Liam's Grandma or Maggie in Real Life

Excerpt

"Why did you come?"  Her desperate breathing was loud as she cleared her throat, trying to cover her emotions.

"I had to," he replied, gazing wearily into the darkness.

"I told you not to come back unless you were coming for me.  Is that why you're here?"

"I don't know why I'm here," he said, taking a cautious step forward.

"Go.  Go now.  It's too much.  She turned and walked toward the fireplace, bracing herself for another night alone.

"Please.  I don't want to go.  Please."

It seemed like an eternity before she exhaled slowly, pressed her forehead to the cool plastered wall, abruptly turned and walked to the old vitrola she'd found in the attic.  In a second he was at her side turning the handle, as she placed the arm gently on the old vinyl.  As their song began, she turned to him and said, "Dance with me."  He pulled her close and she collapsed into his arms, as he held her loosely, like a ragdoll, as they slowly circled the parlor in the dark quiet of night. 

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One day I'll finish this darned novel.   Sigh.  The chances of that are as good as me marrying John F. Kennedy Jr. and we all know how that one turns out.

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma

Keeping Romance Alive For Grandparents or Anyone Over 40 Married Over 20

This morning, after making Liam some of my fabulous French Toast and, of course, offering it to the rest of the household (although Liam had first dibs), there was a great deal of playtime involving Poppy and Grammy and toy tools, a big ball and stuffed toys. Finally, Grammy put on her bathing suit and she and Liam headed for the tub where he had a nice scrub down, learned the basics of underwater swimming (oops), and splashed and played.  Afterward, there was chasing around the house in his onesie until Grammy tackled him to put the rest of his clothes on.  And then came the moment of quiet. Bubby took a bottle and went back to bed at around 11 am.  

As I prepared a pot of tea and sliced my lemon, Druck came downstairs.  "Shhhhhhhh!!!" I said emphatically, holding my finger to my lips and wincing.  "Shhhhhhhh!!" He said back, mimicking my expression. As I turned back to the counter to make my tea, his arms enveloped me and he breathed in a low, husky voice, "Want to proofread a letter for me?"  His breath was warm and soothing on my neck.

"Is there lots of punctuation?" I whispered back.

"Oh yes.  There's even a semi-colon."

"A semi-colon?" I feigned a sudden weakness as he held me up.

"Yes.  A semi-colon."  He rubbed his face into my hair as I put down my lemon and said, "You had me at proofread," as I raced up the stairs to the waiting computer with Druck in hot pursuit.

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma

Nose Blowing as a Form of Communication

My husband and I were sick with some ghastly virus that lingered from Thanksgiving to Christmas.  Although Druck's virus abated earlier than mine, we were still blowing our noses like crazy.  And sometimes the sound reached cacophonic proportions, as in reverberating honking.  

Sometimes Druck's blows would go from loud blasts to a sound similar to a blast of air through a small pipe whose opposite end is clogged.   It actually sounded painful. I told him not to pinch his nose so much when he blew.  The air was hitting the tissue and bouncing back into his throat causing him to choke. Sheesh. You'd think a 48 year old man would know this stuff by now.  I remember trying to teach my kids how to blow their noses.  But a grown man?

One Saturday morning, when Druck and I had risen and were sitting on the floor, coffee in hand and playing with Liam, we began blowing our noses.  Liam looked from one to the other and then back again.  "If we keep this up," Druck commented, "he's going to think this is how we communicate."  

It got me to thinking.  Nose blowing, at least in this house, is a form of communication. There is the morning trumpet, signalling to the house that Druck has risen.  I make sure coffee is made before the honk at dawn, because it makes for a much more pleasant morning.  And then there is the honk after coming in from outside, signalling that the driveway shoveling was successful or that the groceries are here. 

There is the sick honk that follows a wet wooshing of nose blowing.  There is the honk that signals the shower is over and one is clean.  There is the strange nose blowing I often hear in ladies' rooms when one is using the stall.  Do you really think your nose blowing is going to mask the sound of your tinkle or other bodily functions?  Pul-eez.  

And one can't forget the blow that signals a great meal.  Sometimes a spicy meal. Sometimes a steamy meal.  But the blow afterward is always telling.  The honk after a workout shows that it was, indeed, a WORKOUT.  Or cleaning the house, with the accompanying dust that fills the air as we vacuum, dust, fluff and scrub, causes one to need a good blow afterward.  And the gardener's honk tells the entire neighborhood that I'm planting flowers.  Sometimes area geese honk back.  I'm not sure what they're telling me, but it's nice to know I speak their language.  

We have so many forms of communicating with each other without even speaking a word.  I like to think that when I blow my nose, no one is listening, but Liam has taught us otherwise.  Because of this, I've learned to, perhaps, not blow so hard.  It's much quieter. But less communicative and less productive.  I look forward to teaching Liam how to blow his nose in a couple of years.  Somehow, I think a story will evolve out of that lesson. Stay tuned.

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma

Oldies But Goodies

Maggie is busy making soap, meeting with friends as the new year begins, and trying to keep some semblance of mind.   With that said, I have begun a few blog postings but haven't yet finished any.  So I thought I'd share with you one of my favorite stories from October.  And as soon as I have gotten over the soap frenzy, at least for awhile, and have been sated with beaucoup de friendly gatherings, I'll get back to writing.  To my friend, Gail, you are next on my list for coffee!

A few days ago, my daughter was going through a bag of lotions, conditioners and creams that her friend, Breanna, had given her.  Breanna is a hairdresser and is often giving Catherine her leftovers.  Catherine, in turn, gives me her leftovers which I usually hold onto for awhile and then toss. Otherwise, my bathroom cupboard would be an ocean of beauty products.  And, while some might say, "but you need them, Maggie," and while I might say back, "speak for yourself," there are only so many things you can use at a time.  

The other night, I was rummaging through my cupboard looking for my hormone cream which I must tell you is fabulous.  I have just entered that menopausal phase and I don't like it.  But this hormone cream keeps hot flashes, night sweats and bad moods at bay. And, without trying to throw in a sales pitch here, I sell this hormone cream.  It is Arbonne's Phytoprolief and it has helped me tremendously.  If you'd like to try some, it normally sells for $34 but I would be happy to give a 15% discount on this item because I believe in it so strongly.  Just email me.

Anyway, I came across some lotion that Breanna had given Catherine which contained a variety of natural ingredients and was guaranteed to soften my skin, make it look and feel younger and it had pheromones in it to attract the opposite sex!  With a smile on my face, I proceeded to rub this silky smooth cream into my arms and legs, my neck and shoulders.  I dressed for bed and went and climbed in to continue reading my latest novel.  Druck was seated in a chair at the foot of the bed, watching TV and working on his laptop.  

Every now and then, I glanced up from my book to see if anything was changing in his demeanor.  Nothing.  So I held up my arm and gently blew on it, in his direction. Nothing. A minute later, I repeated the action.  Nothing.  I sighed and returned to my novel.  Less than a minute after that, I was greeted by a very pleasant, happy display of affection - from my big fat orange cat.  He bounded onto the bed and wriggled next to me, rolling onto his back, purring and rubbing his head against my leg.  "Are you kidding me?" I said, and pushed him off the bed.  Within seconds, he was back on the bed and I pushed him off again.  Not long after that, another cat of mine, who has a breathing problem, came in and jumped up on the bed, making all sorts of snorting and sucking sounds.  He sidled up to me like white on rice.  

I looked at Druck, who was engaged in chuckling at The Daily Show, set my book down and went and took a shower.  So much for romance, sex appeal and pheromones.  By the time I had washed off that feline attracting fragrance, he was in bed snoring and dreaming about politics.

Copyright 2008 liamsgrandma

Love Just IS....

Every 3 or 4 months, I post this prose again because the words are thought-provoking and lovely.  What is love anyway?  For me, right now, love bursts forth and explodes into the atmosphere from deep within me everytime I hear the sound of Liam's approach as his mama brings him down in the morning, or when I see his smile.  Or when I don my bathing suit to get into the tub with him for a Scrub-A-Dub-Dub.  I scrub him and he plays and splashes happily and we don't even have to wear sunscreen as we two bathing beauties enjoy a dip.   So here it is.  Each time I read it, I see different images in my mind, some that are knowing, some that are confusing, some that are good and some that are difficult.  Love is all of these things for all of us at various times.  But love truly, as has been said before, is all we need.  

"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 is living 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."

Tang Xianzu, 1598 - Preface to The Peony Pavilion

Musings/Rantings of a Sleep-Deprived, Hormone Fluctuating, Hair Obsessed Woman

 Happy New Year.  We just returned from our long awaited vacation to our home in New York where we spent eight days battling mice who apparently thought the house was abandoned.  When we were not engaged in rodent warfare, we were entertaining guests, complaining about the mice, feeding Liam, devising methods of extricating the mice, changing Liam's diapers, tattooing the mice we caught with our humane trap (with a black Sharpie), washing Liam poop out of my hair (oh what a morning that was), catching more mice and then exchanging extreme glances of appall when we realized that these crawling specimens of vermin were finding their way back to the house and gaining re-entry within 24 hours (Sharpies don't lie).

Oh, it's been a busy week or so at the "mansion" on the hill!  We arrived at around 8:30 pm on 12/26, with Liam in tow, to find mouse poop in our soap dish in the bathroom and a mountain of it in one corner of the bathtub.  At least we know they are clean mice. Grammy and Poppy spent the next 30 minutes taking turns washing, mopping, vacuuming and holding Liam while the other cleaned.  And, because Liam had slept almost the entire 7 hour trip, he blessed us with a surprise of his own.  The little monkey decided he was not - I repeat - NOT going to bed any sooner than 11:45 pm.  And he certainly was not going to bed without Grammy in the bedroom with him.  So Grammy readied for bed, kissed Poppy good night and retired to Liam's room where she slept each night, every night, while Poppy woefully snored at the other end of the house, alone, in the big bed.  Needless to say, there was no end-of- the-year romance, not one hint of a grab, and not even a fleeting caress as we passed each other throughout the days and evenings in our roles as Liam's caregivers.  You see, Liam's mama had to remain in Michigan and work.  And we are between daycare providers. So Grammy and Poppy did what every doting grandparent would do and took Red Chief with us.

Sleeping became a luxury those eight days.  Grammy was thrilled if she got more than 3 consecutive hours of sleep each night.  Liam gets up like clockwork at 2:30 am for a diaper change and a smooch.  Normally, he would return to his crib if he were back home, but he didn't like the idea of returning to the Pack and Play we had set up in New York; instead, he insisted on coming to bed with Grammy.  This would have been fine except that he is a mobile sleeper and stretches, kicks, moves around with arms, hands and feet ending up in Grammy's ears, face and mouth.  And the two-foot heel slam to the chest at 4 am sent Grammy springing up in bed like a cannonball shooting out of its chamber.

New Year's Eve was spent dining at my in-law's house with several other people.  Liam knocked over one glass of wine and managed to mash cracker crumbs into the carpet in between coaxing innocent bystanders to pick him up and show him this or that.   My in-laws' ferocious biting shih-tzu was sequestered to a bedroom since we were not keen on offering baby fingers as hors d'oeuvres to the dog. 

Finally, when Liam announced he'd had enough and was ready for his evening slumber, we readied to go - at 8 pm.  That was ok since an extremely sleep-deprived Grammy who hadn't showered that day, had only finger-combed her hair and who wore no makeup or jewelry, was desperately ready to high tail it out of there.  Except for years when Grammy was ill, she has never looked so bad on New Year's Eve.  And the worst part about it was that Grammy didn't even care that everyone else was gorgeous and she was a mere wilting flower.  

We said our goodbyes and Poppy and Liam headed out the door, Poppy lugging the boy in that heavy portable carseat, while Grammy looked for her gloves.  When Grammy gave up the search and made for the door to enter the frigid cold, Auntie Robin ran to look for them and asked, "What color are they?"  "They're tan."  After Auntie Robin searched and searched for tan gloves, Grammy said, "Wait.  They're blue.  I think.  Wait."  Auntie Tara chimed in, "Are they tan or blue? That's quite a difference, isn't it?"  Grammy sighed and said, "They're blue."

The gloves never were found until the day before we left to return to the mid-west.  And by the time we left, Grammy was ready to go, having dreamed several times of her comfortable bed back in Michigan which would not be shared with a ten-month old.  As we prepared to leave, Druck was making a list. 

"What are you doing?"  I inquired.

"Making a list of what to bring next time."

"Liam's not on that list, is he?" I smiled.

Poppy, turning to Liam, said, "It's nothing personal, Buddy.  We'll bring you again.  Just not next time."

"Or the time after that," I quipped.  "It's nothing personal, Buddy; truly, nothing personal."

Happy New Year to All.

Copyright 2008 liamsgrandma