Passing It On

Bryce with his Great Grands!

Granma with her 3 grandsons (my 3 sons)

There are volumes written about a girl and her mother: some poetic and serene, and some not.  Sometimes "Mommy, Dearest" is tongue in cheek and sometimes spoken with reverence.  As you might have noticed, I have no idea how a daughter would say those words when referring to me.  I'm eternally short on XX chromosome offspring to fill in that blank.  But my inflection when referring to my mother would be: my mother is the dearest soul I know.

I've learned a lot of things from her over the years:  how to make angel food cake (I still leave that to her - sometimes an expert cannot be equaled).  She taught me the love of water, being a fish herself.  She taught me to sew - and my sewing machine ranks up there on the list of things to save in case of fire.  She didn't exactly teach me the love of family - it just spilled over from the person she is.  There were five us of kids.  It is only in recent years that it occurred to me that I might not be her favorite - and that, not because anything changed, but because I realize all three of my sons are my favorite.  I think she probably has five favorites. Secretly, I'm sure she lists me first, though.

More to the point of this blog, though, she taught me to be a Granma.  She taught me to plop on the floor to be on the level with a toddler's imagination.  She taught me that Play-Doh is not something to be feared, but, rather an art medium capable of reaching the stars (even if it does get ground into the carpet).  Mom taught me that anything that could be thrown away should first be used ten ways from Sunday, only making its way to the town dump in new and creative forms, if then.    She taught me the joy of baking, or at least the fun in eating something loving hands have produced - even if everyone else should be warned of the pending peril of grandlove saliva.  I love to make cookies with my grands.  Eating them is always more the adventure. 

Great Granma and Aidan

A couple of years ago, we were taking picture at a family reunion.  I asked Bryce if he wanted a picture with Granma and Grampa.  His response, without missing a beat, was, "Yes, this Granma and Grampa," pointing to my parents.  How can you be upset about that?  Jealous, maybe, but not upset.

My mother is the pied piper of grands.  She lures then in with an I-Pad and plenty of games for all levels of fun.  Or she reads them books with multiple voices bringing the pages to life.  Or she might pull out pipe cleaners, or glitter, or toilet paper tubes - AND her imagination - which is contagious.  I speak from decades of experience.  She might move more slowly than yesteryear, but with every ounce of love and attention lavished on the mini-ones as always - maybe more. 

I am Granma.  And I think I do a pretty good job of it.  But my mom is Great Granma.  And she is - great and awesome!  Thank you for the lessons!  Thank you for being the best of examples.  I measure whatever success I might achieve against the yardstick of you, Mom.  I love you, Karen Packard - now and always!

Forty and Holding

I remember quite distinctly when I was thirty-something and someone asked me how old I would be if I didn't know how old I was.  I was raising 3 boys of my own at the time and I felt like the world (or my corner of it) rested on my shoulders.  My immediate answer was "40".  That, my friends, was depressing.  It was also the epitome of an exaggerated sense of self-importance.  Obviously, I took myself WAY to seriously at thirty-something.

Bryce Then

Tyler Now

Tyler Then

Bryce Now

So, now, I'm older and wiser - haha - or pretending to be.  My answer to the same question - two decades later - is still the same.  Thirty-seven plus years of marriage, 3 sons, 5 grandboys and 3 grandgirles - I'm still 40, right?  Just say, "yes," and everyone will have a nice Valentine's Day...

For the novelty of it all, I changed the wallpaper on my computer to randomly scroll through my pictures folder (seeming non-sequitur, I know).  It continues to amuse me every time I sit down at my computer.  Sometimes I actually sit and watch the changing pictures just to see what will come up next.  What can I say?  Frequently it is more entertaining than what is on TV.

Aidan Then

Aidan Now

While watching my own private picture show, I often find myself melting:  oh, I remember that! or Which kid is that? or I want to kiss those cheeks!  Somewhere the years have melted, as well, grandboys moving from flower child to pokeball fanatic - from rock hound to super turtle - from chubby-cheeked cherub to devil-may-care independence - from would-be-scholar to junior-GQ.  And with all those changes, all those loving moments, all those kisses and tears and sighs of exasperation, isn't it remarkable that I haven't aged even a day?  Well, OK.  Maybe I'll admit to 41 now, but only if I'm feigning honesty.  I just enjoy living in my own fantasy land with these grandboys.

Josiah Then

Josiah Now

BTW, Aidan guessed I was 67 the other day.  I don't hold it against him - mostly...  I might have threatened him with an early bedtime, though, if he didn't take it back...

Can You Hear Me Now?

I, like many of you, grew up with tethered phones.  Short of a tornado that took your whole house, you never lost your phone.  You also didn't leave messages for people, because unless you were calling a doctor who paid a service to answer their phones after hours, there was no voice mail.  When we dialed the phone, we actually dialed the phone.  How many millennials use that term without the slightest idea that originally it was a literal description?  And, oh, if you wanted to know who was on the other end of a ringing phone, you had to pick up the receiver and ask.  BTW, if someone was actually away from the house, say living life or something, the phone went unanswered.  How did we get by in those dark ages?

I'm not really pining after those bygone days, but there was something kind of nice about not being instantly available to anyone and everyone.  Of course, if you ask my kids, they will tell you that I am really bad at keeping my phone on my person.  The rebellion of mid-century, middle child...

I am blessed to live within 20 minutes of all of my grandboys and girlies, meaning I don't have to spend a lot of time talking to them on the phone.  This is probably a really good thing, for reasons that aren't necessarily 21st century.

Under the best of circumstances, toddler speak can be difficult to interpret.  Frequently, the conversation is easiest to follow while chasing after the wee one to see what he sees.  At least it gives you context and a fighting chance to follow his unique stream of consciousness and foreign sounding phrases.  Even when you are two feet from him, he's too much a busy body to actually sit still, face you and speak.  This multi-directional speak is exacerbated with a phone that never moves in sync with the miniature among us.

Additionally, as it was a lifetime ago, it is still difficult to hear when a child shakes his head.  Of course, there is Facetime, which my lovely grandgirlie, Bella, employed first thing in the morning on my recent birthday.  What a sweet, sweet start to my day.  She might not agree, as she got to see me still in my jammies, hair and makeup still on my "to do" list.  And that little picture in the upper corner that shows me how I look to the other person mocks me!  Why can I never hold the phone so my nose doesn't fill the screen?  Most of the time I rather like my nose - except when Apple gets a hold of it...

The other day, Josiah and Elijah were fighting over the "phone."  Granma to the rescue - I found an additional phone not currently in use.  Yep, they were both calculators.  At least I didn't have to worry about them buying an unauthorized app...

The best part about the phones of today is that grandones are the best teachers.  All too often I hear myself saying, "Hey, how did you do that?"  With a shrug that says 'she's old - I'll have pity,' they let me in on Apple's best kept secrets.

Just reaching out to touch someone.  Now THAT dates me!

Ignored!

It happened again, as it does with some regularity.  The family gathered for food and bedlam at increasing decibels.  Here is the funny thing about decibels:  they increase, one child to the next, each vying for attention, until - Mom or Dad or another adult figure ups the ante on the loudness scale and demands silence (parental oxymoron: yelling for silence).  The adult safety valve was released, but long before the echos died away, the noise returned.  Someday when I am deaf, I will smile contently at the din I can no longer hear.  I just enjoy the gathering!

Last weekend's event was to celebrate birthdays of Bryce's and mine.  That made me a special guest - well, I'm always special, right?  But there was a consensus on that day, and I expected to revel in it.

Walking in the front door, the town crier opened the basement door and bellowed, "Granma's here!"  Five munchkins, all under the age of eight bounced off the various subterranean walls and responded.  "Granma!!!!"  The thundering herd came up the stairs laughing and talking.  Elijah voice, carried above them all - not that he was the loudest, but his toddler voice continually repeated my name.  I love that kid!  I got hugs and kisses and happy birthdays and requests for piggy back rides.  Piggy back turned into piggy pile when I made the mistake of sitting on the floor.  I love all those kids!

Shortly thereafter, this Granma was rescued by a voice telling those under five feet tall to take it downstairs until dinner.  Not yet having shrunk in stature enough to be banished to the basement, I remained upstairs for adult conversation.  Elijah, feigning height he does not actually possess, remained upstairs, still spouting my name every other sentence or so.  Love, love, love!

Dinner arrived along with the diminutive noise makers.  Here things turned left:  Uncle Corey became the human equivalent of a jungle gym.  Uncle Colin participated in his share to monkey business, too.  Granma watched.  Eventually the miniature were herded back down to their lair.  Aside from a call to cake, where the cake garnered more attention than this birthday celebrant, midgets were only sighted periodically, usually bringing words like "he took my..." or "he won't let me..."

As the evening wound down, I thought maybe I had lost my Granma-ly touch (though my sanity was blissfully in tact) as I put on jacket on to leave.  Then was heard an announcement aimed downward from the top of the steps:  "Granma's leaving!"  And right on cue, the the masses fell up the stairs pushing and shoving and giggling.  I was swept up on a chorus of "I love you" and "happy birthday", sloppy kisses and hurdled hugs.  So much love!  It was indeed my special day afterall.

Oh, and glad I didn't have to pick up the basement.  I can only imagine...

Just How Old do You have to Be?

We all know how quickly Saturday and Sunday disappear - in a single blink!  Conversely, Monday thru Friday can last an eternity.  I have my own personal galloping hours - the ones between "oh good the blog is done for another week" and "why do I wait until Monday night to write the next one."  Generally I at least have something simmering in the back of my brain for Monday night to chew on and spit out.  Alas, this week I find myself following the Yellow Pages slogan - for those of you who are old enough to remember the Yellow Pages that came in book form - I'm letting my fingers do the walking.  Of course, I'm not perusing those colorful pages, but rather, wandering across my keyboard.

Meandering #1:  I love seeing the shock on people's faces when I tell them I have eight grandbabies.  Invariably you can see the mental math cogs turning.  Thanks to good genetics and a great hairstylist, I don't necessarily look old enough enjoy the love of so many a couple of generations descended.  It also helps that I got married at 19 and had my babies at 20, 21 and 24.  I am now reaping the benefits of having been young and foolish - and lived to tell.

Meandering #2:  Having eight grandbabies is, in fact, keeping me young!  They teach me how to use my iPhone, including how to play Crossy Roads.  They take me on roller coasters, or perhaps we just egg each other onto them.  They get me to sit on the floor and help them turn somersaults, or lay on my back and hoist them up on my legs to fly.  They want me to teach them how to whistle (Does anyone have advice on that?  It's a very hard concept to explain.)  They also keep me foolish, thinking I can actually join them in their fort or fit through a tunnel or climb on the playground equipment.  I'm a fool in love and happily so!

Meandering #3:  As seen on Facebook, "Children need at least one person in their life who thinks the sun rises and sets on them, someone who delights in their existence and loves them unconditionally." -(credit Pam Leo).  How true is that!  And I am that person, eight times over!

So to sum up the meanderings:  I can, with barely any provocation, be a fool.  I'm actually quite good at it.  And people tell me all the time that I can't possibly be a Granma, but I am.  The secret is that I am a child, too, and I have not one but eight persons who delight in me almost as much as I delight in them, assuming that is even possible.  And I know they love me unconditionally, because even when I haven't secured enough advanced critters in Crossy Roads, they still let me play.

I love being a "young" old.  I love being Granma!

At the Zoo

With a generous word assist from Paul Simon
And photo assist from Ken Harris
(Those Granmas and Grampas among you can sing along to this blog!)

Someone told me

It's all happening at the zoo

I do believe it

I do believe it's true

 The monkeys stand for honesty
(when they aren't photo bombing)

Giraffes are insincere
(and downright rude!)

And the elephants are kindly
but they're dumb

Ourang-outangs are skeptical

Of changes in their cages
(but oh, so cute!!!)

And the zookeeper is very fond of rum
(no, actually, margaritas)

What a gas

Ya gotta come and see

At the zoo

More fun than a barrel full of Bella!

Please don't feed the animals!

Beware escapes!

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!

Food For Thought - and other purposes

Even if I haven't mentioned it lately, surely you have already assumed I have children of my own - three sons, as a matter of fact.  Over three decades ago, they were born in rather quick succession:  Colin, then Corey 50 weeks later, and then Court two and a half years after that.  Looking back at my first 5 or 6 years of motherhood, I see some specific image snapshots in my head punctuated by long periods of blur.  I'm sure those unfocused images were my head snapping around like Linda Blair in a vain attempt to corral my precious little boys blue.  Perhaps the best part of being a Granma is that even without my requisite glasses, the blur is gone.  I just get to enjoy every minute when I am with the grandboys and then hand them back to their parents.  But I digress.

I remember doling out cookies to anxious angelic faces and filling their cups and bottles with milk.  There was a second refrigerator in the garage that held extra gallons (plural) of milk in an attempt to avoid the grocery store more than once a week.  Some of those afore mentioned non-blur moments were running out of milk and having to take three sets of chubby reaching hands to the grocery store to restock.  Be assured, when the milk that was spilled in our house was the only milk in the house, there was every reason for tears - my tears.  Groceries with three pre-schoolers was worse than herding cats - herding octopi, maybe.

Whenever possible, I would tuck three little boys into their beds, kiss their father goodbye and head to the grocery store BY MYSELF.  To this day, the fruit aisle is my happy place; I automatically slow down and breathe deeply.  Even the canned music punctuated by advertisements and announcements is relaxing while walking down the those hallowed halls without continually counting (and wiping) noses.

So last month when Christine asked me to watch three little boys while she went grocery shopping, I jumped at the opportunity - not just to spend time with three sets of grandboy arms perfect for hugging, but also to give my daughter-in-law the opportunity to slow down and smell the oranges.  The day, however, developed into a longer trip than expected.  In order to keep the blog space to a minimum, let's just say that the shopping trip that started at 1 pm didn't conclude until almost 5:30.  Sometimes, though on fault of your own, life calls for a clean up in aisle 12 at unexpected times.

I only tell you this story because it was probably my all time favorite grocery trip - EVER!  Not only did I get extended playtime with three loves of my life, but I got to read the entire My First Hard Book Of series. I am now well versed in colors, shapes, numbers, the alphabet, words around the house and vehicles.  We also built with Duplos, sang the ABCs and played hide and go seek.  OK, some of the smells were not as "fresh" as the fruit aisle, but that was to be expected.

And in the end, I was presented with these (see picture):

Christine, you didn't have to, but thank you!  It was my absolute pleasure!

Be

Send in the Clowns

You know the thing that's best about grandboys?  Their style masquerades as slovenly, silly or out-right ridiculous.   Their clothes match their rooms match their pre-bath coloring matches the ring left around the tub.  But make no mistake, they know exactly what they are doing.  And they are out to revolutionize the world.

Little girls wear headbands until they graduate to barrettes and then rubber bands.  Little boys disappear when a comb is present.  Little girls use napkins.  Boys use their sleeves - IF it occurs to them to use anything at all.  Little girls pick shoes for their outfit.  Little boys don't wear "outfits" or shoes if they can get away with it.

Boys have their own sense of fashion: jeans, sweat pants, t-shirts, Dad's t-shirts (especially to bed).  Moms of boys do not change outfits on their progeny in the middle of the day - unless there is excessive ketchup, mud or bodily fluids making it a necessity.  Even then, she must corner the giggling gamester to achieve her objective.

Moms must work their way into the automatic acceptance of boyhood chaos and calamity.  Granmas, especially if they raised boys themselves, not only come by it naturally, but like to join the parade.

My Granma (2 sons, 5 grandboys, lots of greats and great-greats!):

My Mom (3 sons, 6 grandboys, 6 greatboys to date):

Me (3 sons, 5 grandboys): 

Yep, yep!  We love a circus!