to the bar.  It's just a part of our daily routine.  What we often forget is that, when we go out that door, most of the people within the household are going in five different directions.  We're all in different buildings, or even different towns.  Our kids and grandkids are out of our sight until we all come back together again at the end of the day.  And we take it for granted that that will happen. 

I try to remind myself not to take anyone for granted.  When Druck walks out that door in the morning, I hope I'll see him again later.  I'm not being morbid, I'm just not taking that fact for granted, though I don't dwell on it.  But I make sure his morning is as good as I can possibly make it, i.e., making sure there's good stuff to eat and, occasionally, if I'm feeling generous, making him a nice breakfast.  Unfortunately, he, like a pet dog, reaps the benefits of Liam living with us because Nimmy regularly makes Liam a good breakfast (and he usually helps with that chore - he is a fabulous egg scrambler, I must admit). 

I always provide Druck with a lunch, a kiss, and a "have a good day," as he walks out the door.  Liam and I usually wave out the window until his car is out of sight and I breathe a sigh of relief that there's one less person to take care of for the moment. 

The next secret to a good marriage is: don't sweat the small stuff.  His underwear on the bathroom floor are hardly a reason to go whacko.  Him using my decorative pillow as a lap desk is a different story, however, and I'm working through the whole accessory issue in therapy.  The big phrase here is, "I'm working on it." 

We had a close call the other night with the decorative pillow saga and I held my ground when he started pacing around the house looking for a pillow to use as a lap desk once again.  "Do not touch those pillows," I insisted.  He responded by informing me that he was going straight to the store to buy his own decorative pillows.  "Not pretty ones," I shouted, which halted him in his tracks.  "Why not?"  "You're just going to ruin them."  "If I want to buy pretty decorative pillows and ruin them, I WILL."  With a snort, he left the room as I called, "Why waste your money on pretty ones?  I'm sure you could get ugly ones for a lot less.  Because you're just going to ruin them anyway!!!"  My poor therapist. 

I think we've both learned that we just have to let go of some things.  He lets go of the fact that I am out-of-control disorganized, and leaving the house takes me about 10 minutes and four more trips back into the house before I can actually pull out of the driveway.  "Where are my glasses?"  "They're on your head."  "Where are my car keys?"  "They're in your hand."  When I return the third time for my shoes because I'm about to go meet a new client in my fluffy white slippers, I notice that he's gripping them in his hands and shakes his head and sighs heavily before handing them over.

I've learned to put up with his snoring, his putting his dish in the sink (when the dishwasher is 3 inches to the right of the sink), his refusal to take ballroom dance lessons with me, his refusal to watch a "chick flick," his refusal to accompany me to social gatherings (did I ever mention the fact that he didn't attend my 40th birthday party thrown by neighbors and friends because he hates social settings?), and numerous other things which we won't go into right now because I don't want to get into anymore trouble than I'm already in.

On the weekends, Druck and I try to spend quality time together.  Sometimes we travel to our place in New York; other times, we stay here and play with our grandson.  But we try to get out of the house, at least for a few hours, alone, together. 

Sunday, we left for awhile after dinner.  The intention was to go get a cup of decaf coffee, sit, enjoy conversation, look at each other, smile and giggle.  But, as is often the case, he gets under my skin at the last moment. 

"Where do you want to go," he asks, as if we hadn't made a plan.

M:    "I thought we were going to Biggby Coffee because I have that gift card."

D:    "I don't want any coffee."

M:    "Not even decaf?"

D:    "Nope."

M:    "Then what do you want?"

D:    "Nothing."

M:    "How about a smoothie?"

D:    "Nope."

M:    "Then let's not go there."

D:    "Well, where, then?"

M:    "I'm not sure, but I will say that right now you're riding my nerves like a bad surfer on a rough wave."

D:    "Okaaaaay."

M:    "You know, I have to tell you that, by this time in my life?  If we had just met?  And this was our first date?  I'd never go out with you again."

D:    "Oh, well, isn't that nice.  If I said that to you, you wouldn't speak to me for days.

M:    "I just want to get a big lovely old house in the Village of Northville, sit on one of those wraparound porches and listen to the wind."

D:    "Where'd that come from?"

M:    "I want to do that."

D:    "I'm never moving to Northville."

M:    "Why NOT?"

D:    "I don't like it there.  You know why."

M:    "Listen, if I ever sell that damned novel and I make, oh, just even a million - no movie deal, nothing else, I'm moving to the Village of Northville!"

D:    "And I'm getting a condo in the City.  I'll come visit on occasion."

M:    "Fine with me."

D:    "I'm getting a cat."

M:    "You're what?"

D:    "You heard me.  When I get my condo, I'm getting a cat."

M:    "You don't even want the cats we have now!  And you say you're getting a cat."

D:    "That's right."

M:    "Let's go to Border's Books for awhile."

D:    "They have coffee there."

M:    "I know.  I love you.  But I'm still getting the house with the wraparound porch in Northville."

 D:    "I love you too.  And I'm getting the condo in the City.  With a cat." 

M:    "Sigh."

D:    "Would you like me to get you an iced coffee from Dunkin' Donuts?"

M:    "You know I would."

D:    "Maybe that'll get me another date."

Copyright 2010 liamsgrandma

Station Break...but please don't touch that dial!

I'll be posting again very soon...taking care of two baby bunnies who lost their four siblings to some late night cat or raccoon or some other type of massacre.  Their eyes were still shut when I brought them in last week.  Now they're doing great!  For now, I hope you enjoy some of the favorites (in the favorites section) and I'll be back real soon.  The 3 am feedings are the worst.  YAWN.  I'm tired, but Joe and Rachel are very happy bunnies!

The Poo Whisperer

Let me preface this post (to potentially save you beforehand) with the statement:  "Not intended for weak stomachs."  Which means this post is rated "Pre-K" or "For Toddlers Only."  Because toddlers aren't upset at all by talk of poo, butts, weenies or the word, "Ewwww."  They are fascinated with the color, size and bulk of their poo.  And they ask questions about everyone else's.  And, at least in our household, when a big poo is expelled, it is followed by a victorious shout of, "I DID IT!"  In fact, just this morning, I thought I heard Druck's victorious exaltation as I poured my second cup of coffee. 

A couple of weeks ago, I was on my way to get my hair trimmed.  My cell phone rang and it was my daughter calling.  When I answered, I heard some wailing in the background and she told me that Liam had done a huge poo - except that part of it was still there...in his little butt and IT WAS HUGE.  She had him on the toilet and he was freaking out.

First, I have to tell you that, regardless of what it is your child asks of you - a recipe for stew, directions to someplace new, whether or not he/she looks good in that outfit, or what to do about the huge boulder of poo stuck in her child's butt - it always makes you feel good that they are asking YOU.  I remember my mother being the same way when I'd call her and ask for some advice.  It was like she suddenly took over and was some professional cook or a professional marriage counselor or a professional curser (and I'm not talking about the cursor on the computer).  It just feels good when your kids ask for your opinion or for some advice or some cussing out of another person. 

With the wailing going on in the background and listening to Liam saying, "Oh, Nimmy, Oh, Nimmy..." Catherine put him on the phone.  My mind raced wildly trying to figure out a way to talk him through this.  And visions from that scene from one of Mike Meyers's  movies came to my mind when he was in one bathroom stall and Tom Arnold was in another. 

"Liam?  Liam!  You can do this, Buddy.  You can do it.  Now listen.  I want you to lean forward just a tiny bit and push that poo outta there, honey.  Push it out!  Now listen up:  who's the boss here?  You?  Or the poo?  You show that poo who's boss, honey.  You show it.  Push!"

From the other end of the line came all kinds of grunts, moans, cries and...finally!  FINALLY - I heard a little PLOOP!!  Like a stone being dropped into the creek behind our house where I grew up.  

Shouts of great joy rang out from my daughter as she commended Liam for doing it and he yelled, "I DID IT, I DID IT!"

"Liam?"  I said.  "Did you do it?  Did the poo come out?"

"Yeah,"  he did it, Catherine replied.  "Here, he wants to talk to you."

"I did it!  Nimmy, I did it!  The poo come out! THE POO COME OUT!"

"You did it, Buddy?  That's great!  Good job!" 

I hung up the phone and smiled.  Often we question what our purpose in life is.  After all, I haven't done anything spectacular in my lifetime - no trips to the moon (although I've had threats from my dear husband promising that he can somehow get me there - FAST), no great scientific discoveries (except for that amazing mountain of mold inside the ricotta cheese container I found one time in the frig that continues to give me nightmares), no real musical talent (except the voice that only my grandson and partially deaf cats seem to love). 

I had a purpose that day.  I was a great help to someone.  And it made me feel needed.  It made me feel good.  I am the Poo Whisperer.  

Copyright 2010 liamsgrandma

Tax Day...or...Survival of the Fittest

Hey, if you're American and you pay taxes, then you know what most of the country just went through on April 15.  With that said, there are those rare Americans who, just as with their Christmas shopping, get their taxes done early:

"Oh, I got my taxes done on January 1.  Well, no, I didn't actually submit them then, because my employer didn't get my W2 to me until the end of the month, but I estimated and just got it all ready...you know - plugged in some of the numbers and such." 

Yes, there are people like that.  Christmas shopping done in July, the tooth fairy has left money before the tooth is out, the lawn is fertilized in 3 feet of snow, AND taxes are done before they even get their W2s.  I am not a big fan of people like that.  Mostly because it makes me look....well....inadequate.

So you know where I'm going with this.  I, WE, happen to be a couple who waits until the absolute last minute to file taxes.  Why?  Oh, sheesh, I don't know...hold on while I run to pull the sheets out of the dryer and, on my way, make 14 return phone calls, take the trash out, scrape that Play Doh out of the rug that somehow got there even though it's supposed to stay in the kitchen, write the article for Grand Magazine, write the quarterly newsletter for pet sitters, work on my novel, change a diaper, transplant my passion flowers, and.....brb.  

And I don't even prepare the taxes...that's Druck's job.  But, while he is in accountant mode, I have to be on standby.  Like not more than 30 feet away from him.  Because he screams out questions like a doctor asking for his scalpel from the nurse who hasn't yet scrubbed up and they are in an emergency situation out in the middle of nowhere and she's all he's got.

The other day, Druck texted me that he was on his way home to do the taxes.  When I got the text, I was on my way back from driving 45 minutes each way to get Liam's sneakers out of a woman's car (don't ask).  When I read that he was on his way, my heart began beating rapidly.  Like the kind of adrenalin rush I would imagine an EMT gets when he arrives on the scene, yanks the defibrillator from his bag and yells, "CLEAR!"  I had the adrenalin rush - big time - because Druck was coming home TO DO THE TAXES.  And they had to be done TODAY. 

I arrived home and he was already there, which meant I had no time to prepare - as in: no time to dim the lights, make snacks, light candles, put on a calming yoga CD and stand behind him, massaging his temples and responding to various questions like, "Why, why, why...."

Instead, our tax day went something like this:

Druck:  "Oh my God.  This program incorporated our personal AND your business categories into one report.  I can't work like this.  How can I work like this?"

Me:  "I know, I know.  I just noticed that yesterday when I was entering December's receipts for my business." (NOTE:  Shut up people.  Yes, I realize it's FREAKING APRIL and I only just updated 2009's receipts and expenses).

Druck:  "Oh my God...."

Tax Day is a big event in some areas.  Several years ago, when we lived in Boston, April 15 involved getting on the bus at around 11:00 pm, switching to the train (Green Line) and going to the huge Post Office in, I believe, Government Center.  The experience was right out of a David Lynch movie. Upon arrival at the post office, you'd be greeted by doormen in tuxes, nodding a hello and wearing a big smile.  It was like they were cheering you on as you crossed the finish line, exhausted, sweaty, and ready to drop. 

As people rounded the corner and got in line to have their envelopes postmarked, another tuxedoed man sat at a Grand Piano, playing lovely music (no, I am absolutely not kidding). The white tiled floors looked less sterile amidst the decorated tables mounded with free donuts, cookies and other pastries.  And there was free cider, juice and Kool-Aid available for even the most discriminating palate.  The place was decorated with streamers with people sitting at tables, enjoying their post-finishline beverage as they cooled off, replenished their carbs and electrolytes, and conversed with strangers - all of them brought together for one hellish reason: TAXES. 

Here in Michigan, I am unaware of any such hooplah.  Instead, when Druck finished the taxes and I wrote our return address on the envelope and popped a stamp on it, he sank back in his chair and closed his eyes as I sprinted to the car toward the finish line.  In an age where submitting taxes is usually done with a click of a button, it's not true for anyone who owes taxes - because you have to get that check to them PRONTO.  And we owed some money to the State.  So, after finding out which post office was open late, I sped off to Meijer's, a local grocery store chain that also has a mini post office inside. 

When I arrived, there were about 9 people ahead of me and one clerk.  No food, no drinks.  No guys in tuxes to greet me and cheer me on.  No piano player.  Not that I was expecting it anyway, but I was pleasantly surprised by the very understanding, kind clerk who took each taxpayer's envelope and handled it as if she were holding family jewels. I listened as she called "next in line" and the next marathon runner boldly stepped forward and looked into her eyes earnestly.  Before handing over the envelope, every single person stared long and hard, searched her face, and queried, "Will this be postmarked April 15?"  To which she smiled, nodded and repeated the same line over and over, "Absolutely."  The patron watched as she walked over to the date stamp and brought that red stamp down like a judge bringing down the gavel. And then, THEN, each person said, "Do you mind if I see the date?"  "Not at all," she smiled and walked back to the counter, held up the envelope and murmured some kind words as the disheveled, confused runner walked away in exhaustion.

As I approached the counter, I held the envelope to my chest in both hands, studied her gentle face and calmly said, "Will this be postmarked April 15?"  "Absolutely," she replied, as I exhaled slowly, and gingerly handed it over.  After she stamped it, I called, "May I see the date?  Please?"  "Of course," she said and smiled as I studied it carefully.  "Stressful, isn't it?" she said as I nodded and replied, "Yes.  Stressful.  You should see my husband.  I hope he makes it."

My sister-in-law, Robin, has been a high school English teacher for 30+ years now.  She does the morning announcements over the PA system and leads the Pledge of Allegiance.  She told me that when she said, "Good morning, students!  Today is Friday, April 16," and began reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, she started to giggle.  And giggled her way through the Pledge, all the while thinking of me, the evening before, nervously gripping my envelope and asking the woman at the counter if I could see the date stamp.  Apparently, her giggling infuriated the American History teacher who, being a staunch Republican, found no humor in her less than stellar Pledge of Allegiance performance.

Robin accompanied me many years ago to one of the Boston performances of Tax Day and so, she knows all too well the humor in it - including Druck and I arguing back and forth over who is going to traipse down to the post office at an ungodly hour of the night with me finally relenting because, after all, he is the brains behind this duo and he prepares the taxes which is more exhausting than sprinting to the post office. 

When Robin continued giggling through, "There is no detention today, the yearbook committee meets in Room xxx," the secretary became curious.  "What's so funny?" she asked.  "Oh, it's a long story," Robin replied.  "One that begins in Boston back in the early 90's."

Let that be a lesson to us.  Again and again and again.  Next year, the Christmas shopping will be done in AUGUST.  The lawn will be fertilized in FEBRUARY.  My novel will be finished by the year 2011.  I will put my 29 year old wedding photos into a wedding album before my 30th anniversary. 

Who am I trying to kid.

Copyright 2010 liamsgrandma

Love.....

Love is of source unknown, yet it grows ever deeper.

The living may die of it, by its power the dead live again.  Love is not love at its fullest if one who lives is unwilling to die for it, or if it cannot restore to life one who has died.

And must love that comes in dream necessarily be unreal? For there is no lack of dream lovers in this world.

Only for those whose love must be fulfilled on the pillow, and for whom affection deepens only after retirement from office, is it an entirely corporeal matter.

Preface to The Peony Pavillion

Tang Xianzu, 1598

 
LOVE

Post-Easter Repose

I know, I know - Easter is over!  But the remnants of the day still linger (after all, it's only Tuesday). 

Which brings me to speak about this blog that I love and which I thank my friend, Maureen, for introducing me to.  It's a blog written by an American woman who, some 20+ years ago, met and married a Frenchman.  She writes about family, living in France, antiquing, cooking and more.  I love reading her blog.  I get lost in the beauty of southern France and the writing of this incredible writer.

She recently posted some photos of things related to Easter (Paques).  After writing about some very old postcards, she offered an opportunity for her readers to win one of the postcards.  We could write a story in the comments section about the one we desired, which I did.  This is the one I want.  And this is the story I wrote about it:

The old egg had never come to fruition, never cracking open with new life to bestow upon an adoring mother duck its beauty of new life, new birth. Instead, the little heart ceased and was absorbed by time as the egg fossilized and hardened to a petrified state, its former inhabitant long gone. Its outer shell weathered the elements and the egg took on a patina that only age, sadness and time could create.

Early one morning, as Sophie partook in the annual Easter hunt hosted by her grandmother, she raced happily to the other side of the pond. Surely, her brothers would not dare to follow because the path to the other side was long overgrown and covered with thorns. Sophie often marveled at that far side where summer's heat brought pretty pink roses to those woesome boughs.

Coming too close to the edge of the pond, she slipped in the mud and glided downward, her Easter egg hunt about to come to a watery end. Quickly, she grabbed an old branch and was spared the drenching which she knew would have also garnered her a scolding from Nana Louise.

As she pulled herself up the slippery slope, Sophie noticed something gray and sparkling in the morning sun. The dew had created sunlit diamonds on the small specimen. Sophie gingerly edged to the beautiful trinket and gently cupped it in her hands.

Smiling, she headed back to the house carrying the only egg she needed. It was hard like a rock, but its shape...surely it was an egg.

Papa marveled at the incredible find and Mama and Nana Louise helped Sophie sift through Nana's basket of ribbons. Mama gently pulled some flowers from the beautiful centerpiece that rested on the dinner table and, together, they glued colorful adornments to the oval treasure.

Within minutes, the old, worn, abandoned egg was new again, exuding a beauty unlike any other that had been retrieved that day. Sophie clasped her hands and gazed at its fresh radiance with sparkling eyes.

"May I keep it?" she queried, giving Papa a sidelong glance.

"Oui, ma cherie," he replied with a moustached grin as he stroked his child's flaxen hair lovingly.

Over the years, as Sophie grew, the egg became a part of her own family and their Easter tradition. Each Easter eve, her children would anxiously watch as Sophie gently took the egg out of its velvet lined box, which had become its new home, and placed it in a holder on the mantle. The children would sit and listen eagerly as Sophie told the story of the egg and what it meant to her: a time of resurrection, joy and the promise of hope.

Copyright 2010 liamsgrandma

Fill Those Easter Baskets!

Whether you are a parent or grandparent, you want to make the best Easter basket possible for your special child.  You guys, let me tell you, I stopped making Easter baskets for my own kids just two Easters ago and, at the time, they were 24 and 26!  Creating beautiful baskets is as much fun to make as it is to receive (do I hear a cereal commercial resonating here?).

This month, About.com is having what's known as a blog carnival where a variety of featured bloggers talk about their own Easter basket fun.  I thought I'd hop on that bunny's back and join them because, if you know me, you know I never do anything status quo.  So here are some Easter basket fun tips:

Toddlers:  Toddlers don't need candy.  In fact, if they went without it, they wouldn't know what they were missing.  And you'd save money on carpet and upholstery cleaning when they smear melted chocolate everywhere or when they projectile vomit that fourth marshmallow chick. 

If you are putting only candy in a toddler's basket, quite possibly you:  (1) are following what your own parents did and you haven't yet joined this century; (2) are following what commercial retailers tell you; or (3) love sneaking those jelly beans and chocolates yourself (in that case, go ahead - eat yourself sick, but don't let Junior eat all that sugar).

Instead, fill the basket with little wind up toys, small coloring books and washable crayons, cool slippers, an educational DVD like this or this.  Toddlers love to sing and dance.  Even when Liam and I are in the car driving, we put on a musical CD and sing at the top of our lungs. 

Toddlers are starting to "read" by now and some of Liam's favorites include, "Good Night Moon" where we search for the little mouse on every page, "Pajama Time" where we do the little pajama dance together at bed time, and "Moo, Baa, La La La," which is his all-time favorite (mostly because Nimmy enhances and emphasizes the page that says, "No, no, you say, that isn't right!  Pigs say OINK all day and night!").  By the way, if you don't get out much and you know my phone number, I can recite that entire book to you with my eyes closed.  And Liam probably could too.  And, thank you to my dear friend, Nancy, for giving him that wonderful book!

Children, Ages 5-11:  This is a fun age group where lots can be done.  Kids love cameras and taking pictures of family, friends, the neighbor's dog, their new bike, Uncle Ernie passed out on the bathroom floor, Grandma with her dress tucked into her underwear, all kinds of fascinating things!  I realize we are in a digital age, but the non-digital cameras are so affordable now that they should be handing them out as samples when you walk into the store.  And, getting a child a non-digital camera teaches him/her the art of patience rather than this generation's desire for immediate gratification.  Take the pictures, finish the roll of film, take it to the drug store and wait for them to be developed.  It's all about following through on something and being rewarded with some fabulous pictures (Note to self:  snag the photo of Grandma and Uncle Ernie before you hand them over to your child).

Other great basket stuffers for kids this age include series books like Amelia Bedelia, Boxcar Mysteries, Curious George, Encyclopedia Brown, and the Bunnicula series.  For a comprehensive listing of childrens' series stories with age levels, go here. 

This age group still enjoys writing on paper and, because they have not yet graduated to writing phone numbers on bathroom walls, give your kids a colorful card set or some stationery to write to grandparents, aunts and uncles.  It's a wonderful way for them to sit down, relax, and take some time to write.  They can even include some of their newly shot photos.  Rubber stamps and stickers, along with a book or scrapbook to put these items into are great fun as well.

Fun and exciting games that fit into a basket include UNO (card game), Yahtzee, Junior Boggle and even a regular deck of cards.  I loved learning how to play Solitaire when I was a kid.  And my grandmother and I played Rummy until my mother would peel me from the table and tell me it was time to go home and Grandma would shout a parting call, "I'll kill ya again tomorrow, kid!"  Grandma was merciless and never, ever let me win which has made me very competitive and ruthless when it comes to game playing.  NO MERCY is my motto.  Some of my Scramble friends on Facebook will attest to this. But I digress...

Pre-Teens and Teenagers. If you continue with the tradition at this age level, as I did, this group can be great fun and has much to offer in the way of ideas. 

Girls love any kind of lip gloss, fruity fragrance, body butter or fruity spray.  And they all fit into a basket.  If they like to read, that Twilight Series has been the biggest hit in years for girls and boys.  For the girls who aren't into fragrances, lip glosses, etc., she'll enjoy a fancy water bottle like these or these.  These necklaces are also great and deliver a message. 

Socks, flipflops, pajama t-shirts, hair ties and phone cards all work for your older girl.  If she is into sports, find things based on that theme - mugs with a team photo on it and filled with healthy treats is a great idea.  Go to seehere.com for ways to put your photo onto gifts. 

For the guys, many of them are at that awkward time in their lives where they are experimenting with things like colognes and after shave.  Find one that you know they'll like.  My son loved (and still loves) Fahrenheit and Nautica Blue. 

Talking keychains, roll-up drum kit, mini camcorders, and the ultimate survivor in a bottle are all great gifts that fit into most baskets. 

Finally, pre-teens and teens are ecstatic to receive a Borders gift card or a gift card to their favorite clothing store.  Other popular gift cards are from sports stores like Dick's or REI, and electronic stores like Best Buy, CompUSA or Circuit City.  Movie theaters offer gift packages as well.  And these fit fabulously into your child's basket.

Of course, we all know that a basket without some sort of treat just wouldn't be a complete basket.  Healthy alternatives always work and there are some healthy snacks out there that even kids love.  And I know that some of you are just going to go the way of the Sour Patch Kids or Marshmallow Peeps but, in an effort to avoid nasty emails about the fourteen new cavities that Johnny has or the newly sprung pimples on Melody's face RIGHT BEFORE PROM, I'll leave that part up to you.

Most of all, enjoy the wonder in your child's or grandchild's eyes as he or she paws greedy little hands through the basket, flinging each gift over the shoulder as they plunge those grubby hands back into the grass for the next gift.  After they've annihilated the basket, believe me, they'll thank you for your thoughtfulness, but only after they realize they just flung the last gift into the cat's litter box.

This post is part of the All About Parenting Easter Blog carnival where you can find more great information by clicking right here!

Copyright 2010 liamsgrandma

Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

Unless you have a two year old, or any child who naps in your household, you have no comprehension of the stress involved when noise is made during those naps.  It's the kind of stress akin to running from a bomber plane aiming a huge machine gun at you with bullets bouncing at your feet.  It's the kind of stress that happens when you go to chase a 120 pound rottweiler out of your yard and, after he turns to run, stops, sizes you up and realizes he weighs as much as you.  And he has muscle.  And big teeth.  And he takes off running at speeds that would break Mach 1 - twice - and you're running for the door keeping your hips thrust in front of you at least 3 feet because you know he's going for your butt and there's nothing else on your mind but getting in that door, both cheeks intact.

When a child naps, it's the only time we have to relax.  When I say relax, I mean I get to clean the bathtub without the house midget leaning over me, asking 50 questions and trying to touch the green cleanser, which always ends up in his hair, on his face and all over me.  

The mornings that Liam sleeps in, I quietly rise, make the coffee and sit on the couch in the dark to meditate, pray, and think about what I'm going to make for dinner.

This morning was one of those mornings when he slept in and I, instead of bouncing out of bed and making the coffee, thought I'd just lay there awhile and doze.  I got up, went to the bathroom, tiptoed back toward the bed and saw that Druck had flung the covers off of himself.  "He's not up yet," I say.  "I'm gonna lay down for a few more minutes." 

"But I need to get going," says the frumpy mass on the bed, rubbing his eyes and looking pathetic.

When this occurs, what I would like to do is put my hands on my hips and SCREAM, "Then go make the damned coffee YOURSELF, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!"

Instead, because he is the main bread winner and has enough stress in his life to fill the Rose Bowl x 4, I sigh quietly, march to my bathrobe, fling it on and, with an annoyed huff, quietly slip out to the kitchen to QUIETLY make the coffee. And, like clockwork, when the coffee stops gurgling, working man emerges and gets his pre-dawn elixir. 

This morning, like the other rare mornings when he sees his wife sitting peacefully on the couch, in the dark, and there is no angelic chatter going on in stereo around us, he rummages through the cupboard as if there were but one coffee cup amidst 5,000 plates.  "What the HELL is going on out there?" I say in an increasingly loud whisper.  Working man says nothing and closes the cupboard.  Loudly.  As if the latch is on the other side of the wall and the only way to close it is to get a running start, leap through the air and ram his shoulder into it. 

Throwing my hands up in the air and rolling my head from side to side, I throw out a loud "Tch!  Tch!" which sounds like a less than amused cricket giving its prey a pre-murderous warning. 

When Druck walks past, hair plastered to the back of his head and not even glancing my way, I say, "I wonder how many years I'll get if they can't find you."  Which is followed by a quiet close of the bedroom door as I sit there.  Annoyed.

And now the little darling is down for his nap.  And despite the fact that no one, absolutely no one, called me or rang my doorbell when he was walking, talking and singing, now that it's naptime, the mother of the neighbor lady who is visiting from out of state has come by, rung the doorbell, talked my ear off in a loud voice because she can't hear, and I am all but sweating adrenaline because I just need some time, ok?  And her rambling about the dentist is killing me, making me want my own root canal NOW.  And the UPS guy, who normally drops off any kind of packages at 5:30 pm, has already been here by 3 pm, and, of course, rang the bell and left faster than I could open the door and yell, WHY ARE YOU HERE THIS EARLY, so loudly that he will never ever need dermabrasion NO MATTER WHAT.

The phone hasn't rung since yesterday afternoon (at naptime) but now it's gone off 3 times.  And those blasted trains, that usually only come by once an hour, have come by three times in 40 minutes, blaring their warning signal non-stop.

Trains, helicopters, UPS men, neighbors, politicians, pollsters, long distance reps, scientists and cable guys are apparently required to take a prerequisite before being hired:  IDIOTS 101 (Ignoring Daytime Importance of Toddlers Sleeping).  I'll dedicate the reference to the Idiot UPS guy to KSP, who knows who he is.  Scientists, you ask?  What do they have to do with IDIOTS 101?  Ahem.  I'm married to the scientist.

As for that rottweiler story (you thought I'd leave that one hanging?),  he never got a taste of my butt, but instead, as my young children (at the time) looked on, I took those 36" legs and leapt from the ground to the top of the porch (five steps, I'll have you know) in one bound.  As I scurried inside the door, he came to a screeching halt and slammed into the steps, apparently unable to hurl that large mass up five steps, even though he thought he could.  Maggie: 1.  Rottweiler:  0.   

Copyright 2010 liamsgrandma

The Olympics AND FENG SHUI - Right in Your Own Living Room

Why watch the Olympics when you can experience, first-hand, all kinds of stunts, jumps, falls, thrills of victory and agonies of defeat in your own living room, hallway, garage?  Which leads me to today's big question.  One that really only recently came to the top of my list of stupid things I must know, and moved right from position 9,872 on my list all the way up to #1, in an enlightening instant.  Mostly because my husband was questioning my style of Feng Shui last week which, quite honestly, I never thought there was a style of Feng Shui, per se, but, rather, the art of putting Feng Shui into your style. 

So here it is:  Why is it that when a man stubs his toe, bangs his knee, rams a hammer through his thumb or bumps his head, he has to injure himself even more by flinging himself across the room, throwing himself onto the floor, gripping the appendage and rocking himself back and forth in a fetal position, his face all contorted in pain as if he has just had a limb sliced off with a butter knife? And it's not just the little stub from that coffee table that was apparently crossing its legs when he walked by and didn't pull its toes in to avoid contact with the man.  It's when they play soccer, basketball, baseball, football, you name it.  They get jabbed, and they're throwing themselves down the field like they were just hit by a bullet-shaped semi pulling 4 tons of cargo and traveling faster than the speed of light.

Last week, in the calm of the evening, after I had donned my jammies and robe, I remembered that I had forgotten to feed my ever patient kitties.  I went to the back closet/pantry and bending over, fished through things, looking for a different can of food because I, like most insane cat owners, like to provide my cats with variety, interesting conversation, and the latest updates on the weather. 

While holding that position and scanning for the perfect menu item, my husband entered the hallway on his way to the bathroom and noticed me - in what he apparently thought was a very magnificent pose, if you can imagine someone bent over, head in the closet, wearing a white terry cloth robe covered in pink rosebuds and mumbling to herself that she thought the can of turkey and giblets was in here somewhere. 

Making a sound not unlike an excited animal, he sashayed down the hall towards my protruding butt which I wiggled for emphasis as his outstretched hands were about to grab their prey.  Sadly, before his hands made it to their destination, he was catapulted off-course when his baby toe came in hard, direct contact with the vacuum cleaner.  The vacuum cleaner that, yes, I had put there earlier in the day on its way to its place in the garage.  There's a whole long story as to why the vacuum cleaner didn't make it those 3 extra feet into the garage, but why bore you any further. 

And now it gets interesting.  Usually, when one is walking forward and stubs their toe, and that someone is a man, you would guess that if that someone was walking forward when the calamity occurred, based on the laws of physics, he would, in the event of catapultion (is that even a word?), be thrown forward.  Somehow, Druck defied the laws of physics and, after stubbing his toe and making a low-toned comment that I could not decipher, he was actually thrown backward, onto the floor, gripping his toe, writhing, rocking and wincing in pain.

"Are you OK?" I said, straightening for a moment before ducking my head back into the closet.

Druck:  "I gotta tell you," he said through clenched teeth.  "Your style of Feng Shui leaves much to be desired."

Maggie:  "Placement of the vacuum cleaner does not have anything to do with Feng Shui, dear.  The vacuum cleaner is not a piece of artwork."

Druck:  "You could have fooled me."

M:  "And that box of baby wipes that have been sitting there?  In front of the vacuum cleaner for TWO WEEKS that YOU put there?  What do you call that?"

D:  "I did not put those there."

M:  "Yes, you did, when you emptied my car after I went to Costco."

D:   "Well, I had no idea where to put them.  So, tell me.  Where do you want me to put them?"

M:  "I don't care."

D:  "I can't put them somewhere if you don't tell me where to put them."

M:  "Believe me.  You really don't want me to tell you where to put them right now."

And so it went with me finally locating the can of turkey and giblets, grabbing the vacuum cleaner and putting it into the garage and Druck hoisting up the box of wipes and trodding off in a huff, walking NORMALLY, despite the carnage that had just happened to his baby toe. 

As for me, I still can't find the wipes.

Copyright 2010 liamsgrandma