Bubby's terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day

Today is Bubby's birthday. He's two. Instead of partying til the cows come home, though -- or the javelinas, as the case may be in the desert -- Bubby is recovering from what Megan said he surely must consider the very worst day of his life.

Bubby woke up early Wednesday morning with a fever of 104.7. That's one-hundred-four-point-seven! Panic level. Mama Megan called the doctor and the doctor said, "Get him in."

So in Bubby and Megan went, and for the next several hours Bubby underwent a strep test, blood tests, chest X-rays, and two attempts at collecting urine via a catheter. Poor baby. In fact, toward the end of the long, long visit, Bubby expressed his dismay to Megan by telling his mommy, "Baby sad. Baby sad."

Right off the bat, Bubby tested positive for strep. The quest for proof of a UTI causing the high fever went unresolved as the timing of the catheter insertion never seemed to coincide with the call of nature. The results from the blood tests and chest X-rays were ordered STAT and sure to arrive within two hours, Megan was told. But apparently STAT doesn't mean what it used to, so after spending about five hours at the doctor's office and various labs, Megan was told to just take Bubby home and she'd be called with the results.

Just before 5 p.m. the call came and the diagnosis was given. Turns out Bubby has something in one of his lungs called "air-space disease" that either has developed or may develop into pneumonia. To me, "air-space disease" sounds a little like some covert operation NORAD should be involved in, but I guess that's not the case. According to Wikipedia, air-space disease "is a general term that described edema and exudates in the airspaces of the lung (the acini and alveoli)." Clear as mud, I say.

Seems the blood tests confirm there's something definitely going on, as they show "a high number of the blood cells that fight infection."

Treatment is the same as if Bubby indeed has pneumonia: round after round of amoxycillin, Motrin and Tylenol. Of course, Bubby didn't want to take the first dose, so Megan followed the technique of effective mothers throughout history: She threatened him. "If you don't take this," she told him, "we will have to go right back to the doctor." Bubby swallowed the yucky stuff in no time flat.

End of terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. Sort of. That night wasn't all that wonderful either, Megan reported.

That was Wednesday, this is Friday. Today Bubby returns to the doctor for a follow-up. I'm crossing my fingers it's a far less painful day than Wednesday. And I'm crossing my fingers Bubby will be up and at 'em by next week. For that's when the real birthday partying til the javelinas come home -- or the two-year-olds wear out -- is scheduled.

And that's when Grandma and Grandpa are scheduled to arrive to hug and kiss and cuddle a hopefully no longer sad baby, and to wish him the most wonderful, pleasant, all happy, very good birthday ever!

Happy birthday to the bright and beautiful Bubby who totally rocks this grandma's world!

Today's question:

What's the worst medical procedure you've undergone?

One less worry?

Now that my girls are grown, I've found there are fewer things to worry about. One of the biggies, which struck me just this morning, is that if I were to die, I don't have to worry about the guardianship of my daughters.

The morbid thought crossed my mind as I read a news article about Elizabeth Edwards doing all she can to keep her slimy, soon-to-be-ex husband's mistress from becoming step-mother and co-guardian of her young children, ages 12 and 10, once she dies. Seems poor Elizabeth's health has taken a slight turn for the worse so she's scrambling for legal ways to protect her kids, even going so far as to consider having her 28-year-old daughter raise the younger ones.

That's a pretty heavy load to lay on the 28-year-old. I couldn't imagine doing the same to Brianna, who's basically the same age. But with my kids all consecutive ages, that was never a consideration. No, I worried about who'd take in the trio -- who I would want to take in the trio -- if tragedy took me and Jim at the same time, leaving my girlies as orphans.

We did write up legal documents naming the person several years ago. It was about 15 years ago, just before Jim and I went skydiving. Although we rode in separate planes and jumped at separate times, being an overprotective crazy mama with an overactive imagination, I wasn't willing to take any chances. So we wrote up a will, primarily addressing the guardianship of our pre-teen daughters.

It was an unbelievably difficult choice to make. Jim and I have lots of family, lots of potential guardians to choose from. But some had very different parenting techniques that we didn't want to subject the girls to, others had such limited means and overwhelming stressors already that we didn't want to add three little girls to the mix. We eventually chose, but luckily it's now a moot point. Jim and I survived to see the girls become self-sufficient. We don't need to name anyone to care for our kids upon our death.

Whew! One less thing to worry about.

But wait -- now there's Bubby. Have Megan and Preston made a final decision on who will take care of him if tragedy were to strike? I know they've talked about it, gone back and forth on it, worried about it. But are there legal documents to guarantee their wishes will be honored? That I worry about.

And what about Brianna's kids? She'll likely get married soon, likely have kids soon after that. What will she and her husband choose to do?

And what about Andrea? Yeah, she's not even dating anyone right now. And, yeah, she's flat out told me she doesn't want kids. But you never know. She probably oughta start considering such things. Just in case.

Yes, I'm a worrier. I admit it. And now that I've thought it out, written it down, I guess there really isn't less to worry about as a I get older, there are just different things to worry about. The worry about my own children has now been replaced with worrying about my grandchildren ... and my granchildren-to-be.

There is indeed one less worry, though. At least I don't have to worry that my slimy, soon-to-be-ex husband's mistress will become step-mother and co-guardian of my young children.

It's unfortunate that Elizabeth Edwards, who has so many other worries at this time, wasn't afforded that same consideration.

Today's question:

What's one thing you used to worry about that you no longer do?

Failure analysis

I recently received in the mail an unsolicited copy of "Raising Happiness: 10 Simple Steps For More Joyful Kids And Happier Parents" by Christine Carter, Ph.D. The accompanying form letter was addressed "Dear Blogger." Such letters tucked inside of complimentary copies of books are a subtle request for a review. Which is okay ... but this is not a review.

I will eventually review Ms. Carter's book -- or at least use it for blog fodder and mention it kindly. But I've not yet been able to focus on the book innards because I've been entranced by one of the quotes on the book jacket and can't seem to move my mind and heart forward. Which is weird. And something I can't really explain. So I'm spewing forth here in hopes of expunging whatever it is that has me so emotionally invested in a silly book jacket quote.

Thing is, it's not so silly. Here's the quote, or at least the part that caught my attention: "The learning curve for all parents is in failure analysis -- where and how we went off course -- and how we can do better the next go-round." This said by Michael Riera, Ph.D. and author of "Field Guide to the American Teenager" and "Right from Wrong."

I never knew there was a technical term for figuring out how we screwed up, at least a term used for our parenting screw-ups. But "failure analysis" it must be; I guess I just failed to read the right books that would have provided me that term earlier in the parenting process. Yet I'm having a rough time wrapping my head around that term. It's so cold, so technical, so corporate and so much feels like a term used to describe a failed rocket launching in which everyone aboard perished.

I have to admit that it scares me to look back on my parenting and analyze where I failed. Overall I'm a success -- my girls are grown, living on their own, paying their own bills, and semi-sorta-kinda succeeding in their relationships -- but I know I've failed in many, many ways. I never deluded myself into thinking otherwise. In fact, I've felt like a failure more often than a success. But isn't that how all parents feel: like they certainly could have done better? We give it our all but are pretty darn sure that somewhere, somehow we could have done just a little bit more, been at least a smidgen better.

So I don't know ... I'm hesitant to crack the cover of "Raising Happiness" because it'll likely point out all the ways I really, truly failed to raise happy girls. And it just might be in the areas in which I thought I did okay.

I guess it comes down to this: I'm not ready to perform failure analysis on my parenting skills. My little ones so recently flew the nest that I think I need to take a bit of a break before dissecting and analyzing.

Especially because, despite the second half of that quote, the part about "how we can do better the next go-round," there is no next go-round. I don't get another chance. What's done is done and I definitely will not be throwing out my first set of kids as if they were the cussed up first waffles that didn't form correctly and now I can cook up a batch that comes out better.

Or is that what grandchildren are supposed to be? The second batch?

I guess I should start reading "Raising Happiness" sooner rather than later, just in case. Because Bubby just may be my "next go-round."

And I sure don't want to dread the failure analysis with my grandchildren to the degree that I am with my kids.

*Stay tuned for an eventual review of "Raising Happiness" by Christine Carter.

Today's question:

Forget the "failure analysis," what's one really good/successful thing you've done in your life?

My answer: I've remained an optimist.

Enunciate the love

Bubby has no problem showing his best bud Ro-Ro how much he loves him!I recently read "Just Let Me Lie Down: Necessary Terms For The Half-Insane Working Mom" by Kristin van Ogtrop, which I received free for participation in the SV Moms Group Book Club. (SV Moms Group is the umbrella group under which I write for the Rocky Mountain Moms Group occasionally.)

Kristin van Ogtrop is the editor of Real Simple magazine, which means she's a high-power working gal. In her book, she has lots to say about balancing work and life issues, or at least coming to terms with the fact that balance is an elusive thing for most working mothers. A lot of what she has to say is interesting, most of it's witty, tiny bits of it left me scratching my head.

One tiny bit that stood out as a head-scratcher for me is a comment van Ogtrop made about saying "I love you." The context is that it's a chapter in which she talks about the strangeness of realizing she may possibly love a coworker. Love as in motherly love, friendly love, not some sordid office romance type of love. First she confesses, "I am not a big 'I love you' person," then a few paragraphs later she says this:

"Many people who rise to leadership positions do so in part because they can control their emotions (see Emotional tourniquet, p. 63). Sometimes I think the only reason I have been hired to run a magazine is because I'm able to remember to keep a box of tissues in my office and I can usually remain dry-eyed while others around me burst into tears. I'm sure there are individuals I work with who pity my children, raised as they are by a woman who appears to have no emotions but the occasional flash of anger. To those colleagues: I assure you, I do tell my children and my husband that I love them. At least every once in a while."

It's those last couple sentences that caught my attention. I'm sure van Ogtrop isn't dead serious about the "every once in a while" part, but it made me consider how often the "I love you"s are thrown around in my family.

I come from a family where "I love you" was rarely said; my dad still says it only in third person ("Your dad loves ya"). I wanted things to be different in the family Jim and I created, and it is. We say "I love you" all the time, possibly so often that it has lost its oomph.

It started off when the girls were little that after bedtime prayers there'd be "Goodnight, I love you." Then, when they left the house it'd be "Have fun. Be safe. I love you!" Now it's the last thing we say at the end of telephone calls: "I love you. Bye!"

Even Bubby -- who, as a typical 22-month-old, still has a relatively limited word reportoire -- has learned the phrase. As we wrapped up our most recent Skyping conversation, he said "Bye!" followed by a mumbled "ahwhuhwhoo." Translation from Megan: "That's his 'I love you.'"

"Ahwhuhwhoo"s notwithstanding, most of our family phone calls are now end with what sounds much like "love-ya-bye!" as we all lead busy lives and rush to get off the phone so we can move along to the other dire matters that fill our days.

And I don't like that. Sure, the sentiment is still there, but this is an instance in which it's not just the thought that counts. It's the saying it like you mean it that counts.

So going forward (gotta love that corporate phrase left over from corporate days) I plan to enunciate, to say it like I mean it. Because I do mean it. More than anything else in my life. I love my girls, my husband, my Bubby.

And my readers.

I love you!

Bye!

Extra special bonus because I love you guys: I received two copies of "Just Let Me Lie Down" by Kristin van Ogtrop to give away. Enter to win one in the Back Room.

Today's question:

In an average day, how many times do you say "I love you"?

My answer: Probably five or six times.

Mars and scars

Bubby had an accident a couple days ago: Running out to the car with Mommy, he bit it ... on asphalt ... HOT, desert asphalt.

It was his first big owie to leave a mark. Megan wrote on her blog,* "To my horror there was blood covering his poor, no longer perfect, 21 month old knee."

Bubby was okay but he's now marred, no longer perfect.

Those of you who have been a mom a while know that although this was pretty traumatic for Megan -- and Bubby -- this owie will fade, not only on Bubby's knee, but in memory, too.

But, sorry to say, Megan, there are bigger owies to come, ones that will make Bubby's skinned knee pale (probably even disappear) in comparison. Years from now you won't recall this bloody "mess," as Bubby kept calling it. What you'll recall are the bigger owies, the ones that leave lifelong scars.

I vividly recall the first scarring incident with Brianna. She was 15 months old and running around the living room of our small apartment. (Crazy kid started walking at 9 months!) It was all fun and games, of course, until she got hurt -- falling into the corner of the coffee table, gashing open her face near her eyebrow ... and narrowly missing her eye! Blood, blood, blood! Everywhere! It was my first experience with facial cuts -- which bleed like mad -- and my first experience with a seriously wounded baby. It was pretty horrible. And it's the reason why we did without a coffee table for years and years and years. Even now, as a grandma, my coffee table is ROUND with no corners waiting to gash open little faces.

Megan's first scar came on a little less fast and furious but involved surgery. Like I've said before, Megan was always destined to be a mom. She loved kids younger than her from Day One, especially her younger cousins. She played with them, mothered them and carried them around -- and got a hernia to underscore my rants that she shouldn't be lifting the little ones when she was just a little one herself. I can't remember how old she was ... maybe 6 or so ... but my little Meggie actually had to have surgery to repair a hernia at that young age and still has the scar to prove her early mothering inclinations.

The scars with Brianna and Megan were fairly traumatic for me as a mommy, for them as kiddos. But my poor Andie had, without a doubt, the absolute worst initiation into scarring.

It started off painless enough: Andie had warts. She had warts on her hands, she had warts in a spot just below her bottom lip. They weren't huge warts, but they were getting bigger and the doctor decided my 5-year-old Andie needed them removed -- by burning them off. She'd only feel the pin prick of the shot to numb her, he promised, so we went ahead with it.

The warts on her hands were no big deal; the ones on her face required me and a nurse to hold her down for the shot right into her chin ... which obviously hurt my baby like hell. After a moment or two to let the numbing kick in, the doctor had me stand at the head of the table and firmly hold Andie's head down while he approached her face with the burning hot rod (this was before the harmless lasers). When he touched her face with it she SCREAMED! The numbing stuff hadn't numbed her as promised and my baby could feel the burning. Quickly the doctor announced we were already there and needed to go forward as Andie would never in a million years allow us to attempt such a thing again. So as I held down my little girl, with tears streaming down her face and mine and the nurse doing all she could to hold Andie's mouth closed and stifle the screams so the doctor could do his job, the warts were burned off. And that horrible scene was burned into both my memory and my baby girl's, leaving not only physical scars, but emotional ones, too.

So yeah, Megan, poor Bubby is marred. But at least this time it took only an Elmo Band-Aid to make it all better. Appreciate those little mars; with scars, it's not so easy.

*Megan's blog is called "Oh Schmidt!" and, naturally, features pictures of precious Bubby -- and uses his real name ... which is a little odd since I promised to never use his real name on Grandma's Briefs. Anyway, you're welcome to visit there, if you'd like.

Today's question:

How did you get your first scar and where is it?

My answer: My first scar was on my lip. When I was about 4 years old, I fell on the blade of one of those old-time ice cream makers that had real metal blades to scrape the insides of the can. If I use my tongue to press out my bottom lip, you can still see it. (I don't use my tongue to press out my bottom lip very often as it not only shows my scar, it makes me look like a monkey!)

Bubby mama

The majority of my posts here on Grandma's Briefs are devoted to Bubby. But today I want to take just a moment to talk about Megan, Bubby's mom, and share a little about the one responsible for creating my cool and kooky grandkid.

Megan always seemed destined to be a mom, but she continually surprises me with the ease at which she manages the job.

Megan's heart is wrapped around Bubby and even in the midst of fits, fights, temper tantrums and time outs -- all part and parcel of the terrible twos -- Bubby never doubts his mama loves him. And because she models unconditional love for him, he never fails to show her he feels the same, even when he's angry ... or crabby ... or tired ... or just plain ol' (nearly) two years old.

Megan allows Bubby space to grow, space to take chances, space to fall down, pick himself up, brush himself off and start all over again.

When he's unable to pick himself up, Megan's there in a flash, hugging and rocking and kissing his owies ... or making him kiss his own owies, which elicits bursts of laughter and the realization that he'll be just fine.

Megan plays, laughs and wonders with Bubby on his level. Yet she never fails to discipline him when it's warranted, praise him when it's genuine, demand kindness and caring, respect and sharing always.

Megan's a wonderful and wacky mother and I'm so very proud of her for embracing and enjoying her role of a lifetime.

Today's question:

What's one great thing you remember your mom doing for you?

My answer: She sewed cheerleading outfits for myself and the other girls on the junior high squad even though she was working full time and pretty much a single mom of seven at the time. I realize now how absolutely crazy my request for her to do the sewing must have made her, but she did it without complaint.

Care and keys

Bubby's "cared" face.Bubby has learned a new word. More importantly, he's learned how to use that word to identify an emotion -- which is pretty high-level stuff, if you ask me ... even though it was the low-level "Yo Gabba Gabba" that initiated his intellectual leap.

Here's the story, according to Megan: Bubby and his friend Ro-Ro were recently watching the Nick Jr. show "Yo Gabba Gabba," something Bubby hadn't seen much of but Ro-Ro was a dedicated fan. At one point, Ro-Ro pointed out to Bubby how scary one of the characters is. "Scare, scare" he said again and again to Bubby, using his vocabulary that's nearly as limited as Bubby's to make it perfectly clear the character wasn't one he or Bubby should ever want to share their Teddy Grahams with.

Fast forward to naptime the next day. Bubby slept for a bit, then Megan heard him singing and playing and happily entertaining himself in his crib afterward. Being the psycho playful mommy she is, Megan decided to surprise Bubby by quickly swinging open his bedroom door to enthusiastically welcome him back to the land of the awake.

Instead, she scared the hell out of the poor kid. And he now, thanks to Ro-Ro and "Yo Gabba Gabba," knew how to express his fear with something more than a scream. Wide-eyed and staring at his crazy mommy, Bubby sadly uttered, "care ... care, Mommy." He was scared -- and he knew how to use the word "scare" to identify that.

Of course Megan felt awful and apologized again and again to her frightened little boy. But he was more than frightened -- he was empathetic to Megan's discomfort at startling her baby so he sweetly smiled at her as if to say "It's okay, Mommy." Then he held out his little arms and said, "keeze," which in the Bubby household means "squeeze," the condensed version of "let's hug and make everything all better."

Sounds like a simple exchange between mommy and son, but it speaks volumes about Bubby's development.

My only question: Why in the world is there such a creepy character on a kids' show that it teaches them how to identify their feelings of fright? Or is that just how kids learn such things nowadays?

I guess learning from creepy TV characters is better than being able to do nothing more than scream and cry when Psycho Mommy bursts into your bedroom unannounced.

Today's question:

What television show do you remember being scared by as a kid?

My answer: "The Twilight Zone" (the original one) -- specifically the episode where the main character keeps seeing changes in a painting on the wall, where a grave is being dug deeper, and deeper and deeper. Scary stuff!

It's starting ...

Megan was by far my most difficult child, at least during the school years. It wasn't because she was a bratty kid who never listened and tested me at every turn. No, it's because she was so darn super-hyper sensitive. And that tested me at every turn.

Megan was crushed by the slightest of slights. Whether it was her new baby sister looking at her older sister 30 seconds longer than she looked at Megan, the new dog wanting to run around the yard instead of letting Megan scratch his belly, a teacher exclaiming over another child's artwork when Megan had worked so hard on her own, or a friend having another friend ... and actually talking to that friend in Megan's presence, she continually had a broken heart and collapsed in tears the moment it was safe (meaning no one but immediate family was around to witness the meltdown).

Because of the perceived potential for heart-crushing, Megan entered new situations cautiously. Joining in was not her forte. And when she did join in, it took a lot of thinking about it, a lot of internal preparation, and a lot of coaxing from her mom. Megan has a long list of extracurricular activities and accomplishments that highlighted her school years (and beyond), but man was it ever difficult getting her through those activities with her -- and my -- sanity intact.

Well guess what? Bubby has started to show some of the same tendencies. His heart's not crushed as easily as Megan's, but he takes a while to warm up to new situations, to venture forth, to join in.

"He's, well, timid," Megan told me the other day, after explaining a difficult time at an indoor play park.

Timid is not what Megan thought she'd be getting with a boy. In fact, I think (but I'm sure Megan would never admit it) that she wanted a boy so much more than she wanted a girl as her starter child because she knew the hell heartbreak that accompanies oversensitive girls.

But she has Bubby. Sweet, silly, happy Bubby, who's the fearless king of his castle, but outside the walls of that castle, he's hesitant about new places and faces. He needs time to fully vet them, to make sure all's safe and sound. Just like his mom, he needs a little coaxing.

Oh, and he needs to ensure that Mom is and will continue to be nearby.

I feel for Bubby, and I feel for Megan being so vexed by his being exactly like her timidity. I encourage her to let him take it slow, don't force him into the unknown, don't get angry. He'll come around.

But behind the words of encouragement, my mean-mom self is doing an internal happy dance and shouting, "Yes! YES! It's starting! That legendary curse of children exacting upon their moms the very same horrors the moms once caused for their mothers is finally starting to come true."

Payback is mine, all mine! Having a boy instead of a girl didn't release my distressing darling  daughter from the age-old curse. Yes!

There is some consolation for Megan, though. She's fortunate she won't have to deal with the increased insanity that comes with periods and PMS.

At least not with Bubby. But she best beware: She hails from a female-laden lineage, so I have no doubt there's a little girl in her future.

And to that I can only offer these words of encouragement: Be afraid, Megan. Be very afraid!

Today's question:

If you had the opportunity (or nerve) to apologize to your mom for just one thing you did while growing up, what would it be?

My answer: I'd apologize for not going back to pick up the muffler that fell off her old but oh-so-necessary car in the middle of traffic while I was driving it as a teen. I would have been too embarrassed to get it, so instead, I created more stress and financial worry for my already stressed and cash-strapped mama. I'm sorry, Mom!

The girls and the boys

Jim and I have three daughters. To us, they've always been "the girls."

From this ...

to this ...

... they've always been and always will be "the girls." My girls. Our girls.

Megan lives in a different world. She has "the boys."

 

More and more often, Megan's conversations are sprinkled with references to "the boys" or "my boys."

 

She thrives on the maleness of her little clan. Which I find interesting because Megan was always our girly girl, the one I thought would anxiously await a daughter to dress cute, talk with, shop with.

But no, when she was pregnant, she made it very clear that she wanted a boy. And she got all boy in Bubby.

With that, she now has her boys.

And I can almost hear the sound of her heart expanding with pride each time she says "my boys" over the phone.

Megan and Preston hope to give Bubby a sibling in the next year or two. My question: What if it's a girl? Having raised only one gender, I'm not exactly sure how that works.

Today's question:

What's the makeup of your birth family? All girls or were there boys in the mix? And how did that work?

My answer: I have six siblings. There are five girls and two boys. As kids, it wasn't a gender issue, it was more of the "big kids" versus the "little kids." Poor Jennifer, the middle child, was the "lig," much to her dismay.

Becoming Mama

On Sunday morning, Valentine's Day, the phone rang and it was Megan (I love caller ID!). Awww, I thought, she's calling to wish me Happy Valentine's Day.

I pick up the phone and here's what she says: "I'm just calling to let you know that I'm becoming my mother." All said with a slight smile ... and an obvious tinge of disdain.

"Oh, really?" I asked cautiously. Could it be that she's beating the hell out of Bubby with a hanger? Feeding him crushed glass for breakfast? Zipping up his tummy in his sleeper or dislocating his elbow as she put on his clothes? All things I did to the girls, of course, warranting the tinge of disdain in her voice.

(Okay, yeah, I really did do the last two but it was so totally by accident ... and left me horrified at the time, guilt-ridden for years ... and afraid of dressing my children during cold-weather months when the clothing is bulky, tight and zipper laden.)

"I'm making pink heart pancakes for Valentine's Day breakfast," Megan replied.

Oh, THAT horrible kind of thing that I did on a regular basis. It's crystal clear now and I can so understand her disdain and fear of becoming her mother.

Ha, ha, ha. We laughed about it. And we laughed about the ways we're both a little concerned about becoming our mothers.

Which is fairly common, of course. I remember my mom telling me and my sisters, "If I ever become like my mother, you better tell me." It's something I now say to my own girls after doing the spider hands gesture or the "If I Were A Rich Man" jig. (Not that I don't love ya, Mom! But you know how it is ... !)

Nothing new there. We've all read it, heard it, said it countless times before.

The thing that I find interesting about every woman's fear of becoming her mother, though, is that there's also the desire to do everything just like grandma. Books, blogs, newscasts and more mention doing this and that "just like Grandma" or following the sage advice that "Grandma used to always say ...".

Our grandmas are the wise women of the clan; our mothers are those wacky women rife with idiosyncricies that we'd rather die than imitate.

But I'm both. I'm a grandma ... and I'm a mother.

So which is it?

And at what point do our crazy mothers become our venerated sage-meisters, the women we want to cook like, clean like, love like? And not just on a personal level, but on a societal level, as a collective?

I don't get it. And I don't know whether to just bite my tongue and bide my time until I reach the sage-meister stage of life. This part of motherhood vs. grandmahood has me flummoxed.

You go ahead and ponder that and let me know your thoughts. In the meantime, the homemade heart-shaped muffin I was warming in the microwave just dinged and I'm ready to dig in to my leftover Valentine's Day breakfast.*

Today's question:

What's one way you're like your mother? And is that a good thing or a bad thing?

My answer: When I'm in a group of strangers or people I don't know very well, I talk ... way too much. And say stupid things. My mom is a talker, which is fine and good and ensures there are never any uncomfortable silences at any point ... ever. But I'm generally a much more introverted person who appreciates silence a whole lot more than I appreciate babbling just to fill conversational gaps, so I internally kick myself each and every time I do it. Which means, I guess, that, for me, it's a bad thing.

*I didn't really make heart-shaped muffins for Valentine's Day breakfast -- but only because I realized at the last minute that I didn't have any cupcake/muffin liners and the festive suggestion from Grandma Lizzie wouldn't work without liners. There's always next year!