Liam's Grandma or Maggie in Real Life

Foster Grandparenting

I recently wrote an article for Grand Magazine about Foster Grandparenting.  You may be able to view it at www.grandmagazine.com.  Let me know if this is not the case.  And, by the way, I write under a different name for the magazine, but just look for the article on foster grandparenting.  To view a .pdf version, click:  Download Grand Magazine article.  You won't be able to click on the links provided in the article, but at least you can read the article itself.  

Currently, my husband and I are not legally foster parents to Liam, but we are raising him - at least temporarily.  At 49 years of age, and looking back twenty-something years when our family was new and our whole lives were ahead of us, I never suspected, in my wildest dreams, that I would be raising a 14-month-old at this point in my life.  I have had to re-learn some things pertaining to small humans, but most have come naturally - just like riding a bike.  At my age, however, I have found that I am not as quick to remember what I did way back when and I am certainly not as quick to come out of a stupor when awakened in the wee morning hours to perform a diaper change or to prepare a bottle. 

Because of this, I am extremely grateful that we have a baby gate at the top of the stairs, which really shouldn't be necessary at night because Liam is safe in his crib (at least until he grows a bit more and decides to crawl out of it).  But I keep the gate closed because, as I feel my way in the dark, trying to remember who I am, where I am, how I got there and what century it is, I stop at the top of the stairs, gripping onto that baby gate, and remind myself of the present.  "Ah, yes.  It's all coming back to me," I think, shaking the last bit of fairy dust from my dream banks.  "The little dictator in the other room is not some foreign enemy trying to inflict torture on me if I don't reveal where I'm hiding Peter Pan and his love interest.  It's my grandchild.  The one I love.  The one I am taking care of.  The one who tests me daily (and nightly)."  I can then, with confidence, open the gate and gingerly make my way down the stairs to the kitchen. 

The other night (or should I say morning), I was awakened by some jovial chatter in a language I didn't understand.  Once again, because at my age, quick awakenings don't come easily, I opened my eyes, stared at the ceiling and, for some reason which could very possibly be related to latent desires to go back to my prepubescent years, I thought I was 12 years old again.  I sincerely believed that I was underwater with my sister, who was talking to me, like she used to do when we'd go underwater in our pool and she would demonstrate how she could carry on a conversation beneath the surface by blowing air out of her mouth.  As I blinked and continued to hear the fluid indecipherable banter, I marveled at how I could actually breathe underwater.  My proud and excited reverie was interrupted seconds later, however, when a loud warning sounded and I remembered where I was.  Liam was trumpeting a clear statement that if I didn't act immediately, there would be some hell to pay. 

As usual, I staggered down to the kitchen, prepared the bottle, changed his diaper, covered him and patted his little head.  But this particular morning at 4 am, he wanted to "rise and shine."  As I lay in the bed across the room and Poppy snored peacefully downstairs in the bed we once shared but which now has become some kind of bachelor catchall where I have found peanut shells, crumbs, popsicle sticks and an occasional neighborhood dog scrounging for scraps, I begged, "Please Liam.  It's 4 o'clock in the morning, for crying out loud.  Night-night time." I opened one eye when I heard him standing up in his crib.  He flung the empty bottle onto the floor and said, "Meh?" which, if you don't know baby language, means, "More?"  [And before I go any further, don't even start on me with your expertise on telling me all the reasons why I shouldn't give him a bottle in bed.  For Heaven's sake, I'm in the same room, listening while he sucks it dry, and then I get up and retrieve it when he goes back to la-la land.]  

My lamentations continued, "Liam, PLEASE.  Honestly, what part of night-night don't you understand?  Is it the 'n' or is it the silent 'g'?"  Finally, with a sigh, I rose, grabbed the bottle, and found my way more easily down to the kitchen this time, put more milk in the bottle and warmed it.  After shutting off the light over the sink, I decided that drastic measures were called for - I got down on my knees in the middle of the kitchen and started to pray.  "Lord, look.  I know you have way many more things on your plate to deal with that are just so much more relevant than this.  But I have to work in the morning and I just can't freaking deal with this crap right now.  If you could find a little mercy or just a little extra scrap on your table to throw me the smallest of bones here, would you? I mean, I'm trying.  I'm trying real hard to be worthy of a bone from your table, but sometimes..." With that, I heard a bellow from upstairs, stood up, stepped on the edge of my bathrobe, tripped and slammed my head against the wall.  Surprisingly, I never dropped the bottle and I remained fully conscious. 

Climbing the stairs, rubbing my forehead and trying not to say bad things, I walked into the room and the little darling had gone back to sleep.  "Thank you, Jesus," I sighed.   "I mean it.  And I'm sorry for saying 'freaking' and 'crap' in that last prayer.  I don't know.  I'm just tired.  Please forgive.  I mean, maybe freaking and crap is ok to say.  I don't know.  I've tried to figure that one out.  Aren't they just some sort of adjective and noun anyway?"    

I crawled back into bed and laid there for a good 40 minutes trying to get back to sleep amidst pulsating throbs of my pounding head, worrying about freaking and crap and how their usage might effect my eternity, and thoughts of breathing underwater.

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma

Spider Man - Revisited

Here is a repeat (oldie but goodie?) blog for you to read while I get my act together and actually start typing all of the things I have written down on receipts, napkins and, yes, a sock....an old one, but a sock nonetheless, because when I woke up at 4 am and couldn't get something out of my head, it was the closest thing I could find without waking the baby....no easy task either - sock material moves when written upon.  

Rest assured that I have many things written down on these various materials, but raising a one year old limits my time.  That, along with writing articles for a national magazine, working in a law firm, running a pet sitting business and the most difficult task of all:  trying to decide what color my hair should be next.  So, I promise you, by next week, you'll be reading lots of new material but, for now, please enjoy my spider escapade - again....

The other night, as I lay sleeping in my bed, minding my own business, I woke to something on the back of my neck, nuzzling my hairline.  It would be surprising to think my husband had gotten frisky at 4:00 in the morning, especially since his snoring spoke clearly to his disinterest in any kind of romance. 

Reaching back, I felt something large and rubbery and, as instinct and reaction would have it, I snatched it, and flung it as hard as I could into the dark.  Naturally, what one would hope to have done in an intrusion and violation such as this, would be to have killed the thing, slamming it hard against the wall or even impaling it on one of my high heels.  

As kids, we were told the MAY principle or, "They're More Afraid of You than you are of them."  More afraid of me?  Then why is it that when I am trying to stomp the life out of an "eight-legged hairier than King Kong arachnid the size of a hamster with eyes dangling off of its forehead," it always runs towards me rather than away?  They have eyes for crying out loud.  If they are more afraid of me than I am of them, why run towards the enemy?  Unless, of course, it's a strategy that they were taught in Self-Defense 101, but quite honestly, if I saw something looming over me that is hundreds of times the size of me, I certainly wouldn't be running towards it.  I mean, if I was laying out in my backyard, sunning myself, feeling like I'd just died and gone to Heaven as I breathe in the sweet aroma of freshly cut grass,  and turned my head to see a group of scallywags coming at me with knives, scythes and boomerangs, wouldn't common sense tell me to RUN?  For these reasons and many more that flip haphazardly through my neurotic brain cells, I do not believe in the MAY principle.

After that brief but extreme mood altering moment,  it was difficult to fall back to sleep.  And so, I did what any other bug fearing person would do.  I got up, turned on the light, causing Druck to let out a small yelp before drifting peacefully back to dreaming about mitosis, cells and robots.  Finding nothing and fearing everything, I reluctantly turned the light off and gingerly crawled back into bed.  I finally drifted off to sleep, dreaming of spiders, ants, flies and, for some reason, a pink Care Bear dancing spasmatically across the room, singing "She'll Be Comin' 'Round the Mountain."  If you know me, you aren't surprised.

Copyright 2008 liamsgrandma

Musings of a Mad Middle-Aged Mom

I have been tired - for days, possibly weeks. Probably because at 49 years old, I am currently raising my one-year-old grandson, with the help of my husband.  Admittedly, I wouldn't miss a second of this time because it truly is magical in every sense of the word.  The wonder and excitement that this little child expresses over the tiniest of things reminds me that the small stuff in life is truly worth getting excited over. Which brings me to my day on Saturday. If you have read the two blogs beneath this one, you know that a major tragedy happened recently in the life of some very dear friends.  I was in NY for several days because of this but by Saturday, I was alone and left to my own devices because Liam had stayed behind in Michigan with his Poppy.  This is not to minimize in any way why I was in NY; rather, I often try to provide myself with diversions to keep from losing my mind on occasion.  And, as I stated previously, my grandson helps me to find small things exciting.

As I rummaged around in our home in NY, alone and bored, I found a diffuser for the old hair blower I keep in the cupboard in the bathroom. Curious, because for some reason, I have never tried this type of attachment, I took my shower, threw some hair stuff in my hair, and blew my hair dry with the diffuser attached.  I turned the dryer off and stood there, blinking at myself, wondering if my hair was the brunette's version of a Dollie Parton wig.  "I cannot go out of the house looking like this," I choked, having planned a drive to a nearby village for some antiquing.  So I pulled out my curling iron to try to tone it down.  But instead, I ended up looking like Mary Tyler Moore from The Dick Van Dyke Show.  Finally, I decided to lay on the bed, five minutes on each side.  It helped somewhat, but I decided to never ever use a diffuser again.  I will say that it made my hair less frizzy and left it quite shiny and smooth - only very BIG.  In fact, I think I got a call from 1976 asking for their hair back but there was quite a bit of static (time travel will do that to you), and so it clearly could have been 1986.   Regardless, I replied, "For God's sake, you can have it already!"

After that debacle, and right after I took the photo above, I glanced off the porch that I was sitting on and noticed the bird feeder hanging from the pole barn.  I mused to myself that that bird seed had been in there for months and those birds must not have liked it or else it had rotted in there.  I decided to investigate.  Before I go any further, let me emphasize that I have a major fear of heights that I have been trying to slowly get over. Baby steps is what I've been told.  I have, therefore, and on occasion, gotten up on a ladder.  Feeling bold, because hey, Dollie Parton would be bold about it and I was sporting some big hair, I opened the big barn door and dragged out the big ladder.  Taking a breath, I climbed to the very top and went to unhook the feeder. Just as I grabbed hold of that feeder, for some reason, I thought it'd be ok to glance down.  Bad bad idea for someone afraid of heights. Instead I gasped, jerked in fright, and grabbed onto the gutter with my free hand, finding myself dangling there for about 3 seconds as I scrambled to get my feet back onto the ladder.  3 seconds might as well have been 3 hours.  I saw many things flash in front of me and I have never even done recreational drugs.  These were definitely unanticipated flashbacks - the kind that makes you wonder if you've been slightly brain damaged after the experience.  No longer giving one iota of a crap about whether the seed was rotted or those little darling birdies were just being picky, I carefully climbed down from the ladder, staggered back to the porch and sat there for about 10 minutes which felt like 10 nanoseconds, trying to recover.

Afterward, I put the ladder away, went inside, changed my clothes and headed into East Bloomfield to do some antiquing where I purchased this lovely Gone with the Wind Lamp.  These things cost a small fortune but for some reason, the vendor in this particular store was selling it on sale.  I can find nothing wrong with it.  Usually, they run somewhere around $400 for an antique of this caliber.  I got this little gem for $111.  It lights up on the top and on the bottom and I haven't told my husband about it.  Mostly because he doesn't like me spending money of any shape, size,  or currency - American, foreign or otherwise.  And also because he would prefer to have posters of the Periodic Table or the Krebs Cycle on our walls with a Pink Floyd photograph here and there.  Little does he know that his wife is a decorator to be reckoned with and this is why he finds our home in NY so cozy and welcoming.  One day he will appreciate the care I put into decorating but for now, when we go there together next (or he goes there alone and calls me immediately upon his late arrival asking what is on his nightstand...), I will not say a word.  Not one freaking word about it.  And when he does ask about it, I'll say, like I often do, "Oh, we've had that for eons.  I just dusted it off and found a place for it."  Or I could also say to him, "This is your fault.  This is what happens when you leave me alone.  I get big hair, I hang from pole barns and I buy lamps, ok?"

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma

Sarah and Gretchen, World Vision and Scholarship

The last week has been very difficult for many people, mostly the Protulipac and Bullock family who lost Sarah, age 17, and Gretchen, age 16, in a car accident on April 25.  Their funeral was one of the most difficult funerals I have ever attended.  In fact, it was one of the most painful things I have ever done, PERIOD.

But beautiful things can come out of tragedy and the girls' parents and their younger sister are trying to find their way back out of the darkness that has engulfed them these past several days, through the comfort of friends, family and a community that will not let go of them, not for a second.  

One of the things that the girls' mom, Alison, shared with me was that a scholarship has been created in the girls' name as well as a charitable fund through World Vision. You can learn more about these at www.gretchenandsarah.com.

On Thursday, the families' long-time friend, Julie, eulogized the girls and it was an uplifting speech as she talked about the wonderful things Sarah and Gretchen brought to the lives of everyone they touched.  But what touched me most was her parting words in which she described the beauty of spring and the fact that the apple blossoms are in bloom. She said that every now and then, we find a blossom that has fallen from the tree and lay on the ground.  

We could look upon that blossom and think what a shame it is that it will never come to fruition and become the apple it was meant to be.  She said it is best not to think of what the blossom might have become or what type of apple it would have been before it fell, but instead, to remember the beautiful fragrance it gave us while on the tree and the beauty it provided to those who beheld it.  She asked us to remember that the blossom was once alive and vibrant, full of life, and even though it didn't reach its full potential, it gave us something wonderful while it was here.

I took that in and believe that we all need to remind ourselves that while we are on that tree, to remember we are beautiful to those who behold us.  Sometimes we wait and wait for ourselves or someone else to become something more and, occasionally, our lives are cut short while we are becoming.  Let's enjoy who we are now and who the people around us are now rather than wait for them to become something greater.  This is not to say we should never wait patiently and nurture the potential apple we all hope to become, continually striving to be better, but while we are in bloom, remember that we are providing something positive.  Embrace the fragrance that you have to offer as you ripen and mature and embrace the unique bloom you are right here and right now.

May God bless the legacy that Sarah and Gretchen leave behind and may He restore their family and friends as they ripen and mature through this life we are all called to live.  And may we always remember two fallen blossoms who made our lives better while they were here.

Please consider becoming a part of their legacy by visiting their site and donating to their fund.

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma