Hungry heart

I mentioned earlier this week Bubby's momentary thrill upon hearing his tummy growl. "Did you hear that, Gramma?" he said to me. "The baby in my tummy went RAAAAR!" Such a sweet sound of confusion coming from my grandson who thought there was a baby in his tummy, not realizing he was just hungry.

Bubby's empty stomach was a source of amusement, not pain. Other than crying as an infant when he was hungry or simply stating "I want something," as he often does now when he wants to snack, I think it was the first time Bubby was aware of his stomach growling.

I distinctly recall the first time I knew what it felt like to be so hungry it hurt. It was the early '70s and my family was packed in the station wagon, driving from Minnesota to Florida. We were on our way to Disneyworld, the one and only time all seven kids and both parents went on a true family vacation. Across several state lines. To a place every kid dreams of going. Just like normal families do.

My dad was -- still is -- a "drive straight through" kind of traveler. So with all seven of us kids making the most of the limited space allotted each, our pale green station wagon with seating for nine ticked off the miles. "Delta Dawn" and "The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia" played on the AM radio, and visions of Mickey Mouse, Haunted Mansion and Cinderella's castle danced in our heads as we headed south, paying no heed to the national gas shortage.

Restaurant stops were few and far between, due equally to the desire to knock out miles as well as my parents dreading the logistics of seating nine -- and paying for nine -- in a dining establishment. At one point, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, I recall waking from having dozed off in the backseat. My arm on which I'd slept was drenched in drool, my stomach clenched and uncomfortable. When I complained about the sensation and voiced worries that I was going to throw up, my sister snarled that it's nothing, that I was just hungry, to be quiet.

So I was quiet. And waited. And marveled that this, my aching gut, was what all those hungry kids in Africa must feel and why they'd be happy to have the food my siblings and I often picked at instead of eating.

Eventually a restaurant appeared on the horizon and all was soon right with the world in general and my growling stomach in particular.

I was blessed to not know true hunger, to not feel such pangs and worse on a regular basis. I was fortunate that the discomfort of not having enough food was so rare that I can recall one specific incident, not a childhood marked by it. I was lucky that the lack of food was due to traveling -- going to Disneyworld, for heaven's sake -- not poverty.

The same goes for Bubby. He's fortunate that the only reason the baby in his tummy "raaaared" was because he had refused to eat what he'd been given for lunch. A lunch that included many options from which to choose, many morsels to fill his tiny tummy. He had made a conscious choice to not partake.

Not all children are as lucky as Bubby is. Or I was. Not all children giggle at the noises from their tummies; many cry as their tummies gurgle and groan.

Thoughts of those gurgles and groans make my heart hurt.

Today's question:

With the holidays -- and requests for holiday donations -- bearing down upon us, what charities do you typically help out this time of year?

Somewhere in time

Sunday at 11 a.m., Jim and I settled into the car for a six-hour drive home from South Dakota. We spent the the first half of that drive, nearly three hours, without conversing, listening only to the iPod on the stereo. Mile after mile, we spoke barely a word to one another, both of us lost in thought, considering the weekend, absorbing what we'd learned.

We had left for South Dakota early Saturday morning, arriving that afternoon at the nursing home where Jim's mom resides. She was propped up in her wheelchair watching "Giant" on the tiny television on her nightstand.

We said our hellos, hugged her fragile body, taped together her broken glasses that had the lens inserted upside down, commenced a visit. "Giant" served as the primary focal point, fodder for filling awkward moments as Jim and I attempted normal conversation with his once vibrant, talkative, normal mother.

Our attempts were met with stories from Mom about her outings to various places from her past -- visits she believed had happened just days before, despite not having left the nursing home for about a year. She talked of how grand it was to have attended and be escorted down the aisle in her wheelchair at her brother's wedding, a wedding that took place more than 50 years before -- 50 years before the amputation that took part of a gangrene leg and committed her to a wheelchair earlier this year.

She talked about recently attending church at the church she and I attended together 20 years ago, when the girls were young and Jim worked on Sundays and couldn't go with us.

She talked about phone calls and visits from relatives who, in reality, rarely call, never visit.

She talked of how beautiful Elizabeth Taylor was in "Giant."

We wrapped up with a promise to return in the morning, to spend more time with her before heading back home after the quick trip. Then we went to Jim's sister's house. His oldest sister, his medically trained sister, his sister who visits their mother each and every day, his sister who best knows what to do about Mom.

My first question to her as we unpacked our bags was, "Do we go along with Mom living in the past?" Or do we call her out on such things, try to jog her memory, try to bring her back to reality? The latter was the original tack when Mom first suffered a stroke and mental impairment from violently hitting her head during the associated seizures. It no longer felt like the right tack.

Sue assured us it's not. "She's too far gone and that part of her brain will never return," she said. We learned it's best to play along, to not frustrate and confuse Mom. We learned it's best to let her reminisce about days when she felt happy, content and whole. Days now lost somewhere in time.

That's not all we learned during our too-short weekend trip. From the last boxes of Mom's personal items, the final remnants to divvy up between siblings, we learned of a few of Mom's prized possessions, things that mattered most to her.

We learned of hundreds and hundreds of photos Mom had saved in her cedar chest, many of them photos she rarely shared with the family. Treasured photos of her grandparents, her parents, her siblings, herself. Beautiful decades-old renderings of lives well-lived: births, parties, communions, weddings, new homes, new babies, new starts on life.

We learned teenaged Mom was an avid fan of the glamorous movie stars of the '40s, collecting -- and keeping -- old-time studio shots, postcards, autographs, from Dorothy Lamour, Lana Turner, Spencer Tracy, Humphrey Bogart, Gene Kelly and more.

We learned she still had Jim's baby book, achievement records, locks of hair.

We learned she had carefully tucked away the newspapers containing my very first published articles.

We learned she kept in a manilla folder in her desk every card, every letter, every thank-you note that Brianna, Megan and Andrea ever sent their beloved Granny.

We learned of these and many other things Mom held on to in hopes she'd never forget.

Mostly we learned -- during those hours of silence as Jim and I reclaimed the miles between South Dakota and home -- that we're not yet ready to fully consider the loss of Mom, of Granny. We learned we're not yet ready say the words that open the floodgates.

As we got closer and closer to Denver, we made comments here and there, turned up the radio a little louder. Jim sang. I whistled. Soon we were discussing the girls, the coming week, the never-ending to-do list.

We didn't discuss Mom.

Eventually we will.

Eventually we'll talk. Eventually we'll cry. Eventually we'll mourn.

Somewhere. Sometime.

Today's question:

What is among the treasured photos and papers you're saving?

Mom 2.0: Better than Mom 1.0

I've always considered it a parent's duty to create a better life for their children than the one they had themselves, to improve the family's lot with each generation. Regardless of how grand -- or not -- a person's life may be, there's always room for improvement, and their kids should be the beneficiaries of such.

With that in mind, I've worked hard to ensure my daughters are more content, better educated, more financially secure than I was at their age, along with myriad other upgrades in comparision to how things were for me. Now that they're all adults, I'm seeing the fruits of my labor in all of them, in numerous ways.

But as Megan is the only one of my daughters to become a mother so far, in her I see that not only is she better educated and more financially secure than I was in my mid-20s, she is a much better mom than I was at her age.

Here are nine reasons why I say that:

1. Megan has tricks and techniques for discipline, character building, motor-skill encouraging and more that I never dreamed of when my kids were Bubby's age. Most come by way of her early childhood education training and her work as a pre-K teacher, but that simply means there was a two-fold payoff from my "better educated" goal for my girls.

2. Megan is better at spacing her children than I was. I wouldn't give anything in the world for the way my babies came in rapid succession, as things really do (and did) happen for a reason. But allowing Bubby some time as an only child, with his own room and gads of attention before Baby No. 2 comes along, seems a much better plan than my non-plan nearly 30 years ago.

3. Megan swims. And hikes. And runs. And engages Bubby in outdoorsy pursuits that keep him healthy and happy. I'm a rather sedate, indoorsy kind of mom. I think outdoorsy is better.

4. Megan looks forward to Bubby playing football. I'm just thankful I never had boys and had to endure years of watching my child get knocked around on the field. I honestly don't know that I could have -- or would have -- done it. I may have ended up not allowing a son to play football ... and that son likely would have hated me for that.

5. Megan is more fearless than I ever was. She allows Bubby to find his own footing on play structures, lets him figure out how to get up and down stairs on his own at an early age, lives in the desert where rattlesnakes and scorpions roam, lets Bubby ride Roxy like a horse until Roxy gently decides enough is enough. I'm overprotective to a fault. (Brianna, Andrea, Megan: You never heard me admit that!)

6. Megan let Bubby take the lead in his potty training, making it a non-issue -- and completely accomplished in less than a week. I, on the other hand, scarred Brianna for life, I'm sure, by adherence to the idiotic ideas in a book called "Toilet Training In A Day." A day which was marked by tears, not success.

7. Megan chose godparents according to what was best for Bubby. I (along with Jim) chose godparents with the intent of honoring those chosen.

8. Megan tries new recipes for dinner every night in hopes of widening her family's culinary horizon. Well, not every night, she says, but nearly every night ... and far more often than this mother who tended to go with the tried and true far too often.

9. Last but not least, Megan taught Bubby from a very early age how to make good choices -- something I'm still trying to teach my daughters.

Megan has only one child at this point, whereas when I was her age, I had three. So the real test of my assertion that she's a better mom than I will come when babies No. 2 and No. 3 come along.

Do I question whether she'll pass? Not at all.

I have no doubt whatsoever Megan will pass with flying colors -- colors I likely would never have even dreamt of.

Wah, wah and cootchie coo

Whining and baby talk are for babies ... only!When my daughters were young, I had a crafty little sign over the doorway to the kitchen that said "No whining." Whining simply was not allowed in our house.

The girls knew early on that asking, complaining, begging, crying in a whiny tone led them nowhere. If they did that, my only response would be, "I can't understand you when you're whining."

Even as a manager in the workplace, I had a "No Whining" sign at my desk. It's incredible the number of adults who think whining will get them somewhere. With anyone. Luckily my daughters aren't one of those adults. They're not whiners. And I'm pretty sure whining now annoys them just as much as it annoys me.

One of the few things that grates on my nerves, gets my briefs in a bunch and makes me want to bop someone on the head with a Nerf bat more than whining does is baby talk.

Now, lots of grandmas engage in baby talk. I'm talking about the "Cootchie, cootchie coo" babbling that takes place over a new little one. Or the "Oh, my sweety bug, you're so precious!" kind of complimenting passed along to boys and girls alike. That's fine, I guess. To each his own -- as long as it's out of my earshot. But you'll never hear that from me. Bubby will never hear it from me. Even my dogs and cats will never hear it from me.

That doesn't mean I don't gush over cute things; I just gush in a non-baby talk manner. I love my little Bubby with all my heart and soul and I adore everyone else's little ones just as much as the next grandma. But there's something patronizing bordering on demeaning about talking in sweetsy high-pitched voices to kids. Believe me: It really is possible to let babies and others know how much you adore them without hitting the upper range of your vocal abilities and using nonsensical words. It's annoying.

More than the annoyance factor, though, I think baby talking to kids teaches them from the get-go that baby talk from them is acceptable. For, at what point do you stop the baby talk to your children or grandchildren? As they get older, they surely -- though likely subconsciously -- figure that if grandma can do it, they can do it, too. And they can't. Or at least shouldn't. And they definitely shouldn't do it in public.

I'm a site coordinator for the local children's literacy center, so I come across a lot of kids. I'm continually amazed at the number of them -- children in elementary school and older -- who talk in baby talk. To adults! It drives me nuts. I find it not only annoying, I think it's sad. The poor kids haven't been empowered to use their words to say what they mean, what they want, what they truly wish to express. Instead, they've been taught to depend on a cutesy, baby voice (or worse yet, whiney baby voice), in hopes that baby talk will get them what they want. Or soften the blow of what they're really trying to say. Or endear someone to their cutesy ways.

Which it doesn't. At least not with me ... and surely not with their teachers or other adults, I would venture to say.

So moms, grandmas -- dads, aunts, uncles, any other adults who interact with children, too -- do the kids in your life a favor and put an end to baby talk. From our mouths and the mouths of the little ones. It's annoying.

And it's just as bad as whining.

Which I can't imagine being taught as acceptable by any grandma or other adult, not just crabby non-baby-talking grandmas such as myself.

Today's question:

Which do you find more annoying -- whining or baby talk?

ARE the kids all right?

Over the weekend, I finished reading The Kids Are All Right by Diana and Liz Welch, with Amanda and Dan Welch. The memoir, in which the four Welch siblings take turns writing chapters, tells the poignant, often heartbreaking story of their once-normal childhood turned upside down by the deaths of their beloved parents: first their father in a car accident, then their mother of cancer.

Many of the chapters scrunched up my heart and made me wonder, as The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls did, how children come through such things and grow into seemingly whole, functional, successful adults.

One chapter in particular gave me pause, stopped my heart, brought tears to my eyes. Not wholly out of sympathy for the Welch kids, though, but because it rang eerily similar to an incident from my childhood.

Soon after the death of their father, the Welch children's mother encouraged a relationship between Amanda, the eldest daughter, and a young man named Duncan. Mom hoped a masculine presence would be good for her son, Dan, so she was pleased with the progression of the budding romance between Amanda and Duncan as it led to Duncan's regular visits to their home.

One night while Amanda, Duncan and Liz, the second oldest sibling, shopped for groceries, Duncan shockingly professed to Liz his love for her while Amanda was in another aisle. Once home with the groceries, he continued elaborating on the inappropriate confession to Liz, cornering the young girl in the pantry and asking her to make it "their secret." Instead, the scared Liz told Mom. Mom immediately banished Duncan from the family, leaving Liz to worry that Amanda would blame her, hate her.

When Amanda learned of Duncan's come-on to her sister, though, all she said was, "What a jerk." No anger, no disappointment ... at least not toward Liz. She renounced Duncan. She stood by her sister.

When I was 13 years old, my parents were divorced and I occasionally stayed with my dad. My younger siblings did the same; my older sister much more sporadically.

Once when I spent the weekend at Dad's, my older sister and her even older boyfriend returned from a night of partying and climbed the stairs to where our bedrooms and a bathroom were. My sister headed into the bathroom; her boyfriend headed into my bed. He aggressively snuggled up to me, trying to climb on top of me.

As I woke from my deep sleep and grasped what was going on and the danger I was in, I pushed and kicked at the boyfriend, trying to get him away from me and out of my bed. My sister emerged from the bathroom, heard the rustling and came into my dark room. She turned on the light, saw her creepy boyfriend in my bed and started screaming and screaming -- at me. In her drunkenness and insecurity, my older sister thought I had somehow lured her boyfriend into the compromising position, was somehow trying to steal him away from her. The vitriol spewed from her drunken mouth ... and continued for weeks.

My sister was mad at me -- stayed mad at me -- instead of being mad at the jerk she'd unknowingly stopped just short of molesting her little sister.

I often wonder how different things might have been if my sister hadn't come into the room just in the nick of time.

And I often wonder how different things might have been -- for both of us -- if my sister had done like Amanda in The Kids Are All Right, if she had renounced the inappropriate lout and stood by her scared little sister.

Disclosure: I received a FREE copy of The Kids Are All Right from the publisher for participation in the From Left To Write book club.

Today's question:

How would you describe your relationship with your siblings?

The one in which I eat my words

Guess who Grandma gets to see in 22 days!

In July I wrote a post called

Dear Southwest Airlines

, in which I bid the airline farewell. I'd been flying back and forth on Southwest to see Bubby in the desert ever since he'd been born. Then Allegiant arrived in town, batting its eyelashes and cheap fares with service to Bubby, and I thought I no longer needed Southwest.

How wrong I was.

Many times since Allegiant set up shop at the airport 10 minutes from my home, with supposedly inexpensive service to an airport not too far from Bubby's home, I've researched flights for upcoming visits on both Allegiant and Southwest. Much to my surprise -- and chagrin -- Southwest keeps winning out. And winning the dollars from my travel budget. And winning me over once and for all.

Allegiant flies to and from Bubby's home only twice a week, leaving my home each Wednesday and Saturday afternoon. All fine and good. The return flights are the same days -- Wednesday and Saturday. At cussing SIX O' CLOCK IN THE MORNING! That's the ONLY time. Ever. Which means I'd have to leave Bubby's house at about 3 a.m. in order to make that flight. Always.

Okay, yeah, sometimes there's a little inconvenience when getting a cheap flight. We'll make do, I told myself.

So keeping in mind the trade-off of funky times in exchange for cheap fares, I went to book tickets for Jim, Brianna, Andrea and myself to go to Bubby's house for Thanksgiving. But the flights were not cheap on Allegiant. In fact, they were a bit more than those on Southwest. And Southwest had several options of times, none that required leaving Bubby's at 3 a.m.

So I booked four tickets on Southwest. Yes, we'll have to drive 50 or so miles to the airport -- when Allegiant takes off just 10 minutes from my door -- but the list of pros and cons fell clearly in favor of Southwest.

Soon after, in return for my, ahem, loyalty, Southwest sent me a voucher for a free flight to anywhere I want, good for one year. What did I do with that freebie? Well, what do you think I did? I booked a flight to see Bubby, of course! For the end of this month!

The freebie from Southwest went a long way toward mending my broken heart after a failed attempt to schedule a visit from Megan and Bubby in October. I'd been thinking I truly would not make it without major chinks in my heart if I had to go without seeing Bubby until Thanksgiving. Then Southwest came to my rescue.

Thank you, Southwest!

But wait! That's not all!

One day last week I went to the mailbox and found a letter from Southwest. My first thought was that they'd finally read my Dear John letter to them and were rescinding my travel rights on their airline for being such a cuss. They'd show me who was boss, I feared, and I would indeed be using only 6 a.m. flightson Allegiant for my visits with Bubby.

I quickly tore open the letter to find ... FOUR DRINK TICKETS! "Have a drink on us!" good ol' Southwest told me, in appreciation of my loyalty to the company.

Sheesh, nothing like free drinks to make a grandma feel like a heel.

Although I have no plans to imbibe while in the air as I travel to see Bubby -- either on my visit in a few weeks or on the Thanksgiving trip -- it gives me a warm fuzzy just to know I could if I wanted. For free. Courtesy of Southwest Airlines.

Then again, maybe I will take them up on the offer. A stiff 7-and-7 will be great for washing down the sharp and snarky words about Southwest that I'm now eating, just three months after having written them.

Cheers!

Today's question:

What do you usually drink -- alcoholic or otherwise -- when flying?

9 things I now understand about grandmas

When I was young, my grandmas were strange yet beloved creatures. As I grew older, I realized it wasn't just my grandmas, but that most grandmas seemed to be strange creatures, all with interesting, amusing, sometimes even downright baffling quirks and mannerisms.

Well, in the short time since joining the ranks of the strange creatures known as grandmas, I've learned they're not so strange after all. While some quirks and mannerisms still remain a mystery, here are ...

9 THINGS I NOW UNDERSTAND ABOUT GRANDMAS

1. I now understand why grandmas wear their eyeglasses on chains around their necks. With six pair of glasses strategically placed around the house, I definitely see the value of wearing them around the neck. I don't do it (yet), but I now understand it.

2. I now understand why grandmas always have the best snacks ever in their kitchens. It's not because their cabinets are always filled with such goodies (Grandma -- and Grandpa -- would weigh 10 tons each if that were the case). It's because they stock up before the little ones visit, ensuring no culinary craving of a grandchild goes unsatisfied.

3. I now understand why grandmas are such excellent cooks ... and/or bakers. They've had years of experience, so what else might one expect? More importantly, though, all their kitchen concoctions include heaping helpings of love, which makes all the difference in the world.

4. I now understand why grandmas are in their jammies by 8 p.m. As it's no longer likely someone will stop by for a visit that "late," why not get comfortable. And even if some night owl did stop by for a visit, grandmas no longer really give a hoot what someone may think of them being in their jammies by 8 p.m. -- or any other time.

5. I now understand why grandmas back in the day wore dresses more often than not. Gosh! It took me years to realize dresses are soooo much more comfortable than pants ... especially jeans. Luckily the house dresses of old are no longer the only casual dress options for grandmas.

6. I now understand why grandmas place protective coverings over the "good furniture." Although I first saw the light on this one in terms of keeping cat hair off certain chairs, I quickly realized how handy it could be for easy cleanup of baby spit-up, leaking diapers or little hands covered in popcorn butter while enjoying a flick with Grandma and Grandpa.

7. I now understand why grandmas spout so many sage (and sometimes silly) words of advice. After years and years of collecting witticisms and adages it's hard not to pass them along to those little pitchers with big ears -- or big pitchers who should use those big ears more often.

8. I now understand why grandmas squeeze their grandchildren so tightly when they hug them. It's because they love the kiddos so darn much they just want to eat them up. Eating them wouldbe rather bizarre though (not to mention illegal), so grandmas simply squeeze and squeeze and squeeze until the impulse to nibble passes ... or until the grandchildren wriggle away.

9. I now understand why grandmas have non-stop smiles on their faces when with their grandkids. The reason? Because nothing -- absolutely nothing -- fills up grandmas and makes them quite as happy as the moments they spend with their grandchildren. (That, or they've just gotten lazy in their old age and are following their own advice regarding it taking 43 muscles to frown yet only a mere 17 to smile.)

Photo courtesy Flickr/freeparking

Today's question:

What do you find amusing, interesting, baffling or bizarre about grandmas -- yours or others' (or even yourself)?

The best ideas are shared ideas

This blog has made me a better grandma. Not because of anything I've done, but what the readers of Grandma's Briefs have done for me.

One of the biggest courtesies of the grandmas who visit my site has been the wonderful ideas they share so freely, through their comments, the Grilled Grandma feature and on their very own blogs.

It's a few of those great ideas that made my recent adventure with Bubby all the more fun, all the more memorable.

First off was a suggestion from Grandma Nina, blogger at Grandma Ideas. A week or so before the whirlwind back-and-forth visit with Bubby, Nina featured the coolest of cool gadgets on her site: a Water-Balloon Factory. The moment I saw it, I had to have it. So I ordered it. And, luckily, it arrived just in time for the family to enjoy a few smashing and splashing sessions on the patio with Bubby.

 

It truly was one of the highlights for Bubby.

The second fab idea came by way of Grandma Shelley of Grandma's Little Pearls, who featured a post on her blog not too long ago about an ideal way to entertain grandsons: take them to a construction site to watch the heavy equipment dig, dump and demolish ... or build. Well, it just so happens I have a construction site right across the road from my house, where my crazy new neighbors are building the biggest of big shopping-center replica homes.

Bubby took every opportunity to hang out in the front yard or peer out the front windows in hopes of getting his fill of the "big truck" and "dump truck" action.

After all the fun was done and Bubby safely returned to his home, I decided to delve into a project recommended by Grandma Karen in her Grilled Grandma feature: I'm making a scrapbook of our ambitious adventure. Bubby can peruse the pages at leisure, recalling all the good times we had during his first-ever solo trip to Gramma and PawDad's, sandwiched between visits from Gramma at his house.

Here are a few of the special moments that scrapbook will feature:

As the success of the visit sinks in with Megan and Preston -- and they fondly recall the vacation it allowed them, as well -- I'm hoping to make the most of one more idea shared by nearly all the grandmas I've met through this blog: arranging annual trips for Bubby to visit Gramma and PawDad on his own!

I've got my fingers crossed as I look forward to next summer's adventure!

Today's question:

If money were no consideration, what one fun activity/event would you choose to do each and every summer?

9 things grandmas should never do

1. Never disrespect the choices of your grandbaby's parents. Questionable bedtimes, meals, discipline and more? Sure, you can disagree with the choices, just do so respectfully. As long as you ...

2. Never voice your disagreement or disapproval with the parents in front of your grandchild. Mommy and Daddy are the last word. Grandchildren don't need more ammunition in their battle for getting their way, and repeating words of disagreement from Grandma would be sure-fire ammunition.

3. Never secretly break Mom and Dad's rules. If tantrums mean Junior gets a time-out, give him a time-out. If 8 p.m. is bedtime, tuck him in when the clock chimes eight times. If Mom says only one popsicle, don't you dare offer a second. What? Grandmas are meant to break rules, you say? Notice I said never secretly break the rules. The key is to do it loud and proud and let everyone know in advance the rules will likely be bent a smidgen -- possibly even smashed to pieces -- when Grandma's in charge. Simply be upfront, not underhanded.

4. Never talk bad about your grandchild's other grandparents. Even if you're clearly the very, very best grandma ever, your grandchild still loves his or her other grandma and grandpa. Accept it, deal with it, and don't act like a jealous 12-year-old girl about it.

5. Never try to buy your grandchild's love. Any kid will smile, maybe even squeal with delight, over toys, gadgets, games and other goodies. But things shouldn't make up your PDAs (primary displays of affection). It's time and attention the kiddos want -- and what they'll most love you for.

6. Never ply your grandchild for information about Mom and Dad. Maybe they're going through rough financial times, maybe the marital bliss isn't so blissful, maybe they won the lottery and don't want to share the dough. Whatever the case causing you to be Nosy Nelly, it really is none of your business. Don't recruit your grandchildren for special ops in attempts to make it your business.

7. Never think your bad habits go unnoticed. Swearing, smoking, sipping too much of the sauce, double-dipping, overeating, complaining about your looks, your size, your big butt in the mirror. Little pitchers have big ears ... and eyes ... and impressionable hearts and minds on which such things are etched, things that can be detrimental to his or her physical and psychological well-being. Yeah, even grandmas have issues; just do your best to not pass them along to your grandchildren. They'll undoubtedly have plenty of issues of their own.

8. Never forget that you're a mother, too, not just a grandmother. Love on and brag about the grandchildrens' parents any chance you get. This goes a long way in maintaining the bond with your adult children ... and increases your grandchild's ever-important pride in his or her parents.

9. Never take the time with your grandchildren for granted. Every single minute with the little ones -- whether those minutes include stinky diapers and equally stinky attitudes or giggles and grins and big squeezes around Grandma's neck -- is a gift. Graciously accept it. Sincerely appreciate it. Heartily give thanks for it.

This post is featured in the About.com: Grandparents September Blog Carnival: Grandparents and Grandparenting.

Today's question:

What would you add to the list of things grandmas should never do?

(adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push({});

Baby knows best

Not much time to write a lengthy post today as I'm following Bubby's lead and stopping to smell the roses, er, hollyhocks.

In other words, I'm making the most of the last precious moments with my grandson before heading home to the mountains tomorrow.

Happy Friday the 13th!

Today's question:

What's the worst thing -- or the best thing -- that has ever happened to you on a Friday the 13th?

My answer: Brianna was walking home from school on a Friday the 13th her freshman year of high school and was struck by a senior driving back to the school for football practice. Miraculously, she fared surprisingly well. (Mom's frazzled nerves didn't survive the episode nearly as well.)