Farewell, summer whites

For reasons not perfectly clear, wearing white after Labor Day has long been rendered a faux pas of magnificent proportion.

With that in mind, I bid farewell to summer's flora and fauna that will soon cast their garments of white to the wind.

Today's question:

Do you flout or follow the fashion advice to not wear white after Labor Day?

The Saturday Post: Too Soon edition

This song first stirred my soul several years ago, when EastMountainSouth was the opening act at a Tracy Chapman concert. I've loved the song ever since, yet never really in relation to one specific person. Until now.

This is for Margie, who left us Friday morning, far too soon.

What matters

As I write this, someone in my family is dying. I told myself I'd keep this out of my blog, away from here. Because here is where I do my best to create an upbeat, positive spot for folks to visit. This isn't upbeat, positive.

Mostly, though, I wasn't going to write about this because it's her story, not mine.

But my story is that I'm struggling with this, need to write about this. This person I love, dying as I write.

I wonder what to make for dinner as she wonders if the breath she's taking may be her last. I pack for a trip, try to catch up on things that matter for my future, when she doesn't have one.

That sucks. So much.

That's my biggest thought, that's my biggest struggle.

My struggle, though, is nothing compared to her struggle. Or the struggle of her kids, saying goodbye to their mother. Or the struggle of her husband, who's trying to come to terms with his wife being told she has only seven more days to live.

And that was several days ago.

I love this woman like a sister, can't imagine our family without her. But we're not close. Unfortunately. She married into the family I married into nearly a decade before her. Though we've been part of that same family for years, miles kept us apart, distant. Thirteen hours worth of distance by car, I keep thinking, as Jim and I contemplate the logistics of attending a funeral.

She and I would send cards and photos at Christmas. Occasionally "like" something of the other on Facebook. Consider the good, the bad, the ugly, the sad of this family we both married into. For nearly twenty years we've done all that together yet seperately, from our own homes while attending to our own families.

She's only a few years older than I am. Her two kids are a few years younger than mine.

Her two kids who are now married.

Her two kids who have not yet had kids of their own.

She never got to be a grandma.

And that makes me so very sad. For her. For her kids. For her grandkids who will never know her.

And so very sad for her husband. My heartbroken brother in law. Her biggest fan, her greatest admirer. The one at her bedside—a hospital bed now set up in their home—watching this strong woman who changed his life die, decades upon decades before she should.

Not that anyone should die young, but this pillar of a person especially shouldn't. She's the best of the best. One who does what needs to be done. Cares for those who need to be cared for. Loves without limits. Makes the plans no one else feels like planning. She remembers and does and is. In all the right ways, at all the right times. Effortlessly.

She would have made one helluva grandma.

And that makes me so very sad.

Cancer doesn't care though. Doesn't care who's young, old, grandma or not. Doesn't care who it makes so very sad.

The last few days, I think of what she's doing as I'm doing what I'm doing. None of it makes sense. None of what I'm doing seems to matter at all, when what she's doing matters so much.

What she's doing just plain sucks.

So very, very much.

One-word Wednesday: Bittersweet

 

(These words don't count, as they're in parentheses. Brianna's requested birthday cake was a Toffee-Topped Cheesecake.)

Today's fill-in-the-blank:

A recent bittersweet moment for me was __________________.

The grandma in a box

This post was named People's Choice in the humor category in the 2013 BlogHer Voices of the Year.

A STORY:

Once upon a time there was a woman.

Who had a husband.

And three daughters.

Plus one house, two cats, two dogs, and an addiction to collecting books and pictures of people she loved.

And she had a writing job that had nothing—yet everything—to do with all of the above that she loved.

She liked rock music, independent films, and playing games with her friends—which was usually paired with a wee bit of drinking, too, whiskey or beer but never, ever umbrella drinks of any sort.

The woman also liked learning new things, especially when it came to computers, cameras, cooking and cantatas.

(She also really liked alliteration, so cantatas worked far better in that sentence than piano.)

The woman loved her mom, her dad, her brothers and sisters. She loved Jesus and America, too—as well as stories and songs that turned her heart inside out.

The woman liked the things most women do. No matter what their age.

Eventually the woman’s daughters grew up and flew away. One got married and had two sons.

Which made the woman a grandma. Yet another thing she loved.

So the woman added to her writing job, writing about those grandsons. Writing about them online—along with lots of other things she'd write about—on a blog.

Which was confusing to some.

It wasn't the writing on the blog that confused some, it was the being a grandma. Grandmas are old and know nothing about being online. Or anything interesting at all, for that matter. Grandmas rock in rocking chairs, they hug and kiss their grandkids, they pull up their gray hair into buns. Maybe they crochet. But that's pretty much it.

At least that's what it seemed some non-grandma bloggers thought of grandma bloggers. They’re only grandmas. They’re old. They’re boring. And they’re invisible if there's the G-word in their name, the G-word in their game.

Once a grandma,only a grandma, they thought.

Some unenlightened brands, bloggy networks, and PR folks seemed to think the same thing, too.

If they even thought of grandmas at all.

Other grandmas understood. Other grandma bloggers really understood—even those who didn’t write specifically about their grandchildren, about being a grandma.

The other grandmas understood because all of the grandmas, online and off, were put in the very same box. Were trying to get out of the same box. Together were saying, HEY, you meanies who squished us up into this uncomfortable GRANDMA box: We want out! We love our grandkids way beyond words, but they’re not all we love. Can’t you see we are so much more than grandmas? Can’t you see we are all that we were before? Can't you see that we are now all that AND a bag of potato chips, er, grandmas!

But the non-grandmas didn’t see any of that. They didn't see the woman and her fellow grandmas pounding on the box. All they saw was the word GRANDMA. And the box.

If they saw anything at all.

Every once in a while, someone did see something at all. Mostly it was just the word GRANDMA, though, and they thought the boxed-up grandmas would be happy as clams to talk about canes and assisted living centers and denture cream and gadgets that help them when they’ve fallen and can’t get up.

Those non-grandmas didn’t realize grandmas can and do get up. On their own. And they get down, too. That they're still vibrant and relevant. That they still love music. Still have jobs that have nothing to do with being a grandma, yet love the job of being a grandma, too. They still have spouses and daughters and sons and parents and brothers and sisters and animals and friends and interests.

And that they do all the very same things they did before they became grandmas.

They even—gasp!—still have S-E-X.

And they still talk about and write about things that matter, with people and for people who matter.

So that woman who was now a grandma but still had a husband and three daughters and still really loved all sorts of things non-grandmas think grandmas shouldn't or couldn't like decided to write about being stuck in the GRANDMA box.

In hopes others might see her and her grandma friends in there and let them out.

Or…perhaps they might do nothing at all.

But at least that grandma who loves, loves, loves being a grandma yet is so much more than a grandma would have her say.

Then she ended her plea for release from the GRANDMA box with an oh-so cute photo of her grandsons. Simply because she could.

And to further confuse those non-grandmas who Just. Don't. Get. It. 

THE END

Today's question:

Anyone second that emotion?

The Saturday Post: Stop this train edition

Two weeks from today, my oldest daughter will turn 30 years old.

THIRTY!

How can that be?

I'm not usually one to balk about my age or getting older, but by golly, I think it's time to stop this train—or at least slow it down a bit, just long enough for me to wrap my head around this thing.

Stop This Train by John Mayer

No I'm not color blind
I know the world is black and white
Try to keep an open mind but...
I just can't sleep on this tonight

Stop this train I want to get off and go home again
I can't take the speed it's moving in
I know I can't
But honestly won't someone stop this train

Don't know how else to say it, don't want to see my parents go
One generation's length away
From fighting life out on my own

Stop this train
I want to get off and go home again
I can't take the speed it's moving in
I know I can't but honestly won't someone stop this train

So scared of getting older
I'm only good at being young
So I play the numbers game to find a way to say my life has just begun
Had a talk with my old man
Said help me understand
He said turn 68, you'll renegotiate
Don't stop this train
Don't for a minute change the place you're in
Don't think I couldn't ever understand
I tried my hand
John, honestly we'll never stop this train

Now, once in a while when it's good
It'll feel like it should
And they're all still around
And you're still safe and sound
And you don't miss a thing
'til you cry when you're driving away in the dark

Singing stop this train I want to get off and go back home again
I can't take the speed this thing is moving in
I know I can't
Cause now I see I'm never gonna stop this train

Enjoy your Saturday!

Four 'fun' parental duties I didn't find so fun

Tooth Fairy duty. Tuesday's question about Tooth Fairy rates reminded me how much I didn't like playing Tooth Fairy when my daughters were young. I didn't like it at all. Not because I didn't want to reward my girls for having lost a tooth but because playing Tooth Fairy scared the <cuss> out of me. Seriously. Every time one of the girls went to sleep with high hopes of finding a dollar under her pillow upon awaking (yes, our rate was $1 per tooth), I dreaded having to sneak into the room, stealthily remove a tooth wadded up in tissue from under the pillow, and replace it with a buck. I just knew I'd be midway through the task, with my hand under a sleepy head while feeling for a papery wad, when the little girl's head would slowly turn my way and her eyes would pop right open and stare at me like a crazed Chucky-type doll.

Considering such scenarios scared me to no end. In fact, it scared me so much I sometimes accidentally on purposeforgot one of my children had gone to bed with high hopes of a dollar magically appearing in the night. 'Twas so much easier and less anxiety producing—for me, at least—to apologize come morning for the Tooth Fairy's poor scheduling then pretend she (or he?) had shown up and made the tooth/dollar trade while the girls were at school. Or, to out of guilt give my daughters their proper due, I'd just steel myself all day for the task, then come nightfall get the stupid duty over as quickly as possible. Which is why the Tooth Fairy would sometimes forget; a day or two preparing myself helped. Get in, grab the tooth, drop the dollar, get out. As quickly as possible! And don't look at her face while doing it!

Oh, the lengths we moms go to in order to convince our kids it's okay to allow charming characters with tooth fetishes into their rooms at night.

Bath time. Yes, bath time for many is a lovely and peaceful nightly ritual shared by mother and child. Not when you have three children to bathe at one time. Bath nights were hell, I mean, <cuss> in our household when the girls were little. At least for me. Thirty minutes of three little girls complaining the others were taking all the space...or all the bubbles...or all the water—yes, all the water!—was not fun. Thirty minutes of repeating, Look up! Look up! Look up! as I shampooed and rinsed and listened to at least one of the girls—sometimes all three of them—crying that they had soap in their eyes was not fun. Even the Rub-A-Dub Doggie with the swivel head wasn't distraction enough to make for fun and frivolous tub time. For any of us.

Sure, it would have been smart to bathe one girl at a time. But with a husband working three jobs, thus gone during bath time, who the heck would have watched the other two (remember, the girls are consecutive ages—16 months between the first two, 19 months between the second two) while I joyfully splished, splashed, and shampooed one at a time? Wasn't happening. I was quite thankful when Brianna became old enough to shower instead of being one of the bathers.

Interesting aside: As a grandma, I still dread bath time...at least when I have to bathe both Bubby and Mac at the same time. When I bathe them separately, it truly is one of the most enjoyable of all grandma duties. When they're together, not so enjoyable. So we opt for individual bath times—as long as there's someone else to entertain the non-bather while the bather and I splish, splash, and enjoy the moment.

Slumber parties. As a mother to three daughters, you'd think I'd be a pro at slumber parties. The girls had a lot of them growing up. Heck, I threw a few of my own accord, as I was a Girl Scout leader for many years and slumber parties were a great bonding experience for the troop. At least that was the original intention.

Just like the slumber parties thrown for my daughters' birthdays and more, though, good intentions at the outset of a slumber party flew out the window sometime soon after midnight when the cattiness of tired and cranky girls brought out the worst in everyone. Including me. By 2 a.m. I was usually gritting my teeth and saying to myself, "I wish they would just go home!" Funny thing is, that was often about the same time whichever daughter of mine was hosting the event would creep up the stairs and into my room to say exactly the same thing: "I wish they would Just. Go. Home."

Of course, we'd all forget about how very un-fun slumber parties were come time to consider having another...and another...and another.

Mall shopping. Being mother to three daughters also meant I was supposed to love clothes shopping with my girls. Seems having my kids at a very early age led to me missing that memo, that lesson in the parenting preparedness classes, for I didn't simply dislike shopping at the mall, I hated it. So much so that I did all I could to avoid it.

Back-to-school shopping was particularly dreadful, at the mall or anywhere else. Reason being, for the most part, because money was always tight, and trying to please three fashion-conscious girls on a limited budget was impossible. Which resulted in many tears—and not just from them. Even when we did manage to have enough money for a planned purchase, there were still tears, especially from one particularly difficult shopper we won't name or point out that she's my middle child and mother to my grandsons.

Ironically, Megan loved shopping most of all, was the one most distressed by my aversion to shopping. Strolling the mall together was supposedly the ultimate mother/daughter activity, the best way for girlie-girls to bond with their mamas. Only, I wasn't the girlie-girl kind of mom Megan longed for. Add my hate for shopping to the long list of other girlie things I didn't do—paint my nails, accessorize correctly (or at all), chat endlessly on the phone for no reason—and it's clear why Megan thought for many years that she had surely been adopted.

As a mom, I was supposed to have fun doing all those things above. I didn't. Maybe you feel the same.

Fortunately my list of things I did have fun doing as a parent is longer. Simply remove from the job description the four duties above and all that's left is what I had fun doing.

Well, for the most part.

Dropping a child off at college wasn't all that fun. Saying goodbye as they packed up the last of their closets and left the nest for good wasn't so much fun either.

Maybe you feel the same.

photos: stock.xchng (click photos for details)

Today's question:

What supposedly fun parental duties did you find not so fun?

Good news and a happy dance

I don't know about you, but the continual bad news of this summer is taking a toll on my mind, mood, and disposition. While I'm far from wanting to play Pollyanna, I have been craving some news that warms my heart rather than hurts it.

With that in mind, here are six happier bits of news I've been thankful for the last few days—followed by a happy dance, courtesy of Bubby:

The Olympics. When in the mood for uplifting and inspiring, nothing tops the stories of the young women and men doing what they do best and going for the gold. There's not just one good story associated with the 2012 Summer Olympics, there are hundreds, if not more. And the Opening Ceremony this evening will undoubtedly lift spirits, warm hearts—and, if you're anything like me, elicit a few tears, as well.

Miracles. There's so, so much horror and heartbreak associated with the Aurora movie-theater massacre that took place just 70 miles up the road from me; it's often just too much for me to watch, read, think about, talk about. But the incredible story of Petra Anderson, the young musician who was shot in the head but won't suffer brain damage because the bullet hit her at exactly the point of a minimal and previously undetected brain defect is absolutely worth a smile. And a fist pump. Truly miraculous.

Tickets to ride. When my grandsons left my house to return home a few weeks ago, we had no plans to visit again, which is unusual. Since Bubby's birth, there's been virtually no visit that ended without plans in the works for the next gathering—until this last time. Budgets are tight, schedules are packed, and as far as the eye could see on the calendar, even into 2013, it didn't appear I'd get any time with my boys. The other night, Jim said, "What the heck—just book it!" I now hold tickets for Jim and me to fly to see Bubby and Mac in October. THAT, to me, is great news!

Bear watching. Sure, there are lots of animal videos online to take your mind off the serious and sad stuff, but when I read of this one in the paper, it made me smile and head for the computer. Just this past week, news was that Explore.org recently started live streaming footage from the high-definition webcams they set up along Alaska's Brooks River in Katmai National Park. Now folks everywhere can watch the annual rite of hundreds of black bears feasting from the largest Sockeye salmon run in the world. It's grand diversion of a different sort, so refreshing and engaging—and thrilling when you see a catch. This good news is worth sharing with the grandkids, too, who will get a kick out of the imposing bears patiently awaiting fish to come their way. (Hint: It seems to stream better when choosing the "pop-out" option.)

More streaming video. Like the aforementioned plane tickets, this one is more of a personal bit of good news. Sort of. Though I'm willing to bet someone out there is just as happy about this good news as I am. You see, Jim and I have become addicted to the (yes, rather violent) series, Breaking Bad. We've gone through the entire first four seasons in just the last couple months. Wednesday night we stayed up late and watched the final four episodes available on Netflix, then lamented being in limbo waiting for the fifth season—which started two weeks ago—to come out on DVD or be available on Netflix. We don't have cable, thus no AMC television channel on which the series airs. Then, lo and behold, I checked AMC online yesterday and, YES! Full episodes of the current season are streamed online. Very good news indeed! At least for me and Jim—and any other non-cable subscriber who can't get enough of Walt and Jesse.

Snow. Yes, I said that word again. On the very same day that I posted about snow, it appeared—in July, mind you—on Pikes Peak! Imagine that. Per the comments on that post, it's clear many of you would not consider the arrival of snow good news. But as hot and dry (and flammable and uncomfortable) as it's been the last few months where I live, news of moisture—of snow!—on the mountain overlooking my city was very good, refreshing, and smile-worthy news to me.

And now, for the promised happy dance from Bubby:

Today's question:

What recent good news—personal or public—elicited from you a happy dance?

This post linked to the Saturday Sharefest.

Right versus real

Bubby and Mac had the privilege of going to California last week. They saw the ocean for the first time, frolicking on the beach and splashing in the waves.

They visited Disneyland for the first time, experiencing the thrills and chills of one of the happiest places on earth. They rode rides at the recently opened Cars Land.

I'm so jealous.

I'm not jealous because I want to have fun in the sun or meet up with Lightning McQueen and the gang in Radiator Springs. I'm jealous because it was the other grandparents who treated my grandsons to the grand weekend trip.

I know, I know, I know: That's not right.

But that's real.

Believe me, I wish I didn't feel that way.

I wish I didn't look at the pictures Megan posted on Facebook—and graciously granted me permission to use—through the green-tinged lens of a jealous grandma.

I don't want to be jealous. At all. Bubby and Mac had the time of their lives, and I'm ever so happy for that, for them. I'm ever so happy the other grandparents are able and willing to do things Jim and I can't.

Yet, I'm jealous.

That doesn't mean, though, that I wish the trip wouldn't have happened. Or that it would have been a bust, that the good times hadn't rolled for one and all. I truly don't begrudge the boys, their parents, their other grandparents the delightful trip, filled with new thrills and chills and colorful fun beyond compare.

Being jealous also doesn't mean I gloated over the not-so delightful parts of their trip. The forgotten sunscreen and the subsequent burned grandbabies. Or the terrifying moments for Bubby when he rode a thrill ride with heart-pounding thrills he's not yet ready for.

Or the equally terrifying moments for Mac when he came face-to-face with the silly-but-oh-so-scary-to-a-one-year-old Sully.

I didn't and don't gloat over such things. I don't want my grandsons to experience pain or terror. Ever. I want nothing but good times, delightful times for them. And I'm genuinely thankful and appreciative their other grandparents—who are good and kind and loving people—help provide rich, exciting, interesting experiences for our mutual grandchildren, so the boys will lead rich, exciting, interesting lives.

That's what I want for the boys. Always. Without a doubt.

Still, I'm jealous.

That doesn't make me bad.

That makes me human.

Today's question:

When were you last jealous of the other grandparents—or your child's in-laws, if you're not a grandparent?

One-word Wednesday: Snow

Snow!

Well, that cooled me down a bit. I hope it did you, too. (Pretend you didn't just read that, though, for I'm supposed to be writing only one word. I simply couldn't resist.)

Today's fill-in-the-blank:

If I had awakened to snow this morning, I would _____________.