Ornaments of Christmases past

At tree-trimming time every Christmas, I gave each of my three daughters a new ornament, beginning when they were all still quite small. Some years the ornaments given reflected a passion or hobby of each individual girl; other years, all three received similar ornaments with only a slight variation on a common theme. Every year, all were dated and hung upon the family tree.

With three new ornaments added for the girls each year plus a new one for Jim and myself annually, too, our Christmas tree became jam-packed with ornaments by the time the girls were ready to leave the nest. The paring down of the baubles was far more abrupt than the collecting. First it was Megan's collection that we wrapped up and sent with her once she became a newlywed. Next, Andrea moved up and out and on, taking her ornaments with her. Then, just a few years ago, Brianna and her seasonal stash found a new home, as well.

Now that Jim and I decorate our tree with many old ornaments of our own, plus nearly just as many new ornaments to take the place of those relocated to our daughters' Christmas trees, it's been especially heartwarming this past week while visiting my grandsons to see many of the familiar ornaments of Christmases past hanging on Megan's tree. Not only those I had given her through the years, but ones she had made herself or received from others, too.

 

Equally heartwarming to see hung in a place of prominence at Megan's house was an advent calendar I had made for my daughters many years ago, now providing a chocolate-y countdown to Christmas for my grandsons.

It's bittersweet to see old, familiar seasonal decor adorning a home so far removed from mine, in years and in geography. Every once in a while during this visit, I've been hit with the overwhelming realization that things will never go back to what they were, that time has indeed ticked along, those days are gone, and this is where we as a family are, what we will be from now on. Not that I didn't realize that—or be okay with that—already, but the confirmation of such sometimes comes in unexpected and occasionally uncomfortable waves. No more kids' ornaments hanging on the tree was and is just the beginning...and the end.

That serves as the bitter. The sweet? Seeing the enjoyment my grandsons now get pulling foiled Santas and chocolate balls from the very same crudely numbered pockets their mom and aunts once did, counting the days until Santa's arrival. Days that to a child move far too slowly. Days that to a mom—and now a grandma— moved far too fast and somehow, without proper notice, became years.

Today's question:

What holiday ornaments have you passed down to your children?

From Huff/Post50: Who puts baby in a corner? Not this grandma

This post, sans the photos, was originally published on Huff/Post50, my first post as an official Huffington Post blogger.

Different grandmas, different styles

My favorite grandma never spanked me. She also never yelled at me, reprimanded me, restricted me.

My not-so-favorite grandma? Well, she never spanked me, either. She did, though, once make me drink grape juice I didn’t want. I immediately vomited up the purple stuff; Grandma immediately yelled at me for doing so. From that moment on, my “Favorite Grandma” title went to my other grandma—and my “Least Favorite Juice” designation went to grape.

When it came to being disciplined by my grandmothers, things could have been far worse. Back in the day—yes, that day—it was common for grandparents, heck, even neighbors and strangers, not to spare the rod when they deemed necessary, even when it came to children not their own.

I got lucky. Not in that I was a child above reproach and reprimand, but that my grandmothers pretty much left such things to my parents. Except when it came to drinking one’s juice.

Now that I’m a grandma, I consider those grandparenting styles, the disciplinary actions of my grandmothers, as well as the way the grandparents to my own children—my parents, my in-laws—conducted themselves with their grandkids.

The (step) patriarch of my husband’s family regularly swatted upside the heads those grandkids who committed minor infractions. I often wondered as a new member of my husband’s family if his step-dad’s popping kids for this and that was how he became known as “Pop” to the family.

My own mother, grandma to my three daughters, didn’t pop grandkids upside the head, but she often spanked on the rears the children of my younger sisters, regularly made them sit in the corner for misbehaving.

My sister-in-law and my sisters were okay with Pop and Grandma coming down hard on their kids. Both grandparents played a prominent role in helping the single moms raise the kiddos, so that may be why they were given more authority. It worked for their families. To each his own.

I, though, wasn’t okay with such disciplining of my own.

Not that my children were perfect by any means, or that they didn’t deserve to be disciplined upon breaking bad. But if the discipline necessary went beyond a stern look or word, perhaps a slight swat upon a diapered bottom for safety’s sake, we had an unspoken “hands off” policy. Nobody puts my babies in a corner—except for their dad and me.

Yet my husband and I didn’t put our kids in the corner. Nor did we pop them on the head now and then. We did, though, hand out some fairly strict disciplinary action when our daughters needed it. We sent them to their rooms, and we took away privileges. On occasion, we even spanked them.

When it comes to my grandsons, though—ages four-and-a-half and one-and-a-half— spanking, shaming, popping upside one’s head just isn’t my style. I know some grandmas do it, but I won’t. I simply cannot imagine inflicting the slightest bit of pain upon my grandsons.

That doesn’t mean I’ve not inflicted emotional pain, though. Unintentionally, I assure you, just as my not-so-favorite grandma did with the grape juice.

Case in point: As a long-distance grandma, I pack a pretty hefty lot of luggage when I visit my grandsons. In that luggage is always what we call my “Grandma Bag,” filled with crafts, books, and fun to fill the time with the boys. The rule is that my grandsons must wait until I share treasures from my bag, not go into it themselves.

Also in my luggage—as surely applies to many a grandparent—is medication. Pills and more that should never, ever be touched by little ones and one of the reasons my grandsons are not allowed in “Gramma’s room” unless I’m with them.

Most can likely guess what happened: I entered my room one morning to find my oldest grandson sitting on the floor, happily going through the goodies in my Grandma Bag, the bag that had been in my suitcase, right beside those other things he was to never, ever, touch. He peered up at me with a grin over all the fun Gramma had in store—then immediately realized the mistake he’d made. He burst into tears, I calmly reminded him that he’s to never, ever touch Gramma’s things without first asking.

After lots of tears from him and lots of lecturing from me, my grandson apologized for the bad choice he’d made. I, of course, forgave him. The question is, did he forgive me? I know firsthand that grudges toward grandmas can run deep, and I didn’t want my grandson to forever hold against me the Grandma Bag incident.

Regardless of whether my grandson forever revokes from me the “Favorite Grandma” designation or not, I hope he will eventually realize my response could have been far different, could have included a spanking.

With the holidays upon us, what other grandmas might do may be tested. Families will gather, kids will act up. Some grandparents will spank or send kids into corners, some parents will bristle. Or not. To each his own.

I just know that when it comes to my own, nobody puts my grandbabies in a corner—except, maybe, their own mom and dad.

Today's question:

What is your experience with grandparents disciplining your children or you disciplining your own grandchildren?

Granny's buttons

I have two tins of buttons.

One is small and kind of boring. It's filled mostly with spare buttons in plastic packages, thrown into the can for safekeeping in the event a garment needs a replacement.

That small, boring can of buttons is mine.

Then I have a larger tin of buttons. It's filled to the brim with what looks like buttons, but they're actually treasures. Treasures from my mother-in-law, also known as Granny to most anyone who knows her.

Granny's tin of treasures became mine when she was moved into a nursing home a few years ago.

Inside Granny's tin that's now mine are hundreds of buttons. It's hard to imagine the years upon years of outfits losing buttons. Baubles and bits found in the washer or dryer on laundry day, buried deep in shag carpeting of long ago, or dangling frustratingly so by threads as one headed out the door to work, school, or special affairs.

Some of the buttons were surely from Granny's own dresses and blouses. Many more, though, likely wiggled their way off outfits worn by her six children, her first then second husbands, possibly even some from her nearly fifty grandchildren and great-grandchildren who stayed with her now and again.

Granny's tin also holds several cards filled with unused buttons, fancy bits never removed from their original packaging. Looking at them I wonder what plans Granny had for such treasures, plans she never realized for one reason or another.

I now have plans for Granny's buttons, for her treasures. I plan to share them with her many grandchildren. And her great-grandchildren, like Bubby and Mac, as well as her great-great-grandchildren, of which there are, surprisingly, already one or two.

I've not yet finalized the ultimate button-sharing plan, though, the projects I'll create to divide up Granny's buttons to be enjoyed by all. For now, I'm starting off small, passing them along to my children one by one, like this: 

When wrapping Andrea's birthday presents in July, I topped each with a button. One of Granny's buttons. One of Granny's treasures.

Brianna's birthday is this weekend. I'll be doing the same for her. Come Megan's birthday in December, she'll get treasure-topped gifts, too. Maybe my girls can start their own button tins with Granny's buttons.

I've pinned on my Pinterest boards several button project ideas and am still looking for more. Eventually I'll settle on one or two, then set to work sharing Granny's buttons. Her treasures.

In the meantime, I'll keep adding my own buttons and spare button packets to my own small, boring tin. Maybe eventually I'll need a bigger tin. Perhaps one day my tin will be like Granny's—filled to the brim with buttons.

They may look like buttons now, but they may one day be treasures. Treasures for my kids. For my grandkids and their kids, too.

Just like Granny's treasures. Just like Granny's buttons.

Today's question:

What do you do with your spare buttons?

How the news I'd be a grandma broke my heart

I’m continually enthralled by the videos on Facebook and YouTube of moms and dads getting the news from their adult children they will soon be grandparents. They’re always thrilled beyond words, often whooping and hollering for lack of any other way of expressing their joy.

For me, the experience was different. In fact, my heart unexpectedly broke into a thousand pieces when my daughter and son-in-law announced they were pregnant, that I would soon become a grandmother.

Megan and Preston chose to share the good news during a Thanksgiving visit. On their first night in town for the holiday, as our family gathered at a local restaurant, my daughter handed my husband a small, wrapped gift then handed a similar one to me.

“How sweet,” I thought, figuring they’d given us new pictures to hang in the house we’d just moved into a week before.

It was pictures, all right—ultrasound pictures in photo frames personalized for each: “Grandpa’s pride and joy” for my husband; “Grandma’s pride and joy” for me.

The unexpected gift threw me off for a minute, then it sunk in. And I began to cry, right there, in public, with dozens of restaurant patrons watching the scene as my husband and I passed our photo frames to our two other daughters as an explanation for the tears, whoops, hollers, and hugs.

Preston and BubbyI was overjoyed. And heartbroken. At the same time. Two feelings I never knew could co-exist—just the first of many “firsts” in my transition from mother to grandmother.

I was overjoyed for obvious reasons. I’M A GRANDMA! I wanted to shout to the room. The heartbreak, though? My heart was broken in a million pieces amidst the joy because nowhere was there mention that my daughter and son-in-law, who lived 819 miles away, would be relocating to be near me—Grandma.

Throughout the holiday weekend, the news was shared with extended family, always with a bittersweet tinge to my tune of happy tidings. Yes! Hallelujah! I was to be a grandma! But how very, very sad that I’d be a long-distance grandma.

I couldn’t be the only long-distance grandma, I consoled myself again and again that holiday weekend and beyond. But how do they survive? How can they function with huge chunks of their hearts living miles upon miles away?

MacI imagined my daughter, upon giving birth, would change her mind and want to move closer to Mom, to Grandma. I figured she’d convince her husband relocation was required and that idea tided me over for the many months of heartache and worry and yearning.

Then came the birth of my grandson. Labor wasn’t scheduled—though I now understand the advantages of doing so…for Grandma’s sake, of course—so booking a flight that would perfectly coincide with the big day was a gamble. A gamble I lost. My daughter and son-in-law managed to get through the delivery of my sweet grandson, though, and I arrived a week later.

The thrill upon meeting my grandson gives me goose bumps and throat lumps to this day. I cried the moment I saw him and took him in my arms. For a week, his little bundle of a body took turns being passed from Mommy to me. Every once in a while we’d share with others—reluctantly, for sure.

Then came time for me to return home. My husband and I headed to the airport with tear-filled eyes and empty arms. Oh, how the longing overtook my being. I didn’t recall ever feeling so lonesome for someone I’d known for such a short time. For someone I’d known ever, for I’d never before had to be apart from those I love the very most.

The word lonesome didn’t come even close to capturing the desolation I felt for weeks after. I thought again and again that there must be something wrong with other long-distance grandmas because they seemed so normal, so functioning, so accepting of the situation.

Megan and MacI railed against the distance far more than my daughter wanted to hear. She and her husband made their home far away, that was where they would stay, and I would just have to deal. Her words, her sentiments. My challenge.

I accepted the challenge as well as possible, with my mouth shut and my feelings to myself as much as I could bear. My daughter and I agreed to visiting, at a minimum, every other month. Either she and the baby would fly to the mountains, or I would fly to the desert. I was fortunate, I told myself; it’s better than some long-distance grandmas get.

After each visit, each extended period of hugging, touching, squeezing, and loving on my grandson, my arms would physically ache to hold him again. At such times I understood the phantom pains of amputees who had lost important, essential parts of their being.

I couldn’t imagine years of such yearning and hoped my daughter and son-in-law would eventually realize what was best for their son—meaning a grandma who lived locally. I was selfish in wanting that, expecting that, justifying my selfishness by pretending my grandson wanted me as much as I wanted him.

I was crazy. I now know that. Crazy in love—an unrequited love—with my grandson. I needed to get a grip.

Slowly I did.

Little by little the distance became easier. Okay, the distance didn’t become any easier, but my acceptance of the circumstances made the distance easier to bear. I stopped focusing on the times we spent apart and looked forward to the times we’d have together. I learned to keep a strong connection with my grandson—and now my second grandson, brother to the first, too—by whatever means I can find: telephone, Internet, postal service.

And I give thanks for the good fortune of being able to visit with my grandsons often, at either my place or theirs.

When you have no other choice, you do your best with what you've been given. Doing your best heals your broken heart.

Today's question:

How did you get the news you'd be a grandparent? If not a grandparent, how did you share the news with your parents?

Reminders of Grandma

I like to ask my Grilled Grandmas to do things I can't do. Specifically, I like to ask them to provide answers that I myself am not capable of providing.

For instance, when grilling up a grandma, I always ask What do you most want to pass along to your grandchildren? The ever gracious grandmas give profound answers I envy, especially because when I ask myself the same thing, a concise answer evades me.

The Grilled Grandma question I've most recently pondered myself is What is one word you hope your grandkids think of when they think of you? The Grilled Grandmas have offered up some awesome words in the past years of me asking them that. But can I answer that myself? Heck no! One word? You gotta be joking, I told myself.

I can, though, think of a whole list of thingsI hope make Bubby and Mac think of me. Today I'd like to share that list with you—prefaced, though, by a brief disclaimer. As Bubby is older and we've known each other longer, most on the list are things I hope currently remind him of me, but they're things I hope will eventually do the same for Baby Mac. Maybe they already do.

Things I hope remind my grandkids of me

• Colorado—as well as mountains, snow, squirrels, Pikes Peak, and the North Pole

• hugs

• the click, click and flash of a camera

• homemade ice cream

• "You have mail!"

• Mary Poppins, Jungle Book, and Robots

• popcorn—confetti and otherwise

• Raffi

• airports and airplanes

• hot tubs

• Grandma bag

• playing pirates in the park

• "We Will Rock You" (aka the Rock Dog song)

• water balloons

• Muddy Buddies

• black dogs, pointer/pits, and cats

• movie theaters

• Multi-grain Cheerios and Chester's Cheese Puffcorn

Ultimately, though, the only thing that matters does come down to one simple word. That word is Gramma. It's the one word I most want to remind Bubby and Mac of me, the one word by which they know me, the one word that is uniquely me, only me. At least when it comes to only them.

Today's question:

What things do you hope remind your grandchildren or children of you?

Grandma guilt strikes again

Through the 20+ years I spent raising my three daughters, guilt was an emotion I wore reluctantly yet often. Daily, in fact. Obsessively. The list of things I—and other mothers, surely—had to feel guilty about was endless.

Did I nurse long enough? Too long? Eat correctly to make the best breastmilk I could? Oh, I should not have had that beer...or the second one. Did I start them in school too early? Too late? Help them enough with their homework? Or too much? And the clothes, the cool and expensive clothes I couldn't afford! I surely damaaged their self esteem making them wear hand-me-downs. Or rag rollers—that made such adorable hairstyles!—the night before special occasions. Or homemade Halloween costumes instead of the fancy store-bought kind donned by their friends. And I didn't sign up often enough as class party mom. And I made them stop trick-or-treating before their friends did...well, at least poor Brianna, the one we practiced parenting on. Sheesh, the ways we messed up that girl. Well, all the girls because we had them so close together...and we were so broke...and I was so strict. But they did get to have pagers. But it wasn't cell phones...or iPads or even computers. MAN! We didn't have a computer until they were in junior high, and then I rarely let them on it without demanding they spend time with Mavis Beacon to practice their typing before they were allowed to play VidGrid. VidGrid? Oh, yeah, I surely warped them letting them watch music videos. Well, in the later years, that is, because I had the parental lock on MTV when they were younger. Was that right to do? And was it right to make them be home for dinner every single night? Go out for at least one sport per school year? Get a job at 16? But not be allowed to work on Sundays because they had to go to church and be there for Sunday dinner? We made them pay for their car insurance, but we didn't pay for driving lessons. Oh, I just KNOW it warped them in some way for me to teach them to drive for the first time in the cemetery. But at least they couldn't kill anyone there. How horrible of me to say that...in front of them. And how horrible to demand they go to college for AT LEAST one semester before deciding if college was or was not for them. Maybe they weren't cut out for college? Maybe the student loan debt was too much for them. Maybe I was too much for them.

I know the guilt was too much for me. Patience and energy and money are all easily exhausted for parents, but guilt? Guilt continues to grow and multiply and take over one's days. At least a mom's days—and nights, feeling guilty about all those things we may have forgotten to feel guilty about during the day.

Thankfully those guilt-ridden mommy days and nights are over for me. And, fortunately, guilt-ridden isn't a defining trait of the grandma gig. That's not to say it's non-existent, though. The past couple weeks I've been faced with a bit of grandma guilt, an especially nagging grandma guilt when it comes to Baby Mac, my second grandson.

Baby Mac will celebrate his first birthday in a couple weeks. The creative invitation designed like a ticket to a baseball game came in the mail over the weekend. Megan has told me of all the bits and pieces going into the baseball-themed affair, and it sounds like it'll be a home run for pleasing ball-loving Baby Mac and entertaining all in attendance.

Thing is, I won't be attending. And I feel horribly guilty about that. Yes, I'm a long-distance grandma so such absences are to be expected. But I was (and am) a long-distance grandma with Bubby, too, and I managed to attend every single one of his birthday celebrations. There have been only three so far, but I was there for them all. Photographed them all. Sang "Happy Birthday" to my grandson at all.

But I won't be doing that for Baby Mac. Because he—and his brother—will be visiting my house for an extended stay just a few weeks after his birthday. So it's silly to pay the money to fly 815 miles to the desert to sing Happy Birthday, eat some cake, take some photos. We'll just have a second party at Gramma and PawDad's when the boys arrive for their visit.

Actually, we'll have two birthday parties when the boys visit in June, because Bubby's birthday is mere days before the boys come to the mountains, so we'll have one for him, too. We have a fun activities planned: one will include a dinosaur museum visit; one will feature a visit to my sister's ranch so the boys can ride Shetland ponies. Aunt B and Aunt Andie will get to attend. It will be awesome.

But I still feel guilty. For not attending my second grandson's very first birthday party. Well, and for not attending my first grandson's fourth birthday party. Their real parties. The ones Mom has planned for both boys. At their own home, with their own friends.

Grandma guilt. There's nothing worse.

Except, of course, mommy guilt.

Today's question:

How does grandma guilt compare to mommy guilt in your life?

Missing the ordinary everydayness

Now that my kids are long grown and long gone, I occasionally miss the little things about having kids in our midst. Like watching them fully engaged in and enjoying ordinary, everyday activities. No posing or posturing, just playing.

Fortunately I have Megan to text me photos of ordinary everyday moments that, to a grandmother, are not that ordinary at all anymore and are truly something special to see.

To wit, scenes from a recent playdate—an afternoon hosted by Bubby and Baby Mac, featuring a car wash, snack time, and play pals:

So cool to see Baby Mac hanging with the big kids. And Bubby, too, obviously relishing his role as king of festivities.

Today's question:

What ordinary everydayness do you miss from your childrearing years?

Once upon an unstable grandma

Based on a long-ago experience and a memory forever ingrained in my mind, I for many years felt sorry for a childhood friend because of her grandma's instability and erratic behavior. It's only since becoming a grandma myself that I've realized that particular grandmother was not only stable as stable can be, but that I've acted just like her on occasion.

I lived in Minnesota and was in second or third grade at the time of the incident. On one particular bus ride from my school in town back to the farming community in which my family and several others lived, I was filled with excitement and anticipation. On this particular day I wouldn't be getting off the bus at my house with my siblings because I had the grand privilege of disembarking a few stops from my own for an afternoon of fun at my friend Lynn's house for the very first time.

Lynn, my beautiful friend with long, straight, brunette hair—which she always wore high up on her head in the most marvelous of buns or braids or "high ponytails" I could never manage to make stay put on my own head—had full reign of her house as an only child. And it was her live-in grandma who cared for her each afternoon. Such a very different scenario from my own house, where I was third oldest in a line of seven kids, and my oldest brother and sister ruled the roost each afternoon until Mom and Dad got home from business in town.

Lynn and I chattered excitedly and held hands throughout the lengthy bus ride. When we got off at her stop, we raced down the dirt drive to her house and dashed right through the front door and into the kitchen. Which was empty. And quiet. I found the bare room and the silence unnerving, but Lynn simply smiled and called out for her grandmother. After a few moments and no response, Lynn started tiptoeing from room to room, calling "Grandma." No answer. Not in the living room, the hallway, the bathroom. Not upstairs or down.

Lynn seemed unfazed. I, though, was certain her grandmother had fallen somewhere and was hurt or had been gagged, bound and locked away in the attic by a dastardly drifter who'd entered Lynn's home with murder on his mind. Or worse, I feared the ghosts my older sister swore haunted the fields of the farms had spirited Lynn's poor grandma away.

Of course I didn't share such horrific thoughts with my friend. I didn't want to scare her.

Lynn, still smiling, nonchalantly led me to her bedroom to—unbelievably in the midst of such circumstances—engage in our pre-planned afternoon play. But suddenly, as we were nearly to Lynn's room, a closet door flew wide open and banged against the wall. Then her grandmother, dressed in a full grandma housecoat as grandmas really once wore, jumped out in front of us and shrieked, "Boo! I gotcha!"

Scared. The. <cuss>. Out. Of. Me.

Lynn, though, just giggled at Grandma's antics and gave her a hug. She introduced me to the manic woman, answered the questions that followed regarding our school day, then went on her merry way arranging dolls and toys for us to play with until it was time for me to head home.

I no longer wanted to stay. I no longer wanted to play. I no longer envied Lynn and her single-child status. Her grandma was nuts. She had to be, as grandmas just don't act like that. At least not any grandmas I knew.

My grandmas were normal. They loved me, I have no doubt, as they they hugged me and smiled each time I saw them. Then they'd settle into conversation with Mom or Dad or other nearby adults, all while I admired them from afar. They didn't converse directly with me. Or read books with me. Or cook with me. Or play games with me. And they most definitely didn't hide from me, after school or otherwise, and come shrieking out of hall closets scaring the bejeezus out of my friends.

They were as normal and good as grandmas come.

Or so I thought.

Now that I'm a grandma, though, what I thought was normal and good when it comes to grandmas has changed significantly. What I, as a grandma, think grandmas should be is nothing like what my normal grandmas were.

Seems I lean a little more toward favoring the unstable sort of grandmothering.

Now that I'm a grandma, I have hidden from Bubby many a time. It's all prearranged and part of giggle-filled games of hide-and-seek, of course (he is not yet even four years old). But hiding from one another is one of our favorite things to do. We also have dedicated discussions that don't include Mom or Dad. We read together. We cook together. We play games together. And we laugh like <cuss> together—something I don't remember ever doing with my own grandmothers.

It's in seeing the grandma gig from the grandma perspective that I finally—after literally decades of wondering why social services or other family members didn't step in to save my friend—realized that Lynn's grandma wasn't unstable at all. She was just a very different kind of grandma than my grandmas.

My grandmas were elders loved and respected from afar, while Lynn's grandma was an up-close and personal kind of grandma. A fun kind of grandma. She obviously was a responsible grandmother who cared daily for her grandchild, but she also did fun things, silly things, things my grandmas would never ever have done.

Lynn's grandma was the kind of grandma I've caught myself being sometimes.

Unstable or not, she's the kind of grandma I want to be all times.

Today's question:

What kind of grandmas were your grandmothers?

Grandma was a bully

I'm ashamed to admit that I was a sixth-grade bully. As an individual, I didn't have the personality to be a bully on my own. But in a group, I was just as guilty as the others of hurtful and hateful acts upon fellow students.

Two acts stand out in my memory:

• Once when the teacher had left the room for a bit, my classmates and I managed to hang a shorter classmate from a classroom doorknob by the band of his underwear. The bigger and tougher boys grabbed him and hung him while many of us girls giggled not only at the boys doing the dirty deed, but at the poor kid grasping for all he could to get down from the door knob and away from the embarrassment.

• Even worse was the time a group of us yet-to-develop girls decided to prove a bra-wearing and seemingly better developed girl in the class stuffed her bra. We decided to do the big reveal in front of some boys just to show them that she wasn't as endowed as she seemed and they could stop ogling her and her fakery. Turned out, much to our chagrin and her traumatic embarrassment, that her breasts were indeed real.

How very, very horrible we were.

At the time, these incidents were no big deal to me despite how painful they must have been to the ones we bullied. Since then, as a mother, as a grandmother, it breaks my heart that I participated in such cruelty. I'm sincerely sorry for what I did, but apologies make no difference for the damage and hurt that was done.

Such transgressions have crossed my conscience many a time in the decades since, but they've been especially top of mind since watching the following trailer. Released in select areas in March, Bully is a movie we all should see, consider, share.

As parents and grandparents, we can't shy away from doing our part to prevent bullying and to stop bullying when we see or suspect it—especially if we once were a bully or bullied ourselves. Find more info on the Bully movie Facebook page.

Today's question:

Were you ever a bully or bullied?

Easter in an empty nest: 9 no longers

1. No longer do I set out Easter decorations. At least not this year. Maybe next year. Or maybe at least a centerpiece for Easter dinner this year. Maybe.

2. No longer do I buy Easter outfits.

3. No longer do I referee arguments during egg coloring over who got the purple first, who dipped their "dirty" blue spoon into the yellow, and who is copying whom on the designs drawn with crayons.

4. No longer do I have three girls in the pew next to me covering their ears so they don't jump at the strepitus at the end of the Good Friday Tenebrae service.

5. No longer do I remind my daughters at bedtime on Easter eve to make "nests" with their baby afghans for their baskets so the Easter Bunny can easily find them for filling in the night.

6. No longer do I nibble on carrots left for the Easter Bunny.

7. No longer do I play Easter Bunny at all.

8. No longer am I awakened Easter morning by little ones—or big ones—tiptoeing down the stairs to see what the Easter Bunny left in their baskets.

9. No longer do I have to say again and again and again to "Put the candy away NOW and go get ready for church."

I miss all that.

Well, maybe not No. 9.

Because I still say that.

Only now I say it to Jim.

Again and again and again.

(Just for old time's sake.)

Today's question:

How has Easter changed for you in the last few years?