Liam's Grandma or Maggie in Real Life

Bugs

This morning, I was minding my own business, pacing while waiting for my husband to leave because that's how my mornings are.  Not that I'm in any hurry to get him out of here, mind you, but as the morning routine winds down after making the coffee and greeting the sweet guy who is squinting in the morning light as he trudges, unsteadily, to the coffee pot like an android returning to its leader; and, after I make his lunch and stay out of his way while he tries to get his  morning legs going, I pace for the final part of our morning - the kiss goodbye. 

This morning, I was standing in the hallway, while he foraged in the bedroom, looking for his glasses, when he came out, looked me square in the eye, paused and said, "You don't want to go in there.  There's a huge bug."   Reacting as any woman might do (?), I scream and start backing up, eyes wide, going into a panic.  At the sight of this, he falls onto the floor, LAUGHING.  I say, "Oh dear God.  Are you joking?  Don't play me like that.  Don't!"  He replied that no, he's not joking and that yes, there is a huge bug in our bedroom. 

So, naturally, I scream again and start to hyperventilate and say, "What the hell are you doing on the floor?  Get it OUT of here before it gets away!"

"Do you want to see it?" (He says between gasps of laughter).  I make another attempt  to breathe and scream, "NO, I do NOT want to see it."  My legs are weak and I stagger to the arm of the couch and crumple down, putting my head on the arm, as he shrieks in laughter STILL.  But I know that my husband would not say that this was a huge bug if it were not because he is an outdoors kind of guy and this thing would have to be the size of a bird for him to say it is huge. 

As I lay on the floor, trying to revive, he returns to the bedroom and I hear him open the screen.  "Uh oh, it's on the run," he remarks.  Again, I scream.  "Close the door," I yell.  "CLOSE THE DOOR!" (He does not). 

After a minute, I hear nothing.  And my neurotic mind is conjuring up an image of this thing actually being a rabid bat and maybe it's bitten him and he's fainted and I have no idea what's going on in there except I know that I can only crawl at this point and I wonder if I should go check on him.  "Dear?"  "Yes."  "Are you all right?"  "Yes, but you should really see this thing.  It's a big moth."  "Maybe it's a bat," I reply.  "It's as big as a bat."  I let out another small anguished cry.  "Get a towel," I say.  "Throw it over him."

Finally, I hear the screen closing and pull myself to my feet.  He emerges from the room, triumphant.  "You got it?"  He nods.  I plant a huge, powerful kiss (or all I can muster of power at this point) onto his lips.  "Thank you."

Which reminds me of years ago...

We were living in a small basement apartment while my husband was working full-time and going to school full-time.  I was working full-time and taking care of a baby.  One evening, after giving Christopher a bath, I wrapped him in his little hood towel and carried him out of the bathroom, into the hallway when I thought I saw the carpet move.  Wait.  It wasn't the carpet moving.  It was a big MOTHER of a spider, light brown in color, like the carpet, with LOTS of hair and .... and ... and... JOINTS.  Yes JOINTS.  Oh dear God.  Why in the world create such things?

My heart raced fearfully and I knew I had to protect my child.  I carefully set him in his crib, all the while watching that bold thing standing on the carpet as if to say to me, "I dare you."  I removed the towel from my son's little body and grabbed a tin cup that my father-in-law had gotten for him while he was in Cape Cod.  I threw the towel over this tarantula and started pounding with all my might.  Suddenly, the monster raced out from under the towel and was on the go.  I didn't scream because I didn't want to scare my son.  I quickly grabbed the towel and threw it over the large animal again and pounded as hard and as viciously as I could, gritting my teeth the entire time. 

Breathless and sweaty, I waited.  Nothing.  I watched for movement under the towel.  Nothing.  Slowly...very slowly, I lifted the towel.  That thing was mashed into the rug so far, it quite possibly could become a permanent part of the carpet.  I placed the towel back over its lifeless body and gave it a few more pounds - just in case.  Then I called my husband who was at work.  I was frantic. 

"You are NEVER going to believe what just happened."  I relayed the entire story.  He listened calmly.  "Where do such things come from and why are they in OUR apartment," I cried.  "Do you think he has any brothers?"

"Well, yes.  He probably has brothers but we live in a college town so I am sure they are away at school." 

"OK." I say, trying to take comfort in something that made no sense whatsoever but I had to get back to my son.  I left the body there for my husband to clean up.

There were no more incidents of such things in our apartment (at least none that I saw) but we did see another one or two in the storage room across the hall and I refused to go into the storage area after that. 

Meanwhile, this morning, after the Attack of the Killer Moth, I resumed my pacing and my husband, still looking for his glasses, grabbed me by the shoulders and planted a firm kiss on my mouth.  "There," he said.  "Now you can go relax while I try to get out the door."

"I love you," I say sweetly.

"I love you too," he replies with a quiet close of the door.

We all have our little quirks, don't we?  What are your biggest stupid fears?

Copyright 2011 Liam's Grandma

Makeup is ON

Yes, I have my makeup on....Please also watch the video below this one because it's all about life and life with Liam.  Thanks!  And THANK GOD FOR MAKEUP.

 

Variety is the Spice of Life

In keeping with my "Variety Show," here's a video I just made yesterday after some fun in the sun with my grandson and his mama.  Heat stroke?  Maybe.  Just plain crazy?  Most likely.  Delusions of grandeur?  Most definitely. 

 

Dancing With Dad - Part I

My dad turned 80 last year.  On January 25, 2010.  And I had a plan for a story about him because, well, my dad is one of the most important people in my life.  But, just as I was writing the story about my dad, talking about the celebration of his 80th year, I was struck with a tragedy that involved one of the other most important men in my life:  my son... and dad's story slipped away....

Regardless of the time and effort it took to bring my son back to some sort of normalcy, my dad was, and has, always remained at the forefront of my life.

There was a wedding album of my parents...but, sadly, that album somehow got lost when my mom was moving from one place to another.  But images from those photos remain embedded in my mind - dad and mom, leaving the Church, heads bent as rice was thrown, and I, as I youngster, seeing my dad in those pictures; I actually thought someone was choking Dad by throwing rice down his throat.  As a child, I sat, cross-legged on the floor, crying because of what I perceived to be my dad being attacked by a heavy woman flinging rice at him.  I hated and loved that picture at the same time...because my handsome dad looked so young and so happy with a beautiful bride on his arm and, yet, some woman with a weird cap on her head was causing him to choke.

Anyway, back to my Dad...I missed posting about dad's 80th, and now, he is 81.

My dad and his wife, Jean, have had a rough year.  The kind of year when, the daughter of a man whose child adores him, will wake during the night and lay quietly, saying prayers for her dad and his wife.  Where memories will wash over me and it's only in the comfort of those childhood memories that sleep is allowed to take over again.

Last year, I thought about the story I'd started about my dad...the story of our dancing days together.  What I didn't realize, until I came back to this post to continue it, is that life is an incredible dance.  One in which we start out by learning easy steps, just as a small girl stands on her father's feet while he slowly waltzes her around the room, and then the harder steps are learned, sometimes painfully, sometimes with grace.

Dad and I began life's dance together over 50 years ago and while, like any kind of dance, there were times we danced alone or out of rhythm, there were also times we danced in each other's arms, spinning, twirling, laughing and hooting.

During my childhood, my dad was the light of my life.  I remember, at around age 3, descending the stairs, holding my mom's hand and hearing my dad singing, "Here she comes....Miss America," making me feel like I was the most important little girl in the world (I am on the left with the Barbie doll; my sister is on the right with no hair). 

As I grew older, dad made my birthdays and Christmases important.  I remember the Christmas that dad gave me my first clock.  I was about 6 or 7, and I blinked at it when my mom told me that this was a special gift from my father - no one else, just from Dad.  The clock's face had a rose on it, and it glowed in the dark, and, for me, that gift said, you are growing up, and I fell in love with my father once again.  I kept that clock for years and years and even when it was ill and time to retire, I took it to a clockmaker and got it going again.  Finally, the old clock gave out and I kept it, as one would keep a loved one in an urn, for years afterward. 

I was a shy girl.  Always shy.  Teachers called on me in class and I sat there, seeing stars, trying to form my lips to say the words and, before I could get to it, the teacher would pick someone else.  I did, truly, want to respond.  I knew the answer!  Years later, after high school, I slowly came out of my shell.  Now my dad says I talk too much.  I know he's kidding...well...hm...Dad?

In 1978, my dad and I signed up for disco dance lessons.  The lessons, I must admit, were more for me than my dad.  My dad had an innate dancing ability - it just came naturally to him.  Every step, every twist, every move, dad could do.  I never really got it.  I always tried to lead, despite dad's encouragement to follow him.  I had no idea what I was doing.  To this day, I struggle, unless, like one who stutters, I am alone and at ease with myself and then, only then, can I swing my hips and move my body with the grace of a swan as it paddles and sways naturally to the current of the water.  Still, Dad has always guided me in my love for dance.  One day, I'll show you my dance moves via video.  When I am all alone.  Yes, I can move.  But I must be all alone with me and the camera.  Because the camera can't speak.  The camera can't judge.  It is nothing and something all at the same time.

Not long before I turned 19, I worked at the clothing store, The Limited, and, let me tell you, back then, they had clothes TO DIE FOR.   Why do things have to change so?  The clothes were fabulous - indescribable.  Anyway, there was a long white winter cashmere coat that, despite my 30% discount at the time, the coat was, for me, unaffordable.  I knew I couldn't buy the coat.  There was only one - in my size 3.  I told my parents about it and the WOE it brought to me that I could not get it.  I simply could not afford that coat.  It was, well, EXTREME.  FABULOUS.  CASHMERE.  WHITE.  LONG. BEAUTIFUL.

One night, on the eve of my 19th birthday, as I sat at the kitchen table, legs drawn up to my chin, talking to my parents, my dad walked to our coat closet.  He opened the door and pulled THE COAT from the closet, twirled around, smiled and said, "TA DA!!!"

I leapt from the chair and grabbed my dad by the neck in a huge embrace and said, "For me???"  And he responded, amongst his and mom's giggles, "For you!"  Mom insisted it was from Dad.

In October 1980, my parents divorced.  I was torn between two people.  One who needed me as his sounding board, someone to talk to, someone to reassure him that he would be OK, and another who needed me to love her, to tell her she'd also be OK.  It was a rough time because I was torn between two people who I loved more than my own life.  But Mom, Dad, Pat, John and I made it through that difficult time, all of us, despite the newly splintered family.

STAY TUNED FOR PART II OF DANCING WITH DAD:  A MEMOIR OF SORTS THAT I AM WRITING FOR MY DAD.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Copyright 2011 Liams Grandma