Long-distance grandma = long-distance mom

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Baby Mac is sick. Again. Seems like my youngest grandson has continuously battled bugs of this sort and that ever since he was just a few months old.

This time Baby Mac has an especially nasty bug, of the croup and bronchiolitis sort. Megan called me Tuesday on the drive home from the pediatrician, where Baby Mac and his Mommy had to endure the trauma of Mac's first-ever nebulizer treatment. It was horrific—for both—with Mac screaming from beginning to end.

My poor babies. I imagine it was no fun at all for either. I can only imagine such treachery because as a mother, I never had to do such a thing, never had to administer a breathing treatment for a sick child. In all honesty, my kids were—thankfully!—relatively healthy. Now that Megan's a mom, she realizes that. It's something we've discussed often, as both my grandsons seem to be sick a lot, and Megan thinks there's some magical answer to keeping kids healthy, one she's not yet been privy to.

"Am I just a bad mom?" she pleaded for an answer Tuesday. "What am I supposed to be doing that I'm not?"

Usually when Megan asks that question, my first response—selfish as it may be—is, "You need to move out of that <cuss> desert and back home to the mountains."

Not this time, though. Because Megan was on the verge of tears. Because she was scared. And because she was sitting in the car in the garage having just reached home from the doctor's office and had a sick nine-month-old zonked out in his carseat, exhausted from the traumatic treatment, as well as Bubby sitting quietly beside him, and they all needed to get into the house.

"You're doing everything you're supposed to, Megan," I told her. "You got the baby to the doctor and he's being taken care of. That's what you were supposed to do. There's just a lot of crud going around right now and Mac just keeps getting it, for whatever reason. It's nothing you are doing or not doing."

Jim, who was home for lunch and part of our call, confirmed to Megan that a mom he works with has young kids who are sick far more often than was the norm when our kids were little. It's just the way it is nowadays, he said, for reasons we don't know.

"It'll be okay," I told her. "Just get the kids inside and call me later."

It's exactly such times that the distance from my grandbabies, from my daughter, are the hardest. I couldn't just hop in the car and head over to her place to help her out, to hug my sick grandson or, more importantly, to hug my stressed-out daughter.

The most I could do was text her a few hours later, when I figured things had calmed down a bit: 

Despite the crappy day and a croupy kid, at least my daughter still had her sense of humor. Jamaican or not, Megan is indeed a good mon—just because it sounds so cool.

And perpetually sick kids or not, she is indeed a good mom, too. Just one who needs a hug from her own mom—yet lives too far away to get exactly that.

Today's question:

What are your thoughts on kids being sick more often than they were back in the day—that day being when you were a kid or when your kids were kids?

The Saturday Post: Tap Pups wannabe edition

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In my next life, I want to be a tap dancer.

Actually, forget the next life—I want to learn to tap dance in the second half of this life! And I want to be part of something just like this in order to do that:

Not gonna happen though, as Tap Pups classes take place in a land far, far away. Meaning, Pennsylvania. But, that high-energy, toe-tapping woman does sell videos. So I'm seriously considering buying one...and maybe the portable tap floor, too. (Or I may just ask for both—and tap shoes!—for my next birthday. Take note, Jim...daughters...grandsons.)

Today's question:

Do you tap dance? And whether you do or not, what kind of dancing do you enjoy most?

The golden ticket: Child Hunger Ends Here

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I've been blogging here on Grandma's Briefs for nearly three years. In that time, it's been interesting to go from scrounging for opportunities to review products and services to now getting so many offers that I end up turning down—or ignoring—more than I accept.

While it's cool to have gone from populating the Back Room first with reviews on cleansers and frozen foods to recently getting free clothing and nifty gadgets to try out, the golden ticket for most bloggers—for me—is that elusive offer to become an ambassador for a company, a cause. Ambassadors are handpicked to help promote products and campaigns. They have important duties to perform. They make a difference. And they get nifty badges to decorate their blogs.

Well, folks, I have finally received a golden ticket. And I must say, it is the most golden of golden ticket opportunities because it's for a cause I feel strongly about: child hunger.

I'm honored to announce that I am officially a blogger ambassador for ConAgra Foods’ Child Hunger Ends Here campaign. Now in its third year, ConAgra's Child Hunger Ends Here campaign strives to raise awareness of child hunger in our nation's communities and infuse hope into the fight against it. The campaign goal: Donate five million meals this year to Feeding America, the nation’s largest domestic hunger-relief organization. I look forward to helping ConAgra reach that goal.

With all the cool campaigns and worthy causes out there, why is this one particularly close to my heart? Because as a child for whom making stone soup was not just a story but was at times a reality, child hunger mattered. When dandelions were once pulled from the yard to be cooked and served for dinner because there were no other fruits or vegetables in the house, child hunger mattered. And when one's mother often ate ketchup or mayonnaise sandwiches—nothing but the condiment between two slices of bread—in order to save the nutritious food for her seven kids she'd become single mother to, child hunger mattered.

As a grandmother, child hunger still matters to me. For the second blogiversary of Grandma's Briefs last year, I made a small difference by donating money toward child hunger relief. I now have the opportunity to make an even bigger difference as a blogger ambassador for the Child Hunger Ends Here campaign. Grandmothers are well-known for their penchant for filling the tummies of loved ones, so I consider this my golden grandma opportunity to help fill hungry tummies far beyond just those of my own grandsons.

And there are an overwhelming number of hungry tummies out there. According to the U.S. Department of Agriculture, food insecurity—the inability to access enough food to live active, healthy lives—affects more than 16 million children in the United States. I find that heartbreaking on so many levels. Here is just one story:

 

My job as ambassador is to raise awareness of the Child Hunger Ends Here campaign. Over the next few months, I'll be posting campaign news and notes. This is just the beginning; I hope you'll follow along with me through to the end.

Easy ways you can help:

Visit www.ChildHungerEndsHere.com to download original versions of the campaign's original song, Here's Hope, written by Hunter Hayes, Luke Laird and Barry Dean with three versions recorded individually by Jewel, Owl City and Jay Sean. While there, enjoy exclusive content from each artist and support the campaign goal of donating five million meals to Feeding America.

  • To participate, purchase specially marked packages of select ConAgra Foods brands (see list below), then visit www.ChildHungerEndsHere.com to enter the eight-digit code.
  • For each code entered, the equivalent of one meal—up to three million meals*—will be donated to Feeding America and one version of “Here’s Hope” can be downloaded.
  • Codes (from packages specially marked with the red push pin) can be redeemed through August 2012.
  • In addition to downloads and access to cool content, you can also submit your zip code to enter your local Feeding America food bank into a competition for an 80,000-meal donation. At the end of the campaign, ten food banks in the zip codes with the most entries receive the donation courtesy of ConAgra Foods.

ConAgra Foods brands participating in Child Hunger Ends Here include:

  • Banquet
  • Chef Boyardee
  • Healthy Choice
  • Hunt’s
  • Marie Callendar’s
  • Manwich
  • Orville Redenbacher
  • Peter Pan
  • Snack Pack

*Enter the 8-digit code and a monetary donation will be made to help provide one meal through Feeding America's network of food banks, up to a maximum of 3 million meals for codes entered through 8/31/12. Valid in U.S. only. $1 donated = 8 meals secured by Feeding America on behalf of local food banks.

And there's more: You can also participate in Child Hunger Ends Here discussions on Facebook at www.facebook.com/ConAgraFoods. Plus, tweet along on Twitter by following www.twitter.com/ConAgraFoods and using the #ChildHunger hashtag.

Disclosure: I have been compensated for my participation in the Child Hunger Ends Here campaign and all posts, tweets and updates related to the campaign. That said, anecdotes and opinions are my own and not influenced by anyone.

Photo replay: Standing guard

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Luke and Kameliah stand guard while their mama, Andrea, recuperates from her tonsillectomy.

February 24, 2012

 

Shameless self-promotion: If you liked this post—or Grandma's Briefs in general—please vote for Grandma's Briefs in the About.com Favorite Grandparent Blog poll. Vote once per day per email address through March 21. Thank you!

Today's (unrelated) question:

What's the highlight of your upcoming week?

The healing power of positive thinking...and puppies

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Those of you who follow Grandma's Briefs on Facebook and Twitter know that I've been on nurse duty for my youngest daughter, Andrea, who had her tonsils out this week. At 26 years old. Which had her mama—that would be me—pretty concerned.

The surgery went well, and I think much of that can be attributed to Andrea's positive attitude going in.

I've heard distressing stats on how long it takes adults to recover from tonsillectomies, ranging from two weeks of intense pain (and hunger) to it taking three full months to get back on one's feet. Again, I think (and hope) Andrea's positive attitude will make for the best possible outcome.

Despite moments of debilitating pain and frustration immediately following the surgery, Andrea's sense of humor continues to carry her through. To wit: When the nurse summoned Andie's roommate and me from the waiting area to see Andrea in the recovery room, the nurse said Andrea's first words were, "No grape popsicles!" All Andie and a reference to her concerns medical staff would immediately provide purple pops afterward. Seems purple popsicles and the vomiting that accompanied them is Andrea's only memory from her only other surgery, getting tubes in her ears, more than 20 years ago. Her roommate and I couldn't help but laugh (yes, out loud!) as we followed the nurse to Andrea's bedside.

Another example of Andrea's goofiness and how it's helping her deal with the pain is her novel approach to communicating in the first excruciating hours after surgery when talking was virtually impossible. She started off with pen and paper to relay her requests—and, at times, distress—but that soon proved too cumbersome and Andrea turned to her iPhone, typing all she wanted to say into the Notes application then having her text read by the computerized voice...which involved not only a monotone voice—except when a typed question mark meant text was read with a lilting tone at the end of requests—but numerous awkward and incorrect pronunciations of words. Which got Andrea giggling despite the pain. Which made her repeat the humorous text again and again. Typing song lyrics got her roommate and me giggling as well.

That's not to say it's been easy on Andrea. At all. She's in pain, she's hungry, she's worried about coughing and choking and vomiting, and concerned the recuperation might not go as quickly and smoothly as we all hope. When mustering her own comic relief doesn't come easy, though, puppy love steps in, courtesy of Luke (Andrea's dog) and Lennox (her roommate's dog).

With a cute quotient so high, how could these adorable kiddos not make her feel better?

I head home today, leaving Andrea under the care of her roommate—and the pain relieving power of puppies.

I have no doubt she'll be better in no time.

Shameless self-promotion: If you liked this post—or Grandma's Briefs in general—please vote for Grandma's Briefs in the About.com Favorite Grandparent Blog poll. Vote once per day per email address through March 21. Thank you!

Today's question:

When you don't feel well, what one thing never fails to help you feel better?

The Saturday Post: Just-a-Little-Heart-Attack edition

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On the plane ride home Thursday night, a relatively young woman seated behind me was telling her seatmate, a stranger, about having recently survived a heart attack.

When my plane landed and I turned on my phone to text Jim that I'd arrived, my e-mail automatically downloaded to my phone, and one was an e-mail from Jim's brother-in-law requesting prayers for Jim's sister, who had gone to the hospital because of heart pains.

Then, yesterday morning I received an e-mail from Klout that I had earned a special "perk"—a director's cut of a video starring and directed by Emmy-nominated Elizabeth Banks, made for the American Heart Association's Go Red for Women movement.

I'm not incredibly superstitious, but I think three's a sign...that I'm supposed to share this with the women in my life:

For more information about women and heart disease—which, as mentioned in the video, kills more women than all forms of cancer combined—visit GoRedForWomen.org.

Have a heart-happy day!

Today's question:

How has heart disease affected you or the women in your family?

Drink up

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Yesterday I told you about my addiction to books. I've always considered myself relatively free from addiction except for that one little vice.

Then Megan called to ask what I'd like her to stock up the house with for my desert visit, and I realized I do indeed have another addiction. My reply was that the only things I need—really truly need while she and Preston are away and I'm babysitting my grandsons—are internet access and coffee. She meant food items but I'll eat whatever she has on hand; no picky grandma am I. What I wanted her to have on hand (and hooked up in her new house) is internet access, I emphasized, and lots and lots of coffee.

I don't consider internet access an addiction; I need it for my job...and to pop in here to see how you all are doing when Bubby and Baby Mac allow for that. The other part of my request to Megan, though, made it clear that coffee is an addiction. I really did say "I need lots and lots of coffee." And I really did mean it. I do need coffee.

Yes, I need coffee. I love coffee. I'm addicted to coffee. Which is why I like this video and want to share it with you. Even if you're not a coffee addict drinker, I think you'll find it interesting.

Drink up! I certainly am (although only until noon as any coffee after that time would require another addiction—to sleeping pills come bedtime).

Today's question:

How many cups of coffee do you drink a day? And what's your favorite blend/roast/brand?

If you're unhappy and you know it clap your hands—or get a kangaroo?

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I understand depression. I've been there, been on meds for that. And I have several folks near and dear to me who survive each day only because of the coping chemicals they've been prescribed, the antidepressants they rely on. It's a serious issue and this post is not meant to make light of that. At all.

That being said, though, I don't think owning a kangaroo is the answer to depression. Or if it is, I want one of my own for giggles and kicks (har har). Or maybe a wild animal of another sort, a koala or a panda—heck, maybe even an elephant—instead.

Seems a woman in Oklahoma swears by the depression-easing effects of her pet kangaroo. I'm not talking a stuffed Roo but a real, live (albeit partially paralyzed) romping, stomping marsupial. Well maybe not so romping and stomping considering his paralysis but the fact remains she has a freakin' kangaroo she swears keeps her happy.

According to several stories from the Associated Press last week, Christie Carr was encouraged by her therapist to volunteer at a local animal sanctuary to help ease her depression. Which is where she came to know and love Irwin, a kangaroo named after animal expert Steve Irwin. Seems Irwin crashed into a fence, suffering brain damage and becoming partially paralyzed, and kind-hearted Carr convinced the sanctuary folks to let her take home injured Irwin to care for him.

Care for him she did...and does. Carr dresses the one-year-old red kangaroo in little boy's clothing, feeds him meals of salad and snacks of Cheez-Its and Cheetos, and keeps him with her always, everywhere, including the grocery store. Carr feels so strongly about Irwin that she's willing to run from the law to continue keeping her comical kangaroo by her side.

When officials in her hometown began to question what will happen once Irwin is healed from his crash and becomes a potential public safety issue, Carr took offense and took to the road. More than once. When questions first arose, Carr packed up Irwin and headed to live with her parents, saying she no longer felt Irwin was safe from possibly nefarious officials. Then, when the heat was turned up in her parents' town, Carr set out for another town, one where Carr hopes to stay with a friend—with Irwin, too—until things are sussed out.

Irwin the kangaroo may have helped with Carr's depression, but I dare say her obsession with him has sent her racing full throttle into Looneyville.

There's hope for a happy ending, though, at least for Irwin and possibly for Carr. Irwin will surely eventually recover from his injuries and paralysis. At such time I imagine he'll let it be known he's grown tired of the little boy jeans with a hole cut for his tail, the diapers Carr keeps on him, the carseat he's made to sit in while on the road—or on the run—with his captor protector. How will Irwin express his distaste? With big, powerful kicks, I have no doubt, as all self-respecting kangaroos are wont to do. And maybe, just maybe, he'll kick some sense into the wacky woman who helped heal him and she'll reluctantly agree to set him free. Or at least return him to the sanctuary where their silly story began.

I certainly don't know the depths of Carr's depression, but there's no doubt her judgement is clearly clouded, for how could any rational person possibly think a kangaroo makes for a good therapy pet? Wouldn't it make more sense to get a cuddly kittent or an ever-adoring Labrador to ease the pain and isolation of the disease? I'd think either would be a more acceptable choice, providing purpose and affection yet requiring no running from the law. They'd require no kangaroo-size diaper changes, either—a huge plus, if you ask me. (Even just the idea of having to deal with that would be enough to totally depress me in the first place, negating any and all chuckles even the most comical of kangaroos could possibly offer.)

Nope, I don't get it. I don't get Carr's rationale for running from town to town with a kangaroo. No matter how depressed she might have been or continues to be. A kangaroo in diapers, for that matter. Come to think of it, I also don't get how you'd even diaper a kangaroo—especially considering the holes she had to cut in the tot-size trousers to accommodate Irwin's tail. Seems the diaper would need a hole, too, rendering the Pampers pointless. Like the rest of the story, it just doesn't make sense.

I'm crossing my fingers for Carr—and for Irwin—that somewhere, somehow, Carr makes sense of the mess she's made, that she heads on home, that she returns Irwin to his. Before things get ugly...or seriously Thelma and Louise like. Then, if she really feels she must, maybe Carr can adopt a different pet for therapeutic purposes. Maybe one that doesn't go against local zoning ordinances. More importantly, maybe one that requires a litter box instead of diapers.

Today's question:

If money and logistics (and common sense) were no consideration, what wild animal would you choose to have and to hold as a therapy pet?

The Saturday Post: Third-act edition

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This video, at just over 11 minutes, is longer than I typically like to share. But it's well worth it, especially inspiring for those of us who are aging. And isn't that all of us?

Today's question:

What would you most like to do in your third act?

Failing as a mother, and other pride-filled moments

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I pride myself on being a good grandma, a good mama. Sometimes I fail miserably though. Like I did yesterday.

As most of you know, my daughter Megan had Baby Mac in June. And as some of you might know, since having Baby Mac, Megan has made running her thing, her time for herself, her time devoted to being Megan not just Mommy. And devoted she is, running 5Ks and 10Ks and "fun" runs for practice most days of the week. She's become quite the long-distance runner despite being a sprinter—and a reluctant one at that—during her high school years. She sets goals; she accomplishes them.

Yesterday featured a big goal, one Megan hoped to accomplish with aplomb: her first half marathon. That's 13.1 miles for those non-runners (like me) in the group. She's been training for it since right after having Baby Mac, and nothing was going to deter her. Except maybe that Preston, her hubby and daddy to the boys, was scheduled for a business trip that would take him away the day of the half marathon. Which meant there'd be no one to cheer her on with her babies in tow (yes, the babies should to be in tow, to see the importance of Mom setting goals and accomplishing them). And no one to take photos of her crossing the finish line.

So she asked me and Jim—Mom and Dad—if we'd cover the support shift. Which, of course, we were happy to do. Not only would it be a chance to see our grandbabies, it would allow us to cheer on one of our daughters in her athletic pursuits, something we've missed since our nest emptied out.

We arrived in the desert, prepared for duty. The plan involved Preston driving Megan to the Women's Running Magazine Women's Half Marathon starting point before hopping the plane for his business trip. Then Jim and I were to pack up Bubby and Baby Mac and arrive near the finish line of the marathon pert near the time Megan figured she'd be crossing. Other than getting us there, my primary job (in addition to caring for the grandkiddos, of course) was to take pictures of Megan meeting her goal.

I failed. On both counts.

Despite setting out as planned, with detailed directions and maps for a city we'd never visited, we got within blocks—"Special Event" flags marked the area, so there's no questions of that—yet couldn't get to the exact area we wanted. Because of the special event, because of all the roads closed for that very same special event. Because not a single direction for spectators was given on the official website and because Google Maps didn't note the very roads we needed, the very roads we were instructed to take would be closed. There was no way to get were we wanted to be. At least not by the time we needed to be there.

AS we drove around the special event area, we lucked upon a spot where other folks were cheering on their running mothers and daughters and sisters and friends. We hopped out. We ran into place. And, heavens-be-shining-down-on-me, Megan was coming around the corner. She was smiling, Bubby was waving, Jim was shouting GO, MEG! and I was scrambling for my camera...and in all the excitement I couldn't get it on and get it focused, get it shooting as it should. At least not while she was in front of me. This is what I managed:

Then Jim and I were off and running ourselves, with the kids, trying to figure out how the heck to get to that freakin' finish line before Megan did. Not knowing the city at all, not having uninterrupted service on my iPhone that would provide me a map and direction and GPS or something of use, I asked another spectator for assistance. He told me how to head in the general direction, "but I don't know how you're going to get there with the way they have the roads all jacked up," he said. "Just get as close as possible then walk as fast as you can," was his only suggestion.

Thing is, that "general direction" he gave was off by about 15 blocks. Or maybe my interpretation was off by about 15 blocks. And in those 15 blocks, the tension in the car rose. Baby Mac was hungry, Jim was frustrated at my (usually stellar) navigation skills, and Bubby was asking from the back seat, "Why are you so mad?" The "you" meaning me and Jim, as we were bickering and not being our best Gramma and PawDad selves by any means. But gee freakin' whiz...we couldn't get to our daughter who would soon be wrapping up an incredible feat and it appeared we weren't going to be there as promised.

And we weren't. Just as we got as close as we could possibly get, the point from which we'd have to quickly pop open the stroller, throw the two boys into it and make our way across a seemingly endless obstacle course, heading for the very same finish line as Megan—where Megan would be—my cell phone rang.

It was Megan.

She'd crossed the finish line.

And wondered where we were.

Oh, the humanity, er, humility...of having to tell my daughter I'd failed. I'd failed to get us there on time, I'd failed to get photos of her accomplishing her goal, I'd even failed to get one front-facing photo of her at the one single moment the gods did allow us to see our pink-clad racer girl despite our missteps.

No big deal, Megan assured us, just get here. Call when you get to the finish line, she said.

With my tail between my legs I got us there. And I got a few photos of Half-Marathon Megan with her medal:

... and of Half-Marathon Megan with her babies:

I failed at my task. Megan didn't. At all. She finished her very first half marathon in a respectable 1 hour 54 minutes and 52 seconds. An amazing feat any time, but especially impressive just six months after having a child.

Oh, and that 1 hour 54 minutes? Exactly the time (well, minus the 52 seconds) I guessed the night before, when Preston, Jim and I all put in our guesses for what Megan's final time would be. While I'm not so proud of my mom fail when it came to getting us to the finish line for photos, I am, in a very small way, proud of my accurate guess on Megan's time. (I gotta take my successes any where I can find them.)

In all seriousness, though, and in a very large way, I'm proud of Megan—my marathon-running mommy/daughter—and all she's done to get where she's at.

(Disclosure: All guilt mentioned above was purely self-inflicted; Megan never took me to task nor seemed even slightly disappointed at my failure to come through as promised. Yet another reason I'm proud of her.)

Today's question:

Describe a recent fail on your part...and/or a recent moment that filled you with pride?