Hop, Skip and a Jump

Christopher Robin with brother Bruce and me. Circa 1964

Some things, they say, skip a generation.  Twins are an often sited example of that phenomenon.  That being the case, I don't expect to live to see my great, great grandtwins, so I'll just have to continue to enjoy the little girlies now!  What an odd thought that someday they might play with grandtwins of their own...

In my family, quilting skipped two generations.  Neither my mother nor my grandmothers were quilters, but my great grandmother was!  I have a couple of her quilts and I cherish them.  I hope the next generation of quilters in the family will still look on them with love and honor for a woman they never met (I never met her either).  And, not so secretly, I hope it won't skip a generation.  I would love to see the birth of a quilter in my lifetime.  Time will tell.

Other things skip a generation, all within one lifetime.  I think that is the joy of being Granma - happily skipping back past parenting to being a kid again.  Some might call that jumping back, or even reverting.  Be that as it may, I did and then I didn't and now I do again.  And if a generation is 20 years (more or less), then mathematically, I did indeed skip a generation within my own lifetime.

For example, I have fond memories of playing London Bridges and Ring Around the Rosy on the playground with my friends.  When you got caught in the "take the key and lock them up" phase, you might be tossed around like a towel in a washing machine - and there is no place you would rather be!  I don't specifically remember singing those action songs with my sons.  However, I love the recent memory of playing them with my grandboys (no girlies present at that time).  I made a pretty good bridge, holding hands with a five-year old.  We caught and shook up a couple other grandboys, with giggles all around.  Fortunately, no pictures exist of my turn to be caught by the bridge of four and five year old extended and interlocked fingers!  And my knees thanked me for carpeting.  We won't even talk about Ring Around the Rosy, except to say that the ground is a lot further down than it used to be.  And the up is further yet, especially after a couple of dizzy rounds.

Of course, some of the very best stuff doesn't skip a generation: bedtime stories and ice cream snacking (not necessarily in that order), soccer games and t-ball, sillies and snuggles.  That is awesome stuff that no generation should miss out on.  But whether it's really skipping a generation or just hopping back, there is nothing liking sharing a world of discovery with little eyes and hands and hearts.  Much love to my fellow adventurers.

Raising Babies

I was a matronly 19 when I got married.  Eighteen months later (just for the record) but still just 20, I became someones Mommy.  Ditto at 21.  My third son, though didn't come along until I was 24 - almost ancient!  In oh, so many ways, I was a baby raising babies.  Having lived through it (and having no idea what it would be like to have babies at thirty-something), I have to admit that young and dumb has its advantages.

We couldn't afford an baby monitor, but then, we were blissfully unaware that we might need one.  Our baby boys rode in car seats - until about age two.  The laws were different then, and again, our ignorance kept us blissful.  BTW, car seats stayed in the car.  They did not disconnect for carrying; we just carried the baby.  Trust me, baby blues squirmed a lot, but at least they weren't as heavy without all that extra armor.

I remember going back to my 10 year high school reunion.  While everyone showed off baby pictures, my kiddos' pictures showed them with backpacks, hiking off to school.  Many of those same friends are just starting round two (or hoping to start round two), while I enjoy 8 grandbabies.

And enjoy, I do!  I love being young enough to sit on the floor, the base of a pyramid of grands.  There is nothing like having minis all want to sit on your lap, and not recognizing turns - or a full lap.  There's always room for one more, right?  (For the record - no, not always.)  I enjoy piggy back rides, being the designated piggy, notwithstanding.  I can't wait to see the latest hot wheels or book or game or animated video.  I want (stopping just barely short of demand) hugs and kisses from all assembled under 5' tall - all at once if possible!  I'm ok with closing the front door by falling against it in a fit of youthful exuberance.  I'm glad I get to be one of the exuberant, even while being over-run with it.

I have learned a few lessons along the way, and feel it only fair to pass along the wisdom.  First, when making cookies with more than one grandlove, have everything premeasured.  It minimizes the I-want-to-help mess, and it keeps you closer to the mixer's on-off switch (a definiate plus).  Second, it's ok to say "no" when necessary, just don't expect anyone to listen (at least it rarely works for me).  And finally, the only time better than showing up to the aforementioned stampede at the front door, is the reverse several hours later.  This Granma is not a total fool!  I love the comfort and quiet of my own bedroom.

Yep, I'm Granma - my great reward for withstanding their fathers as teenagers.  Life is good.  In fact, life is excellent!  That's what being in love will do!

Christmas Recap

Naomi enjoying second breakfast

Christmas preparations take months!  All the planning and buying and wrapping and baking and, and, and...  and then it's over in the blink of an eye.  In truth, Christmas Day in the Harris household was one LONG blink that started abound 9 am and ended 10 hours later.

We started with stockings and Butter Braids - gooey sugary goodness wrapped around a cinnamon center.  Yum!  We moved on to gifts.  I can't give you a list of items received. My vision was hampered by flying wrapping paper. But I did see smiles all around.

Joyfully Josiah

Next came dishes for some of us, games for others and then a feeble attempt at gingerbread houses. Granma was losing steam by then. Somewhere in the afternoon there were several rounds of naps: by the very youngest and by several of the parents. The eldest of us relied on caffeine to prepare the next round if eating.  There was a salad assist (thank you, Corey) and potatoes mashing (thank you, Colin).  Dinner arrived more or less as scheduled and as planned.  One salad spent a lonely Christmas, forgotten in the basement frig. The dishwasher, on the other hand,

did not get a holiday, either the mechanical or the human variety.

We ended the day with the most beautiful dessert ever, courtesy of Christine.  And it tasted better than it looked. Bella loved the rum sauce; she was allowed an entire thimbleful.  It was quite rummy!

The best way to sum up the day came from Elijah aka Zeke aka Nugget (he answers to them all). With perfect 2 year old diction he intoned, "Ho, ho, ho!  Mer-wee Crit-with!!!"  And it was, sweet one!  It absolutely was.

Nuggets of wisdom - Mer-wee Crit-with!

The Best Quilt EVER

I'm a quilter.  Actually I cut up and pieced fabric back together for several year before I felt worthy of that title.  Now it's just part of my DNA.  I look at art and wonder how to represent it with fabric.  I see a sunset and consider how to combine fabrics to obtain that effect.  I've never succeeded at that - God has me beat every time.

I have made so many quilts for the ones that I love that I fear they are smiling through gritted teeth and wondering what to do with yet another.  I feel their pain (not really) and I try to hold myself back (unsuccessfully).  It's just one of the quirky hallmarks of being me, and I'm really not apologizing for it, either.

My quilting room, which doubles as my office and workout room and playroom for the grands, has the requisite tools of the trade: sewing machine, a yard or two (thousand) of fabric, scissors, pins, etc.  But there are also the common but less expected quilting tools: tape measure, compass (of the geometric variety), a carpenter's square, and pink Styrofoam insulation.

The Styrofoam board is meant to be used as a design wall - for arranging and re-arranging blocks before they are sewn together to get just the right balance of color, design, placement.  Whatever it takes to "make the heart sing" (credit to Connie Pomering for the phrase that accurately sums it all up).  Since we moved four years ago, the design wall has been a constantly changing and growing collection of my favorite quilt EVER.  It started with Bryce's painted handwork in the upper left hand corner.  Tyler's art is slightly covered by dancing snowmen, courtesy of Bella and Aidan.  There are rainbows and flowers and monster-somethings of the friendly sort.  Notes of love and even a favorite photo of me with a baby grandgirlie wearing a sweater that I first wore decades ago round out the blocks.

Perhaps it would be possible to represent these precious works of art in a quilt, but just as God does the best sunsets, grandboys and girlies do their art best!  If any of them becomes world renowned artists, and even if they don't, I'll always say I knew them when - and their early works are their best.  They make my heart sing!

What I Learned from a Mouse

Two years ago, I went to Disney World for the very first time - EVER!  I never really understood the hype.  In truth, my head probably still doesn't understand - but my heart does!!!  It was a best friend/daughter affair.  Being short on the daughter, I came along as best friend.  Merry and I have many stories that we would be happy to share, though not on Granma time.

You might notice from the picture that I am the shortest one in the group - meaning I met the five foot-something designation to join the frivolity.  I assure you, the vertically challenged were EVERYWHERE, except attached to our hands.  That is the way to discover the Wonderful World of Disney - height restriction strictly enforced!  I would, however, like to take my grandboys there - one at a time and only once they meet the aforementioned requirement.  Bryce is first up!  Maybe next year?!

At any rate, a mouse named Mickey invited me on an extensive tour of his home, which was incredibility hospitable of him.  He provided fireworks every night and shopping opportunities every 3.7 feet.  He even offered to schlep our purchases back to our hotel.  What an accommodating whiskered quadruped - and I'm not all that fond of rodents as a rule.  Mickey is an exception.

Last weekend was Bella's birthday party.  Bella has no aversions to rodents - or reptiles, for that matter, though that is a blog for another time.  There is the princess now!  I realize the picture is blurry, but I'm sure you will understand why shortly.  Knowing that Florida in June might be on the warm and humid side, Bella decided to party with a different mouse - named Charles - his friends call him Chuck.

Mr. Cheese, as I shall call him is a very distant relative to Mickey.  There are some similarities:  whiskers, ears, and tail.  Shopping opportunities abound every 1.9 feet, but you may only shop with specific currency that must be acquired from specially designed ATM machines that eat green paper and spit out gold coins. Grandboys never tire of THAT trick.

Being a rather brave (read: fool-hardy) Granma, I volunteered to bring Aidan and Josiah to the festivities.  They loved the gold coins and caught on quickly enough what to do with them.  They wanted to explore each and every coin slot - one to the left and the other to the right.  Granma was in the middle looking a bit like Elasta-Girl, or a failed version of said superhero.

 I consider myself a pretty quick learner.  And long before we exited the house of Mr. Charles "Chuck" E. Cheese, I had acquired several valuable pieces of information.  Granmas do not want to be friends with all 7' tall rodents.  Mr. Cheese's residence also has a height requirement, that being UNDER five foot tall.  Regardless of how much I shrink over time, I will always lay claim to my tallest, leaving me ineligible for a return visit.  That last sentence makes this Granma smile just thinking about it!

There is only one thing that will EVER get me back to the house of Mr. Cheese.  And that is: another birthday party for a grandboy or grandgirlie.  And I am extremely grateful that those don't roll around on a weekly basis.

Happy Birthday, Bella.  May number 6 be an awesome year for you!

I Want to Hold Your Hand

Newborn baby fingers and toes, eyelashes and nose.  My first two sons were born 11 1/2 months apart - Irish twins.  One of my most vivid memories of Corey's birth is when Colin was brought to the hospital to meet his brother.  How did he grow so much in so few hours?  I know babies grow fast - I know it more now than I did then - but he went from my baby to my "big boy."  It is still the most amazing overnight transformation I've ever witnessed.

Years later when grandboy number one was born, I couldn't wait for my first opportunity to study ten perfect fingers equaled by ten wiggly toes.  I wrapped five of those little fingers around one of mine.  And he hung on tight,  It's a baby reflex, I guess.  But I hung on, too, with a Granma reflex of my own.

It doesn't take long, though just a little longer than overnight, before that same little boy learned to say, "no" and "I do it."  I said, "come" and he headed, fingers and toes, in the opposite direction.  Ah, toddler.  Hand holding gets further and further apart, and sometimes carries more of an air of punishment than appreciation - at least for the mini man I attempt to corral.

Now at 9 years of age and approaching 5' tall, Bryce is no longer a midget.  Somewhere around this age, little boys become squirrels.  If you ask for a hug, he will either run the other direction screaming or launch himself into you like a Chicago Bear linebacker.  There is no in between.  I know from experience that this squirrelliness will last for several years.  Rather than holding a hand, the little rodent will swing his arm at you, just barely missing - if his aim is good.  Or giving love "taps" if it isn't.

On a walk home from the park the other day, Bryce was testing his aim with mixed results.  At one point, I grabbed at his arm and came up with his hand.  To my surprise, it was half a block before he pulled his hand away to scratch his nose.  I was thrilled with the time I got, and would never have dared to hope for more.  But nose itch alleviated, his hand slipped back into mine as we continued down the sidewalk.

Newborn fingers are a marvel, indeed, precious beyond belief.  But holding hands with a squirrel - now that is the stuff of Granma dreams!

One for the Thumb

I grew up with three brother and a sister.  My dad was a minister in the years when they were moved every three or four years.  Many times those many siblings were my sole companions as we adjusted to a new address and before we established new outside friendships.

I always thought that five kids was a pretty good number.  Even when you were on the short side of as-evenly-split-as-five-can-be, you still weren't alone.  If it ever got to four on one, you knew it was time to give up the battle - you were hopelessly outnumbered.

When the five us get together, we still tell the same stories over and over and over again:  clam chowder (gross and disgusting and makes us laugh EVERY time), apple cider (oops, forgot to include the word "vinegar" in that drink offer - sorry, Dean), snow tunnels (after Dean's concussion we had to cave them in - grrrr - maybe he deserved the "apple cider").  If you have siblings, you know I could keep going.  We keep adding new tales, but the old ones are best, and apparently bear repeating.  We crack ourselves up!

So the happy Granma news is there are more babies on the way!  Yes, plural!  Court and Christine, of Aidan, Josiah and Elijah fame are adding to their family - with TWINS!!!  There will be five under five in that household!  I can't wait!  Of course, I get to love them up and send them home, which could have some distinct advantages at 2:00 AM.  And there is a possibility, scant as we all believe it to be, that there will be a grandGIRL!  At least there is a 50/50 chance - twice!  Does that equal 100%?  Might need to check my math on that one.

So the other day my mother was commenting that she wasn't sure how Court and Christine would manage:  five is a lot of kids!  Yeah, I know, Mom, I'm one of five, too!  Hmmmm, does that mean she has forgotten or that she remembers?

I love you, Mom!

Rock a bye Baby

Is there anything better than a wee one nestled in your arms, snuggled down and drinking a bottle of nutrition in a vivid shade of white?  Peach fuzz over drooping eyelids topping a full belly - so peaceful, so innocent, so blessed!  A little burp complete with a bit of a tip for the server - also in white liquid form.  The stuff of a perfect day - or 30 minutes minimum.

The other night I babysat for grandboys three - another one of those perfect day (or when Momma and Daddy return - whichever comes first).  Elijah at six months gave me some of those perfect minutes of baby snuggling, albeit with 2 and 3 year old brothers vying for attention the whole time.  It is possible to cuddle and discuss Thomas the train and referee pillow sharing all at the same time.  It helps, of course, when you are cuddling a number three child.  He has never really understood undivided attention so doesn't miss it or demand its implementation.

So after Elijah, now safe from the threat of an up-close vision of Thomas, opted for a visit from the sandman, my odds improved.  Never one to leave dead air wanting, Aidan was engaging me in an active but one-sided conversation about Legos.  Josiah, almost two, was topping off his own nighttime reserves and nearing the end of the contents, which makes for more difficult wandering owing to the angle of the bottle.  Being a little shy on the Grandma cuddling scale, I picked him up and rocked him, kissing toddler curls for good measure.  As he finished his bottle, older brother Aidan ran to get his sippy cup and announced that he, too, wanted to be rocked like a baby.  Does my heart good - though my back wasn't as sure.

Just a couple of weeks earlier, I had been dining in a fast food establishment with Tyler (4) and Bryce.  As luck would have it, "House of the Rising Sun" was playing in the background as Tyler, meal complete, sat on my lap.  It's not quite Rock-a-bye-baby, but it will do, so I rocked a momentarily non-squirmy little boy as I sang about a house in New Orleans.  We were both smiling, though I didn't get a good look at the guests at the next table.  My apologies to them...  The song ended and squirmy returned as anticipated.

Unexpectedly, though, a certain nine-year-old brother had a request, "Rock me, Granma.  Sing to me."  So there, in Culvers, my original grandboy sat on my lap, my arms wrapped around him, as neighboring guests heard me sing about that Southern house at sun rise.  The background music was not keeping time or key or wording with me.  But Bryce and I swayed and smiled and went back to our roots, sans bottle.

There is nothing better than a grandboy nestled in my arms.  No matter how old that grandboy gets, he's still my baby.  And so far, he still knows it.  Love and cuddles to all my grandboys!

The Shape of Things

As every parent knows, in the event of a minor scrape or fall, Band-Aids heal almost as fast as kisses.  I have a theory about that: Band-Aids hold in the kiss so the love can heal the wound.  Mind you, this theory only applies to scrapes of the non-oozing variety.  In the case of more serious injury, kisses must be applied to alternate locations, and they (both the love and the sterile adhesives) must be applied more frequently.

Band-aids also make quite the fashion statement.  Just try telling a toddler that you are out of Sponge Bob as you stick him with Elmo instead.  That will require quite the sales job, I assure you!  One year I bought Band-Aids for everyone’s stockings.  Bacon was my favorite, though I never saw them actually aiding in any healing process.  Hmmmmm

Aidan arrived late last summer (still shorts weather) with harrowing stories of injuries, and a badge of honor on his knee to prove it.  A “circle band-aid,” as he pointed out, which was probably the perfect size to hold in a kiss or two, and doing its job quite well.  There was no sign of limp or wince of pain to be seen.  Five minutes later, I picked up a spent circle from the floor, and went about other granma-ly duties.

Five minutes after that, it appears that the kisses wore off as well.  Suddenly the pain returned to that grandboy’s joint.  This is a difficult juncture for parents:  their child didn’t really need a band-aid originally, and they didn’t bring their stock of circular sterile adhesives with them.  However, said three year old was quite taken by the miracle of band-aid love, not feeling completely healed AND is had personal anecdotes espousing the medical effectiveness of a circle.

Seeing the opportunity to come to the rescue, I offer my assistance.  I had also spotted the opportunity to rid myself of a circle band-aid, which come in those assortment boxes and have no practicality for anyone over the age of four.  We walked hand in hand to the medicine cabinet, super Granma and a limping Aidan.

 

Here is where my brilliant plan hits a major snag:  peeling away the protective paper, it is clear that this band-aid is actually square – a shape difference that does not escape little boy eyes.  He objects.  I offer him a rectangle band-aid instead.  He suggests triangle.  Eventually, thankfully, we circle back to square and make it stick.  (Apologies to the reader.  I couldn’t help myself.)

When the little family left an hour later, Aidan was still lamenting the circle, expounding on the square and anticipating a triangle.  I carried him out to the car (not that he couldn’t walk, but all the better to kiss those cheeks) and locked him in his car seat.  Smiles, giggles and waves later, I return to the house – and a small square adhesive patch on the floor in the foyer.

 

I wonder if they keep a supply of triangles at home?

Wrapping up a Birthday

So, did I mention that last Tuesday was Tyler's birthday?  Feel free to check my previous post for a reminder ;-)  We had a family birthday party last Friday night with aunts and uncles and cousins.  You know, one of those "let's gather at Granma & Grampa's and enjoy the cacophony that follows" evenings.  And it was, and we did!

There were the requisite presents and gifts and food and laughter - and a couple tears contributed by cousins (80% of whom are under the age of 5).  At present adults outnumber mini-mes, but they also add to the disharmony that is music to my ears.  What will happen when the scales tip in favor of the youngest generation?  It will be a few years before we know - no triplets in the offing this year anyway.

The star of the birthday bash was a superhero-crazy four year old.  I thought my knowledge of caped crusaders was pretty decent:  Superman, Spidey, the Flash, Batman, He Man, the Hulk...even Wonder Woman and Cat Woman, neither of whom are likely to play a part in this story.  Turns out Marvel Comics has added to the mix: Iron Man, Wolverine and Daredevil, to name a few.

Tyler wears superhero socks and shirts and underwear.  He wears sweatbands on his wrists to emulate Spider Man's web shooting ability.  Always prepared, Tyler carries a weapon:  a shovel, a Marble Works tube, a spoon, a Lego creation.  There is no way that Dr. Doom or Magneto or the Green Goblin will get the drop on my grandson!

One thing Tyler lacked, though, was a superhero cape.   Dum, dum, DUM - Granma to the rescue!  And not wanting any grandboy of mine to feel left out - a made one for each of them!  I couldn't wait for the party and the presentation!  Oh, the best laid plans...

Turns out Tyler wanted nothing to do with the cape, nor did his three year old cousin, Aidan.  Josiah, while compliant with the donning the cape, wandered around saying "off, off".  Bryce, who I feared was too old for such Granma frivolity, was the only one who really LIKED the cape.

So how then did I get a picture of all five grandboys in their capes?  Granmas persevere.
 Granmas coax and cajole.  Granmas are universally loved, respected and obeyed.  Actually, Granmas are not above bribery.

And in the end, I got my picture...

Of Margles and Men

"Granma, let's play margles."  It's just that kind of talk that has me wrapped around his little finger - Tyler's that is.  So we make our way down to the designated area and the bin of Marble Works parts.  These are, in fact, the very same parts and margles that Tyler's father pulled out with anticipation and excitement some 30 years earlier.  Some toys stand the test of time and toddler, the latter being the more rigorous of the challenges.

Marble Works is an interactive toy.  Those young enough to be mesmerized by it are not generally old enough to build the expansive trails and towers needed to hold little boy attention.  After years, no decades, of experience, this Granma can now correctly match up the in's with the out's from bottom to top to ensure the proper margle thrill ride.

The problem comes when a particular bright-eyed child would like one final piece inserted - at the bottom of the raceway.  This feat requires advanced margle engineering AND childhood patience while alterations are in progress.  Do not attempt this maneuver after a short night's sleep, a glass of wine, or with a potentially cranky miniature partner.  It will not go well.

Even once the margles are descending the structure at break-neck speed, interaction is still required.  Number one, what goes up (the tower) tends to come down in a rush of sub-five enthusiasm.  And secondly, expertly constructed towers which take advantage of most if not all the pieces, tend to be taller than their intend purveyor, necessitating a step stool.  Excited grandboys climbing on step stool to deposit margles in the top of the tower tend to try to steady themselves on said tower.  See number one above.

Tyler turns four today.  "Margles" have given way to "marbles," I'm sad to say, though the rest of the challenges remain, at least for a while longer.  Someday the step stool will no longer be necessary.  But even with longer legs and a supply of marbles, this Granma will still be an integral part of the process.  Someone has to mastermind the placement of the final piece, somewhere near the bottom of the stack.

Happy Birthday, Tyler!  I love you!

Stuck in the Middle with You

I'm a middle child.  Actually, I'm THE middle child in my family - two brothers older and a younger brother and sister.  In the central position, we don't tend to be the overachievers of the world - having been born to late in the pecking order for that distinction.  And we aren't the class clowns, either, willing that on to our youngest sibling.  We tend to be reliable and peace makers.  We are the ones that everyone likes, but sometimes we can be forgotten between the bookends of youngest and oldest.  Cue Kermit singing "It's not easy being green."

But there are some really good things about being in the middle.  Our parents have let go of the perfect parenting ideal and not yet given up entirely on holding the monkeys in check.  Our eldest sibling would not have been allowed to feed himself spaghetti.  Our youngest will wear the tomato smile until dinner.  But in the middle, a lunch of spaghetti is much cuter and warrants a picture before the washcloth is applied.

Our eldest sibling puts on a plastic smile when a camera is present.  The youngest turns into a complete goof.  However, when a camera is pointed our direction, we have learned to say "cheese" with great gusto and without prompting.

 Sometimes we have to do things to garner some attention away from the clever eldest and the perpetually pudgy cheeked youngest.  In the middle is the matter-of-fact, I'm-still-here, I'm-adorable, I-don't-have-to-throw-a-temper-tandem-just-to-prove-it, absolutely lovable munchkin.

Thanks, Josiah, for proving my point!  It's a fact: we in the middle are just cute for cuteness' sake! Don't under estimate us!

The Tracks of our Tears

Babies don’t cry for their first few weeks of life.  Well, not with tears, anyway.  They make their desires known, it just doesn't leak out of their eyes – but it will!  Pretty soon, the tears flow when they are hungry or tired or bored or uncomfortable or, especially, when they see their mama dozing off.  They are great little alarm clocks, sans a reliable on/off switch.

Three-year-old’s tears – now that’s some fun stuff!  Huge droplets of water rain from their eyes.  “He took my [fill in the blank].”    “No, that’s his, yours is right here.”  Without a word of thanks or apology, the rivers stop.  I’m convinced that only a three year old can cry in reverse.  As soon as they get their way, the tears actually recede back into the tear ducts for later use.  The definition of “later” is anywhere from 30 seconds to two and a half minutes.  Reclaimed tears will not be denied.  Neither will a three year old.

The tears of a child in run-of-the-mill physical pain are easy tears.  Not easy for the child, of course, but generally they are easily dispelled – a hug, a band-aid, a cookie.  Granma’s are especially good with the latter remedy.  This Granma has had the great fortune of escaping the more serious illness or injury tears.  I may not always be so, but I’ll continue to count that blessing for now.

I have, however, experience the tears of an eight year old boy whose world of play and laughter has been interrupted by a world of hurts of the adult degree.  Those tears burn like acid - down his cheeks and on my shoulder.  Years ago, I learned with tears of my own that I could not save my own sons from hurts of the psychological and emotional kind.  Why did I revert to thinking I could protect the next generation?  

Yet, armed only with my best intentions, my love – and cookies, I’ll keep trying. I won’t tell them that big boys don’t cry.  They do – they all do – either on the outside or the inside.  Granmas may not be superheroes, but we keep putting on the cape.  If the cape’s only use is to dry tears – it’s enough.

Happy Birthday to ME!!!

Today is my birthday!  My mother might disagree, and I'll give her that.  She was, of course, there when I was born.  But then, so was I!  Her memory might be a bit more clear than mine.  Being so new, the whole experience was rather overwhelming to me.  I cried.  Perhaps Mom cried, too.  I never asked.  I am her third child but first daughter.  Maybe she was overwhelmed by the prospect of pink, as I might be - someday.  I digress.

At any rate, she claims that my birthday is not for another two days.  My birth certificate backs her up.  Regardless, today is my ninth birthday, another fact that is inaccurately cataloged on said certificate.  Today is the anniversary of my birth as GRANMA!  (Spell check thinks I don't know how to spell my own name.  It's phonetic.  The "D" isn't silent, it just isn't there.)  I remember this birthday much more accurately - indelibly, even!

Nine years ago today, Bryce Harris made his way into the world and into my heart.  He cried.  So did I.  Gazing on those tiny fingers and toes, kissing his peach-fuzzy head, wondering how such a tiny body could hold such tiny lungs that could filled a whole room...  He was beautiful - perfect - 100% boy - 100% love of my life - my grandboy! (Here, the "D" is not silent.  Spell check still tells me I can't spell.  I already knew that.)  

You will probably find it no surprise that he is still beautiful and as perfect as 100% boy can manage and the love of my life.  As that little-boy-blue-bundle grew, so did I.  Naturally, I already knew my way around a baby, but I had to share this baby.  My opinion wasn't gospel, and sometimes not even welcome.  Sigh.  He cut teeth, and I cut my teeth on him, too.  Metaphorically speaking, of course; Granma's don't bite.  

Once I got used to that slight, umm, slight, I rather like this new life!  Love 'em up and send 'em home. The best of the best!  I get to buy things that have zero practicality just because they are cute or potentially fun and hopefully not too dangerous in the hands of 100% boy.  I get to visit the zoo and the pumpkin patch and school sings again.  They are all more fun this second time around.  I get to swing at the park and climb up the rocket that houses a slide that little ones managed on the up side but fear descent when it's time to return to earth.  Alas, that hasn't changed.  This particular rocket in question is not adult friendly - less so now than it was a quarter of a century ago.  The amazing part is that the rocket is still there, capturing childhood imagination and unsuspecting or overindulgent adults.  I was unsuspecting with my sons and overindulgent with the grandboys.  My nemesis - maybe the worst part of Granma-hood, which should tell you why I insist on celebrating such a special birthday today!

Happy birthday to me!  And happy birthday to Bryce!  I love sharing a birthday with you!