Liam's Grandma or Maggie in Real Life

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

Say What You Need to Say

I had been planning to write a post about my Dad's 80th birthday.  I even started it and then, tragedy struck.  I will get back to Dad soon, but I have to mention my beautiful son, Christopher.

On February 1, Christopher was brutally beaten by a bunch of thugs out to cause some violence by sinking their fists into my son's beautiful face.  I will never understand such violence and, quite frankly, I never want to.   

When I got the call from the hospital at 1:30 pm, all the staffer would tell me was that my son had been badly beaten and that I needed to get to the hospital to sign for surgery.  "How bad is he?" I asked.  "I don't know, ma'am."  "Is he conscious?"  She didn't know.  "Does he have brain damage?"  "I don't know."  "Can you tell me anything?"  "He had a CT scan that showed no bleeding into the brain."  "Then there is no brain damage?"  "I don't know."  "Will he survive?"  She didn't know.  After each question, I took deep breaths and blew out loudly, trying to stop the room from spinning.  "I'm on my way...."

I ran to the living room window and scanned the neighborhood.  Mondays are busy days in my neighborhood.  Most of my friends are working.  But John.  John's car was in the driveway so I picked up the phone and called him.  When he answered in his cheery voice, I frantically explained, again between exhaling huge breaths, what happened and that I needed him to come to my house to watch Liam for me.  Pronto.   He obliged and, as I raced around, blurting out instructions and throwing a pile of diapers at his feet and a big container of wipes, Liam woke  from his nap.

I climbed the stairs, breathing deeply, and quickly changed back into "Nimmy."  Ever-loving, happy, cheery, calm, ready-to-play Nimmy.  Liam and I came downstairs and chatted with John for awhile as I gently continued showing John where Liam's things were.  Liam clung to me like a baby koala bear, not loosening his grip until he felt certain that Nimmy and John had one goal:  to play with Liam.  During this time, my mind raced wildly, with me still not knowing what the circumstances were, and knowing I had to get to the hospital.  In less than 10 minutes, Nimmy was able to don her coat, and slowly, quietly, slip out the front door.

Christopher was born on a lovely October evening, 1981.  The evening before his birth, his dad and I prepared for bed.  Christopher was accustomed to his father talking to him, through/at his mother's belly, offering advice and words of love throughout the pregnancy.  That night, Druck said, "Listen, you.  I'm ready to see you.  And I don't want to go to work tomorrow.  So come on out of there.  Tonight!"  And he did - or at least he began the journey into the world that evening.  At 3:30 the following morning, I awoke with harsh pains and cramping not unlike the severe cramping I had during my endometriosis-plagued cycle.  I began to get up to head to the bathroom for a pad when I stopped at the edge of the bed and said, "Wait a minute."  I looked down at my swollen belly and realized what was going on.

I sat in bed for about 15 minutes, looking down at my sleeping husband, while the contractions came about every 5-6 minutes.  Finally, I tapped him on the head and, when he sleepily opened one eye, said, "I think I'm having our baby..."

Now, over 28 years later, as I drove to the hospital for something much less pleasant, thoughts of my child swam through my mind.  I spoke to God and said, "No.  No.  He has to be ok.  No.  You cannot take him yet." 

When I arrived at Detroit Receiving Hospital, I raced through the halls, frantically following signs until I got to the information desk.  When I got to ICU, there was one nurse in the room.  I ran to the edge of my son's bed and began spewing questions as I scanned his face for some familiarity beneath the badly beaten visage before me.  His lips were swollen three times their size and both eyes were blackened and swollen shut.  Dried blood encrusted his broken nose and I saw that he was on a ventilator.  The nurse did not know any answers to my questions.  She had just come on duty and hadn't yet looked at his chart.  I asked her to go and get someone who could answer my questions as I flung my coat into a chair and gripped the rails of the bed.  She asked me if I'd like some water and I said YES.  AFTER YOU CALL SOMEONE TO TELL ME WHAT IS GOING ON.  PLEASE.

Christopher is like a sleeper movie.  A 4-D drama/comedy/romance with incredible twists and turns accompanied by beautiful scenery, brilliant colors, and eloquent language.  In many of these movies that we call life, people get married, have children and raise them.  Most kids are just kids.  But Christopher was not simply a cookie cutter kid who went to school, played sports and did his homework.  The movie just kept getting better and better.  From an early age, he possessed a perception and depth that takes some people years to gain, if ever.  And his love was, and is, bigger than life itself. 

In ICU, as machines beeped monotonously, my eyes darted from my son's face to the doctors and back.  And back again.  Finally, I had some answers.  Orbitol fractures, fractured jaw, nose fractures, multiple facial fractures.  No brain damage.  No cervical spine damage.  No internal organ damage.  He would live.   Now, finally, I could collapse into the chair and wait for my husband to arrive who was speeding to the hospital from New York and was, at the time I contacted him, still two hours away.

He was always a quiet kid, but one who knew what he wanted.  During family gatherings, he'd politely engage with the adults and played hard like a kid, but was never out of control.  Never whined about what he didn't have.  He knew his parents worked hard - his mom worked full-time, managing a Boston law firm, rushing home each day to gather up her children from after-school care, bring them home, talk to them about their day, prepare dinner, and help with homework afterward; and his dad who was working even harder, completing his postdoctoral fellowship through Harvard's Department of Genetics and Massachusetts General Hospital, trying to fit in time to provide his children with some semblance of normalcy through the rigorous demands that life required at the time.  

When my husband arrived, I had to go downstairs to allow him up.  Only two in ICU at a time, and Christopher's fiancee' was holding steadfast vigil that would take an army to pull her away.  I stepped off the elevator and saw Druck pacing.  I motioned harshly with my hand for him to come and he hastened to my side.  I saw the tears in his eyes as his face screamed a kind of pain that was only saved for the worst possible things in life.  "He's OK," I said, calmly.  "He's going to live.  He has no brain damage.  But he doesn't look so good.  Go on up."  Druck nodded in acquiescence, raced to the elevators, and was gone.

Growing up and even now, Christopher has always respected his friends and family and would never speak harshly to them or about them; he is devoted, loyal and trustworthy. 

One day, after playing at his friend, Ben's, house, having taken his baseball card collection with him to trade with Ben and another friend, he came home - quiet, but clearly distraught.  I studied my son for awhile as I sat in the living room chair, asking him about his time at Ben's.  He avoided eye contact and was quieter than usual.  Finally, I said, "Bub, what's wrong.  Something is wrong."  My dear, sweet 10 year old flung himself into my lap and sobbed uncontrollably.  Ben and the other boy had taken some of his cards forcibly, and there had been a tussle.  Christopher didn't fight back.  In this instance, my son respected the friendship more than fighting over some cards and took their cruelty like one wiser than his years, got what cards of his he could, promptly left, and walked home.  He demanded that I not call Ben's mother and I didn't.  I knew he didn't want to suffer the ramifications any child wishes to avoid when their mother calls someone else's mother.  But I swore to myself that if it happened again, Ben would be receiving a phone call from my husband.

As any parent can attest, until you are a parent, you just don't get it.  Becoming a parent changes your entire life.  You take better care of yourself.  You make sure the doors are locked.  You get excited about poop.  You get excited about potty training.  You are brought to a new level in life where you remember how beautiful the simplest of things are: patiently watching a bug crawl across the pavement and hurrying it along with a poke of your finger, or re-learning what the color "sienna" or "periwinkle" is.  Giggling at the tickle of a leaf across your skin, or racing to see the luminescence of a brilliant moon on a summer's evening all bring back a lost naivete and interest in the world that only a child can bring alive again.

 Two days after the incident, Christopher's nurse was tending to him and talking to me and Christopher's fiancee, asking if we were able to piece anything together.  But Christopher hadn't really yet been able to speak.  I said, "Whatever happened, I don't think he fought back.  Maybe he was unable.  Look at his hands and his fingernails.  There are no marks," I said.  And, suddenly, he spoke.  A whisper, but he spoke.  "I...didn't...fight....back."  Emily and I rushed to his side and leaned in.  "Sweetheart?" I said.  "Do you remember anything?" 

"I ... didn't fight back."  Eventually he relayed that there were too many of them.  He just focused on protecting his head.  Christopher didn't fight back.  He knew better.  He focused on self-preservation before fighting a bunch of thugs and took the brutal beating, knowing there was no way he could get away and focused only on survival. 

Driving to the hospital that day, I wondered if I had done everything I possibly could, said everything I needed to say to my son during his life, in the event I might, indeed, lose him.  While we all have regrets in life and there are things we might have done differently, I felt comfortable in knowing that every phone call with both of my children is always ended with an "I love you," and my regular text messages emphasizing my love for each of them were received and acknowledged with a return, "I love you too."  

Touching and hugging and looking into those beautiful brown eyes had been a way of life for over 28 years.  I knew that if I lost him, I hadn't failed at telling him how much I loved him and how much he meant to me.

 The first day after his surgery, my husband had already arrived at the hospital.  I walked into the room and my son was sitting in a chair, his head cocked to the side, studying me through a small slit in his right eye.  The other eye had not yet opened.  I sat in the chair beside him and he watched me, tried to read me, waiting to see if his mother's face would show him that it was going to be OK.  I reached over and gently stroked his arm and his hand and said, "It's going to be OK."  Tears rolled out of each corner of his eyes and I knew my son needed to hear that.   

Thankfully, Christopher is on the mend.  Prayer is powerful and he is recovering quicker than expected, thanks also to the fact that he works out almost daily and eats right.  And love is powerful.  Hope is powerful.  Still, these character tests come in and out of our lives now and then, perhaps as a reality check.  And so, I ask you today, have you told a loved one, "I love you?" Have you not let too much time lapse in between hugs and the look that says, "you mean everything to me?"  Don't let it go too long.  Because they are so worth it.  So worth the time, the effort, the look, the touch, the note in the lunch bag or on the kitchen table, the special dessert, the smile and, yes, even the tears.

Say what you need to say.

Copyright 2010 liamsgrandma

Happy Thanksgiving

I know.  I haven't written much lately.  I've been suffering from some major anxiety that wakes me up at 3 am and keeps me there until about 20 minutes before I'm supposed to get up.  Then, having fallen into a nice comfy sleep, I reawaken an hour late, jump out of bed screaming, ripping my pajamas off and flinging them onto Druck's head as I make a rush for the bathroom.  I swear that man is a saint.  Doesn't know what hit him until he pulls my blue puffy cloud flannel jammies from his right ear.  And then he remembers.  He's married to me. 

This morning I awoke at 3:45, heart pounding and feeling sick.  Mostly sick because I ate a huge bowl of lentil soup, a bowl of tossed salad and two bowls of ice cream right before bed.  That's not usually the norm (eating right before bed), so don't email me and tell me that's why I'm waking up at all hours of the night in a panic.  I know most of why I'm in a panic. 

Today's panic probably had something to do with the networking meeting I have at 7 am (which I have to leave for in about 5 minutes and I have no idea where my shoes are), the packing up of the car, the arrival of my daughter and grandson at 10:30.  The appointment I have at noon, the wishful hoping that whatever Liam gets presented for lunch, he will eat so that we can then get in the car and GO. 

Heading to New York.  Hubby is already there.  Son will be holding down the fort (please, God, please...sigh) and having dinner with his girlfriend's family. 

To all, I wish you a wonderful Thanksgiving filled with love, warmth, laughter, joy, peace and no anxiety.

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma

KID TESTED.....AND FAILED

A few days ago, I was going through things that I should have sorted through long ago because, at this point, my son's old closet is piled to the ceiling with boxes, trashbags filled with everything but real trash (although that is debatable), and clothes.  Many of these things are filled with stuff that no one has any idea what to do with. For example:  I uncovered the following items in the last box I opened:  one old sneaker (without laces), an empty matchbook, a lacy red bra (Son, we need to have a talk), a very long leather shoelace, several gum wrappers, a variety of paperback books, plastic bags, an old spiral notebook and, for lack of a better word, the only adjective I can come up with is "interesting" when I mention the photographs (Son?  We need to talk).

Of all of the items in the box, the one that interested me the most was the spiral notebook because it was one that I had used over the years to communicate things to my kids (and vice versa) when we were running at the speed of light to soccer games, work, school, etc.  Some notes in particular caught my attention.

My note:

Do homework, unload dishwasher, vacuum living room and dining room.  Do NOT leave the house before this is done.

The response note:

Mom, I couldn't do my homework because I left my books in my locker by mistake.  So I had to go to Nicole's to use her books and do homework there.  Also, her mom sprained her ankle and needs help with housework. 

Observations:  (1)  How does one leave their books and homework in their locker BY MISTAKE?  I mean, you obviously had them in your possession and had to access the locker and physically put the books in there.  (2)  Nicole's mom sprained her ankle?  I remember one incident when I was in bed with food poisoning and all I got was, "I need a ride to so and so's.  Do you have money for a cab if you can't take me?  I'm hungry.  Are you going to be better by dinner time?  I can't ride my bike.  It's too far.  What's for dinner?"

My note:

Reminder:  You are grounded.  Do not leave this house.  If you are not here when I get home, there will be consequences.

The response note:

Mom, Nicole's boyfriend broke up with her and she is really depressed.  I had to go be with her.  I love you!

Observations:  (1)  Child?  Nicole's boyfriend was the boyfriend she stole from you and you had wished she'd die.  (2) You're going to be even more depressed than Nicole when I catch up with you.  Because you are now grounded until your 82nd birthday.

Over the  years, there are a few things I have learned as a parent.  Like making notes of all calls that come in (thanks to the very useful caller ID).  I'm serious - take down every single number that comes to the house.  If your child has a cell phone, wait until they are sound asleep at night.  Then sneak their phone from them and go through their directory of numbers. 

I used to keep a separate address book with all of the kids' cell and home numbers (yes, I even got home numbers on occasion when someone was grounded and the cell phone was taken from them and SHRIEK! they had to call from their home phone). 

On rare occasions, when kids are being sneaky, they block their number, so be alert and get those numbers when no one is grounded, no one is trying to sneak out at 3 am, etc.  They will come in handy later when you get up at 4 am and glance in your kid's room and see that instead of a human on the bed, there is a football with a pom pom for hair and a bunch of pillows hastily wadded together under the covers.  I mean, really, do you think I would believe your hair would go from dark brown to fuschia in a matter of hours?  Or that your skin color would tan 15 shades darker?  Well, ok, maybe that isn't so far fetched, but again, being aware is half the battle.  Having those phone numbers when you're in the car at 4:30, driving around from house to house, helps.

And my favorite note from my son (when he was a young naive 15 year old):

Mom, I went to Matt's house for the night because his parents are out of town and they didn't want him here by himself.  I will call you later.

My response:

I waited until 10 pm and called Matt's house.  No answer.  At 10:30 pm, my son called. 

Me:  Where are you? (Note:  Caller ID was blocked).

Son:  I'm at Matt's house.

Me:  OK, well let me call you right back.

Son:  Why?

Me:  I'll call you right back.  (Hang up - call Matt's house.  His mother answers sounding very sleepy).

Me:  Matt's mom?  This is Chip's mom.  Is he there?

Matt's Mom:  No.  I thought he was at your house with Matt. 

Me:  Uh, no.  Chip is supposed to be at your house because you are allegedly away for the weekend and he is keeping Matt company tonight.

Mom:  Interesting.  That's what they told me about your house.

Needless to say, when a nervous Chip called five minutes later from the party he was at, I told him in my fully possessed Linda Blair voice, "I'm coming for you.  NOW.  And Matt's mom is coming for him.  And while you're waiting for us, you can think about how much better it will be for you when you start telling the truth.  After you've been grounded and relegated to litter box duty for the next 8 months."

Did it work?  Sometimes.  But the important thing about being a parent is to remain vigilant.  No matter that you occasionally only get 3 hours of sleep on a Friday night (and not because you're the parent of an infant).  No matter that you get a police officer knocking on your car window because you're staking out a house, reviewing in your mind when and how you're going to make your approach and drag your kid out of there.  By the way, the police officer?  He was a good assist that night, the party was broken up and I was only accused of being a narc by 12 angry kids to which I replied, "What 'til next weekend!" 

As an aside, what kind of crazy parents leave for the weekend trusting that their teenage kids aren't going to throw a party that usually gets out of control, things get stolen, fights break out, etc.  It is a rare teenager who can be trusted in such a way and to those parents I say, how'd you get so lucky?

Thankfully, I haven't had to pull out my Linda Blair voice in quite awhile.  But my kids are in their 20s now.  Not that that matters.  It was not two weeks ago when I left a note to please, if you are here in my house, eating food, dirtying dishes, clean up after yourself and, put your dishes in the dishwasher.  The note I got in return said, "Mom, sorry, I was in a hurry.  And the dishes in the dishwasher were clean so I couldn't put my dirty dishes in there."  I stared out the window for a moment, shook my head and took myself out to dinner.

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma

Drums Along the Mohawk

A couple of weeks ago, Catherine took Liam to get his haircut.  He, at eighteen months of age, came home with a mohawk.  When he walked in the door, my heart sank.  And then I reminded myself that I need to learn to "pick my battles."  Like the battle of whether or not he should wear shoes to the playground on a rainy day when it's 45 degrees outside (never mind it's RAINING out and who goes to a playground when it's raining anyway).  Or the battle of whether or not it is a good idea for him to have a lollipop as an appetizer before dinner.  Or whether or not it's ok to LEAVE HIM IN A RUNNING CAR WHILE SHE RUNS BACK INSIDE TO GET A FEW THINGS.

Realizing all of this, I said what any other grandmother would say in choosing her battles.  "Welcome to White Trash, USA."  To which she replied, "All the mothers at the mall who saw it said, 'Look at the baby with the mohawk!'" 

"And you think that was a compliment?" 

"Of course.  Liam is a trendsetter." 

"Mohawks went out in the 70s," I say.  "I think he's a little late on blazing that trail."

I try to keep my apparent neuroses in check when it comes to this darling child.  But, possibly because my husband and I had Liam with us for a couple of months on our own, and possibly because both Liam and Catherine lived with us for quite awhile, it deepens the bond and the desire for all good things for both of them.  Druck and I can't plead ignorance, because we see them almost everyday.

My brother put it succinctly: Wait until she gets him a tattoo.  To which I replied, "Oh God."

What this relationship has borne in me is a huge fascination for genetics.  Because, if you were to throw me around and knock me senseless for awhile and then introduce me to this woman who is allegedly my daughter, I'd say, "And you have twelve eyes, none of which are used for seeing."  I have spent a little time thinking back to the day of her birth and a few days following, wondering if she was switched with my real child - the one who is like me:  the one who never talked back, did all of her homework, went to catechism every Saturday morning, and slept with but SHRIEK! one man, and that man being SHRIEK! her husband.  But, no, Catherine must be mine.  She has some of my quirks.  She looks strikingly like my brother in his younger years.  She has her father's feet.  And, while she has the mouth of that truck driver I passed on I-94 a few weeks back, I acknowledge that she quite possibly gets that from my mother (a rare occurrence with mom but when it happened, hoo boy...).  Aside from all of those familial characteristics, I have often told myself that she can't be mine.  Truth of the matter is, she is mine.  And I love her deeply. 

Over the years, she has challenged me in every way possible and I am certain that, within the next week or so, she will come up with a new one for me - one that I will be blindsided with and will not be prepared for in any way, shape or form.  Sometimes I feel like I am fighting a demon, trying to outwit, outsmart and outmaneuver her before she gets the best of me.  But Catherine does, indeed, present some form of demonhood that is not her fault.  She suffers from a personality disorder that she (and we) must learn to work with and try to acclimate to because it seems to change like a bad virus from one year - or month or day or hour - to the next. 

I have hope that I can set aside the little battles, like the mohawk, and the questions about what are my thoughts on using Baby Tylenol as a mood stabilizer, etc.  Regular and loving instruction for the things that really matter is what counts.  And, by the way?  I won the Baby Tylenol battle (at least I truly think I did). 

I am grateful to see my daughter and grandson everyday so that I can erode those demons, face them head on and fight them with her, always trying to keep her (and Liam) on a safe path.  In the end, mostly what it is about is patience.  And, always, it is about love.  And, at the very least, it is not about a mohawk.  Because mohawks grow out and no one died from playing in the rain or from prefacing dinner with a lollipop.  There are bigger fish to fry in this saga called Life.

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma

Letter to my Friend

I have a friend whose identity may remain nameless.  I am not sure yet about this, and will decide by the time I reach the end of this post whether to partially identify her. 

"Gloria" and I have known each other the better part of 30 years and, through that time, our friendship has grown.  It has grown into a relationship rooted deeply in love, trust and understanding, the likes of which I can only compare to my marriage with my husband.  Except that Gloria is a woman (as am I) and we have no romantic feelings towards each other because, sheesh, people, we're straight as an arrow.  But what I think of when I think of our friendship is the kind of relationship that used to be cultivated some 200 years ago between two women who took afternoon tea together, talked about their lives, mended clothing together, sat by the fire with their families and told stories for the children to hear. And, when they weren't together, they would write letters.  Beautiful, detailed letters.  It is a relationship lead by respect and admiration.

Gloria and I met in late 1979 when my husband and I first began dating and he introduced us.  She told me that when she met me she thought that I was the most beautiful woman she'd ever seen.  I still blush over this because I can't see it in me one bit.  But she does.    

Druck and I married in 1981 and she and Hank married in 1982.  Our lives went along as we drove through the years, sharing in each other's victories and deep disappointments.  We'd confide in each other about our marriages, trade advice on issues related to our children and support each other through PMS and, later, through menopause. 

When Hank and Gloria went through a trial separation, which Gloria supported while Hank took some time to "find himself," she and I waded through the torments of such a separation from the one she loved.  When she could barely walk through this emotional time period, she came with her daughter to visit us while we were living in Boston.  We spent numerous nights sitting on the stoop of our front porch together, she crying, me, with my hand on her back, patting gently and never forgetting her loud cry, "What if he never comes back?" I assured her that regardless of what happened, she would never be alone.  I knew it wasn't the same as having a marriage, but I knew that we would never allow her to feel alone.

When Hank didn't return, after Gloria found out he was having an affair rather than just needing some time to think, we rallied around her.  Her two brothers spent many a night on the phone plotting Hank's demise, or at least turning him into a bloody pulp, which never happened, but it felt good for them to plan it out.  Her father refused to speak Hank's name for some 12 years after that, but relented and put on a good face when Gloria's daughter graduated from high school, and even made amends with Hank.  It made me realize that separation and divorce doesn't effect just one or two people (namely a wife and daughter), but it tears down and scars an entire family. 

Gloria has been my rock through my own difficulties in dealing with issues related to my childrens' struggles and through helping in the upbringing of our grandson.  We make certain to talk every single day whether it's via the phone, text messaging, email, Facebook (or all of the above some days).  Seems that she has just the right advice for me when I need it and I have it for her.  Sometimes, when we are at a loss, we just listen.  And the other knows that just having that person listen, without judging, is better than all the chocolate in the world or living the life of a celebrity.

Gloria knows that I am a person who goes down various avenues when I am lamenting life or even when I'm just telling a funny story.  She is patient with me.  Like when I go off on tangents:  "And then I said, 'Why did you do that?' because, as you know, when I am talking to him about that, he goes off into some emotional place and shuts the door and, by the way, at the same time I was asking him that, the phone was ringing and the cat had just vomited up a hairball, so you can imagine my mental state at the time...."  Never does she say, "Hurry up," or "You already said that," or "Just get to the point," or "Too much information!!!"  I embrace that and am grateful for it every single time we talk.  Because, hell, I KNOW when I'm going off on a tangent but, for me, that additional information is important to me.  I know it probably doesn't add much, if anything, but she respects that it is important.

I have often told her that I do not know what I would do without her.  And she says the same thing and then we start to get all weepy on the phone or sitting across the room from each other and she yells, "STOP!  We're not going there!" 

She keeps a journal that she leaves open on the table in her living room and anyone is welcome to read and write in the journal.  Often, sitting together on the couch on a cold winter evening, fire burning in her fireplace, we have pulled out some of the journals.  And we have laughed hysterically over the humor that exists among the people in this little group who love each other, and we have cried over memories of stories and writings of and by people who have left this world too soon. 

I cannot express my gratitude enough for this woman coming into my life.  And now, yes, I suppose I have revealed her, and even moreso when I say that one of the most poignant thoughts of her has to do with my telling her that I thank God everyday for bringing my husband into my life because he was the pathway to her.  My eternal friend.  My confidante.  The other half of who I am.  My female soul mate who I will cherish like a gift, a treasure, a beaming sun.  My sister-in-law.  Who always has time for me.  Thank you for being in my life.  Thank you for accepting me, despite my various neuroses and being the "female Woody Allen" as your other brother so succinctly put it many years ago.  You accept all of me, good or bad, and I realize now that when I married your brother almost 30 years ago that you came with the package.  I had no idea what kind of bonus I was getting.  Like winning the million bucks on Wheel of Fortune, or catching the Leprechaun and getting the pot of gold, or opening the dictionary, looking up love, and finding your name in there as part of the definition. 

I love you, "Gloria!" And, by the way, YOU, dear friend, are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma