Can he hear me now?

For the past month or so, Megan and I have had several conversations regarding Bubby's speech. Sometimes it seems he has a vast vocabulary; other times it seems he's regressing in his ability to pronounce words.

Bubby's preschool teacher casually mentioned to Megan that she might consider speech therapy for Bubby. When I heard that, I suggested that the first thing she should do is have his hearing checked. When Andrea was young, she had speech problems, all related to too many ear infections and an ignorant doctor who refused to put tubes in her ears, despite my insistence. (She eventually got the tubes as well as speech therapy and is now a masterful speaker.)

During my recent visit to the desert, it became clear that the fears and worries about Bubby's ability to talk appear to be unfounded. Bubby talks up a storm, all the time, about all things. He did, though, have a tendency -- especially at dinner time -- to interrupt the adult conversation with "What you say, Dad?" or "What you say, Mom?" Megan said she thinks it's more his way of having things explained to him that he didn't understand than it is a hearing problem. I agreed with her.

So other than needing work on a few vocabulary skills such as blends and digraphs -- for which I suggested activities from lessons that are part of the tutoring program I follow as a tutoring site coordinator -- Bubby's speech and hearing seem to be a non-issue.

At least it was until last Friday.

Megan called me Friday evening and said in a very serious tone, "You won't believe what your grandson has done." Of course, I imagined all kinds of deadly or dastardly deeds and feared for the physical and psychological well-being of my grandson.

The story from Megan was that she had come home from work Friday afternoon, bid goodbye to GiGi -- Bubby's paternal great-grandma who babysits him on Fridays -- then went about her usual afternoon activities. Bubby, though, was acting rather unusual. Again and again he asked Megan, "What you say?" and kept saying "What? I can't hear you" and "Turn it up, Mommy, I can't hear it" regarding his television programs.

His insistence led Megan to inspect the little guy's ears, where she found what appeared to be excess wax build-up in one ear.

So she and Preston proceeded to remove the wax. All the while Bubby insisted "It's a seed." Megan explained to him that, no, it's not a seed, it's ear wax and Daddy's gonna get it out.

Daddy skillfully removed the gunk. Only it wasn't gunk, it was indeed, as Bubby tried to convince them, a seed. A popcorn kernel, to be exact.

Instead of telling Mommy, "See, I told you it was a seed," as I imagine Megan herself would have said as a kid, Bubby simply announced of his now clear-as-a-bell audio ability, "I can hear!"

Funny thing is, Megan said she can't recall the last time they had popcorn!

Bubby later told Mommy he found kernels under the couch and proceeded to put one in his mouth and one in his ear. Why in the world he would stick a popcorn kernel in his ear is beyond any of us.

The real question, though, is how long has the darn thing been in there?

Even more so, how did all of us who have bathed Bubby in the last month -- or hugged or kissed or played with him -- miss seeing a popcorn kernel in the little dickens' ear?!

Today's question:

Because of Bubby's silliness, the song "Beans in Your Ears" ("My mommy said not to put beans in my ears ... I can't hear the teacher with beans in my ears ...") has been stuck in my head for days now. What wacky childhood song or nursery rhyme do you find gets frustratingly stuck in your head now and again?

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?

Never again

I recently put a few items for sale on Craigslist, things I no longer want, need or use. Surprisingly, one of the "no longer used" items -- something I've been eager to get out of the garage -- has me waxing misty-eyed and melancholic.

Just what may that item be, you ask? Maybe a crib, signifying the end of babies in the house? A student desk, signifying no more students doing homework the last possible moment before it's due? A dinosaur of a VHS video camera signifying the end of recorded pumpkin carvings, Christmas programs and luau-themed birthday parties?

No, no, and no.

It's our cartop carrier. And selling it signifies the end of an era. The end of family vacations. The end of some of my all-time favorite moments with my tribe.

Never again will Jim and I, along with three crabby as cuss sleepy little girls, get up before the crack of dawn to hit the open road with suitcases, swim gear and more balanced above our heads.

Never again will our family of five load up sleeping bags, tents, camp stoves and a homemade camping shower then head up to the mountains for a long weekend of roasted weenies, s'mores and love-pop-can-chain moments around the fire.

Never again will Jim and I and a nervous college freshman load up new bedding, table lamps, extension cords, closet organizers, posters, first-aid kits, nightlights and family photos and drive off into the sunrise to drop off at college yet another baby girl ... who was no longer a baby.

Never again. Selling the cartop carrier punctuates that.

Never again!

The title of the Craigslist listing should have been "Memories for sale: $60." But that's not what I wrote; I figured not many clamoring for a good deal would understand.

But maybe you do.

Today's question:

What in your life will likely happen never again?

Intersections

I have a friend who recently found out she's pregnant. Pam, whom many of you may know in real life -- or from her comments and reviews here on Grandma's Briefs -- received the good news a few weeks ago.

It was surprising news for Pam as she'd pretty much settled into life with the assumption she'd never have kids. It had taken her a long time to find a partner she'd deemed worthy of parenting with her, they'd gotten pregnant, they sadly lost the baby. They were told by specialists -- in their infinite wisdom -- that they'd likely never have children.

So Pam moved on to other pursuits, including studying to become a personal trainer (and being within just the exam of certification) and preparing the home she and her significant other share for putting it on the market so they could move to a place more fitting their lifestyle.

Now their lifestyle has been thrown into surprise makeover mode.

Though it means (and meant) incredible ups, downs, heartbreak and hope for Pam and her SO, such stories are fairly common.

What isn't so common, though, and what I -- along with my friend, the mommy-to-be -- find most intriguing about her story is that, get this, Pam will become a full-fledged mother at the very same age that I became a GRANDmother!

Yes, Pam, who is only a few years younger than I, will be struggling with diapers, doctors and disparate parenting philosophies at the very same time that I'm struggling to get quality time with my Bubby and hoping for the arrival of additional grandbabies sometime soon.

I'm not sure if that says more about me, more about Pam, or more about the current generation of parents ... and grandparents ... in general.

I became a grandmother at a relatively young age, but I'm far from the record of Youngest Grandma Ever. My oldest sister was nearly five years younger when she became a grandma, and I've featured a Grilled Grandma who had her first grandbaby at an age much younger than the one at which I first claimed the crown.

Does that mean strangers might mistake me for Bubby's mother when we're out and about together? Possibly. But I sure hope not. Megan deserves all the credit -- and the craziness -- that's part and parcel of being the one whom Bubby calls Mom. I'm proud to proclaim myself Bubby's grandmother, not his mother.

And with Pam firmly in the "older" mother category -- yet decades from Oldest Ever designation -- does that mean she might be considered little Nubbin's grandmother when she and the sweet one are out and about once Nubbin arrives? Possibly, but highly unlikely. Pam is in the best shape ever (did I mention she's nearly a personal trainer?) and looks, dresses and acts far younger than most women her age -- myself indubitably included. And the youthfulness looks fabulous on her. She'll most definitely proudly proclaim her status as Nubbin's mother, not grandmother.

What I think the situation really underscores is that the women of my generation are doing things far younger than in the past (including becoming grandma) as well as far older than in the past (including becoming mama). And every once in a while there's an intersection of the two.

I'm honored to have met Pam at that intersection.

In the several years I've know Pam, we've been similar in so many ways, each with minor deviances from what we share. We like basically the same movies -- with the exception of her penchant for zombie flicks while I prefer documentaries. We read many of the same books -- with the exception of her well-read list of classics compared to my enjoyment of non-fiction fare. We've worked together, been in book clubs together, gotten drunk together, worried about health scares and aging together, written together.

Now we'll blog together. Pam recently embarked on a mommy blogging venture, calling it 40-Something First Timer. I can't think of a more worthy blogging buddy.

Nor can I think of a more worthy buddy with whom to share the 40-something parenting experience, albeit from opposite ends of the spectrum -- Pam as new mother, me as (fairly new) grandmother.

As many of my readers can attest, Pam is in for the ride of her life -- with both the blog and, more importantly, the baby. I wish her the very best of luck with the challenges of both!

Photo courtesy stock.xchng.

Today's question:

Stereotype, schmereotype! What about you goes against the stereotype of someone your age?

Are you there God? It's me, Grandma

The past two weeks have been filled with distress over a situation with one of my (to remain unnamed) daughters. I go to sleep praying about the mess, wake up praying about the mess, have prayers about the mess taking up lots of space in my brain, my heart.

I keep praying and praying without seeing much in terms of answers ... yet (I hope). I told the daughter in question that all the praying is wracking my brain and it sure would be nice if I could simply send God an e-mail with a "READ Receipt" attached so I'd at least know the prayers were under consideration.

I told Jim the same thing. To which he replied, "Yeah, just like in Bruce Almighty."

I'd forgotten about Bruce Almighty. Maybe it's another example of my memory fritzing out here and there, or maybe it's because I don't really care much for Jim Carrey. Once Jim mentioned it, though, I remembered. And I couldn't help but search for a clip of exactly how the e-mail to God thing worked ... at least in the movies.

This video -- for which I have only a link because it's copyrighted and embedding is disabled -- is what I found, what I remembered, what I kinda sorta long for. So go ahead: Take a look at this Bruce Almighty answers e-mailed prayers scene. I'll wait the minute-and-a-half it takes to watch it.

Ya back? Good. See, that is what would be oh-so wonderful, oh-so helpful.

Well, except for one thing. In the video, God/Bruce/Jim Carrey simply says "Yes" to all the requests in one fell click of the mouse. But that would never work in reality. For most things -- including the situation causing me such distress -- not everyone praying about it is praying for the same outcome. Even when it comes to praying for world peace, I'm pretty darn sure there's some folks somewhere wishing only to be the ones to win. When it comes to ending pain and suffering in the world, well, we all have different theories on how to do that, what to pray for, and some of those theories likely conflict with the theories of others. Even when it comes to praying to win the lotto (not that anyone I know does that), it obviously wouldn't work to say "Yes" to all those praying for the big bucks.

Bottom line: Bruce Almighty's simple "Yes" simply won't work.

The real God, though, I'm pretty sure he could figure out a way to make it work. Which is why I want a direct connection, a valid e-mail address to the real God. I could zap out my concerns and send them on their way.

Of course, if such a thing did exist, there'd naturally be a "READ receipt requested" option. I would choose that option, and upon receiving the receipt, then I'd know my request was under consideration.

Then I'd know I could stop praying about it, stop worrying about it.

If only things worked like they do in the movies.

Photo courtesy stock.xchng

Today's question:

What is your favorite Jim Carrey movie? (HA! And you thought I was going to ask something about God, didn't you!?)

Grandma's No. 1

Grandmas are bonkers for their grandkids ... usually. I know there are some grandmas who are of the sort to offer little more than a "meh" when it comes to their grandchildren. I've seen them, met them, talked to them. But I think those are the exception, the women who had the same "meh" response to their own children.

The moms whose kids were -- and likely still are -- a priority, though, those who put raising their children at the tippy top of the list of Important Things To Do in This Life, well, those are the ones who grow up to be grandmas whose hearts glow and gushings flow when it comes to their grandkids. Those are the ones deliriously bonkers for their grandbabies.

I admit I'm pretty much of the bonkers variety. Lately, though, I've worried that all the mushy-gushy love-love stuff I've got going on for Bubby makes my daughters a little jealous, a little worrisome that I love my grandson more than I love them. Deep inside we all still want to be mom's favorite, no matter how old we get, and I have a feeling my girls see my bonkered state for Bubby as proof that he's No. 1 in my eyes, in my heart. Not that they've said anything, would even consider saying anything, for they all love Bubby to bits (especially his mama, Megan, of course). Let's just call it mother's intuition.

Maybe. Maybe it's not mother's intuition at all. It very well could be my own overzealous and usually unfounded guilty conscience kicking in because of all the verbal backflips and whoop-dee-doos I perform when it comes to talking about my grandson. And because I don't want my girls to think they figure any less prominently in my heart since Bubby came along.

The thing is, when it comes to grandkids -- and any grandma knows this, so I'm pretty much talking to the non-grandmas here -- it's such a fresh, new, overwhelming love that it's hard to not gush and glow over it. New mothers feel the very same world-shaking love for their newborn, for their little ones as they grow, for the one, two or eighteen lights of their lives.

The difference, though, is what happens in the years between a baby's birth and that newborn's entry into young adulthood. For those years from newborn to adulthood are filled not only with knee-weakening love and adoration, but struggles and strife and, if we're all honest here, a lot of screaming and crying and heartbreak as the child tugs this way and mom tugs that way, all in the name of growth, independence, maturity and just plain ol' life.

Sadly, those struggles lessen a mom's enthusiasm a tad, diminish the mushing and the gushing. But they never, ever, ever lessen the love and adoration mom has for a child. At least not for this mom; probably not for most moms. Despite -- or maybe because of -- the battles, a mother's love for her child matures as the child matures. It grows into a more quiet love, one no longer eliciting butterflies and balloons and all-out blasting of horns to announce the bliss.

But it once did. With every child. And grandchildren bring all that back -- the butterflies, the bliss and more. Which is why grandmas act so goofy, so obsessed, so gosh-darn twitterpated. Much to their delight, they're getting a second opportunity to relish the fully-enveloping motherly love for a child.

And relish it we do.

Just like we did when our first child was born. And the second. And the third. And more.

Just like we did and do and will with each and every grandchild to come along.

It doesn't mean we love our original little ones any less. It just means we're keeping the enthusiasm in check. For the adult child's sake, of course. Because we understand how much the mushy-gushy PDAs from mom embarrass the oh-so grown-up kids, whether they're 13 or 30.

And we know kisses on the lips and big ol' noogies on the head no longer make children-turned-adults giggle in delight. So we bestow them on our grandkids and eat up the giggles they gurgle out as if they were Godiva chocolates.

But any adult child of mine is more than welcome to a noogie, a liplock, a great big bear hug any time they ask for it. Sometimes even if they don't ask for it.

Because although I don't say it nearly enough, the love, the bliss, the being bonkers for my babies is still there, still burning hot in my head, in my heart.

And cuss the numbers, the ranking systems, the logic; mothers and grandmothers don't believe in such things. What we do believe in, though, illogical as it may seem, is that each and every one of our babies, of our grandbabies, is truly No. 1 in our eyes, truly No. 1 in our hearts.

Today's question:

Other than relationships, in what would you most like to be considered No. 1?

My answer: I'd like to be ranked No. 1 on the bestseller list ... for children's books.

Tweeting without Twitter

I never thought in a million years I'd say this, but I use Twitter. Daily. Sometimes hourly.

After several years of saying how stupid the social networking site seemed to me, I'm now a tweeter. Which is kind of like a tweaker, as it is rather addictive, but it costs far less. In fact, being on Twitter pays me -- in the form of new followers and friends. Some of you reading this may have even followed me here from Twitter. (Welcome, SITSGirls!)

Anyway, so I tweet. No big deal.

Apparently it is a big deal to my daughters, though. A laughable big deal.

My daughters don't tweet; they think it's silly (like mother, like daughter, I suppose). They text, they're on Facebook, one even has a blog. But "I'd never tweet on Twitter!" is pretty much the common refrain from all three, incredulous that their mother -- a grandma, even, and someone they thought was intelligent ... on most days -- would actually participate in such drivel.

Funny thing is, my daughters do tweet. All the cussing time! Just not on Twitter. They send me little chirps and shoutouts via 140-character-or-less texts and 140-word-or-less phone calls and voicemails all day long. Which, in my opinion, puts them firmly in the "tweet" category.

The girls call or text to tweet about their trip home from work, the weather, what temperature you preheat the oven to for banana bread and on, and on, and on.

Don't get me wrong; I love their pseudo-tweeting. I truly do. I love that my daughters are comfortable calling and texting any time, any day, any night, for any reason whatsoever, however inane that reason may be.

Here is a small sampling of the pseudo-tweets I've received from my daughters just in the last two days:

"I finally feel like I have friends again!"

"What do I do if the power goes out?"

"Have you accessed my bank account for any reason?"

"Yay! I signed a lease!"

"I've never hated a job as much as I hate this one."

See what I mean? Those are tweet-worthy texts and telephone calls. More like Twitter direct messages, but Twitter talk just the same.

The one serious difference between tweets from my girls and tweets from my Twitter pals? No matter how often they tweet, no matter how often they bug the cuss out of me with the chirping, I can't unfollow the girls. There's definitely no "unfollow" button when it comes to my lovely offspring. And in all honesty, I don't want there to be. (Some folks on Twitter? Well, that's a different story. And I do use the unfollow button.)

Oh, and another big difference: Retweeting certain tweets from the girls is bad. Very, very bad. And may result in a total lockout of the service.

Which means this post will likely get me a big 'ol #mymomdoesntknowwhentokeephermouthshut mention.

If only the girls knew what that means.

And how to do it.

But they don't.

Because they're not on Twitter.

Ha!

Today's question:

Do you find it easier to form new friendships online or in real life? Why?

Three cheers for my third child

Today my baby is 25 years old. Get that? TWENTY-FIVE! My baby! Who's no longer a baby! (And who wishes I'd get that through my thick head!)

Andrea was born 25 years ago today, forever changing the makeup of our family, the makeup of my heart. She's my wild child -- and readily admits it! -- my child who dares to be different and manages to make different look so good.

Not long ago I wrote a post for the soon-to-be-defunct Rocky Mountain Moms Blog about the challenges -- and charms -- of the third child. In honor of my Andie, this is that post:

Three's a charm ... and a challenge

A friend recently had her second child and when I went to meet the little guy, one of the topics of conversation was how integrating the new baby into the family hasn't been as difficult as she thought it might be. No, the second baby isn't all that hard, I told her. It's the third child that completely upsets the family balance.

I've told many people this throughout the years. As a mother of three girls, all born in relatively quick succession, I learned 24 years ago when baby No. 3 arrived on the scene that going from one to two babies, while initially a juggling act, was doable without any major trauma or drama, but the transition from two babies to three was -- and continues to be -- one of my greatest challenges as a mom.

"But you already had two," people marvel. "How could it be that much more difficult to add one more to the fold?"

It's a matter of logistics, I counter. Mom has two hands, which is one short when there are three babies. In a home with two parents, there are exactly that: two parents. If all kids are in need of attention, who gets left out? Mom can take care of one, Dad can take care of another, and the third has to hold that thought and wait until Mom or Dad is free and ready to offer belated comfort.

Dinner tables are best suited to an even number of chairs, most typically four. When baby No. 3 comes along, a bigger table needs to be purchased, a table that seats five. But tables aren't made for an odd number, so a table for six is required.

Same goes for the family vehicle. Two kids work just fine in the backseat of nearly any car. But transporting three kids requires a larger vehicle.

And don't even get me started on visiting play areas or, in the later years, amusement parks. Rides at amusement parks are typically made for two; Mom can sit with one child, Dad with another. Which leaves one kiddo -- or one parent -- riding alone or watching from the gate.

Travel by plane presents a similar problem.

So yeah, having the third child requires a bit more thought, planning, and cost.

But the payoff makes up for that.

Siblings argue, that's all there is to it. Having a third kiddo in the group means that if two are arguing, there's always another playmate waiting in the wings.

Another advantage of three kids: easy lessons in the democratic process. Majority rules and an uneven number in the group makes it very clear early on that every vote counts and can change the outcome of family votes, be it for vacation places, what to watch on television or what to have for dessert.

But one of the best things about having three children? The realization that three truly is a crowd -- which makes for the absolute best-ever group hugs, as six arms squeezing one Mommy are so much better than four.

When it comes to kids, yes, three's a challenge. But more importantly, three is forever a charm.

  ~ Originally posted on Rocky Mountain Moms Blog March 21, 2010

Yep, Andrea was the third, the challenge, the good luck charm. She remains all three.

She continues to be the one to raise eyebrows, to rock boats, to make me laugh the loudest, cry the hardest, worry the most.

She and I -- so very much alike in so many ways, so very much Cancers -- butt heads ferociously ... yet love each other fiercely.

She's my favorite third child, my sweet baby Andie, my strong, independent woman.

She's my friend. She's my birthday girl. She's the one for whom I wish the very, very happiest of birthdays ever!

Megan's magical method

One of the highlights of my visit to the desert was seeing that Megan's college education is truly paying off—at home.

You see, Megan has this amazing technique for keeping Bubby in line and all I can figure is that it was part of her early childhood education curriculum because it sure isn't something she gleaned from me.

What is Megan's Magical Method? She offers Bubby the opportunity "to make good choices." We're talking a two-year-old here. A two-year-old who understands the ultimatum and usually—happily! without coercion!—makes a good choice.

Bizarre, if you ask me, but it works.

For example, Bubby will be eating breakfast and after two bites he'll decide to drop his fruit, waffles, whatever onto the floor so Roxie, the dog, will eat it. Megan/Mom will warn him not to do it again, but Bubby will scrunch up his face into a "yeah, just watch this" smirk and continue dropping goodies to the dog.

So Megan whips out the big guns. In her calm but firm teacher voice she says, "Looks to me like someone's making bad choices. Are you making bad choices, Bubby? We like good choices, don't we?" Instantly, and I mean INSTANTLY, Bubby grins from ear to ear, says "Yes!" and plops the piece of food into his mouth instead of over the edge of his highchair tray.

When Bubby would obviously need to hit the sack and teetered on the edge of a tantrum, Megan went through the same "good choices versus bad choices" spiel. Right away, Bubby would grin and trot off to put on his pajamas, oh-so proud of himself for making a good choice.

Sheer magic! And I don't understand why it works. With a two-year-old. Yet it works again and again. Again and again I would watch in amazement, trying unsuccessfully to catch the sleight of hand.

How does she do it?

Now some of you may worry what happens when a bad choice by Bubby prevails, that maybe that's why it works—because Bubby is scared to death of Mom's reaction when he makes a bad choice. Does Megan yell and scream? Spank his diaper-padded bottom? Bind him with duct tape and toss him out as a super-size snack for the desert-roaming javelinas?

None of the above. When Bubby makes a bad choice, Megan simply does what every other normal, non-magical mom does: She puts Bubby in time out.

I actually witnessed Bubby's refusal to make a good choice once and the time out that followed. It broke my heart -- and the heart of GiGi, his paternal great-grandma, and his great aunt Katie—because, get this, it was smack dab in the middle of Bubby eating his birthday cake.

At one point soon after the "Happy Birthday" song, Bubby started being a little cuss, wouldn't choose the "good choice" option and ended up being whisked away to his timeout spot in the hallway, away from the action. He cried as Megan hauled him to the hallway while Gigi, Katie and I all stared at each other and worked to restrain our own tears. There Bubby sat ... for less than one minute. Then he gave in, told Mommy he was ready to make good choices and cheerfully danced his way back to his highchair to finish his cake.

Like I said, it's bizarre. Even if that's the only thing to come from Megan's four years at an expensive private college (and the massive PLUS loan Jim and I still make payments on), I say it was well worth it. Because we moms all know how difficult it is to get our kids to make good choices, to do what's right, to not follow the crowd of little cussers and be left with lifelong consequences. We know that all the time and money in the world matters not one whit when it comes to teaching our kiddos to make good choices, always and forever.

Jim and I joked again and again about how long the "good choices" tactic will work. Will a teenaged Bubby one day call from the tattoo parlor to warn Mom and Dad before showing up at home with a tat emblazoned across his shoulder, neck or shaved head?

Not likely. Megan's already working on nipping that possibility in the bud. When Brianna visited the week before Jim and I, Megan was quick to point out to Bubby the various (mostly discreet) tattoos Brianna has, telling him, "Aunt B made some bad choices, didn't she? Tattoos are a bad choice and we like good choices, don't we Bubby?"

And, of course, Bubby grinned from ear to ear and agreed. Because that's what boys who make good choices do—they listen to their mommy, agree with their mommy. At least for now. At least while he's two.

At least as long as Megan's Magical Method continues to work.

Today's question:

What is one of your more memorable GOOD choices or BAD choices?

My answer:  Bad choice -- using green food coloring (that's FOOD coloring) to color my hair for a Halloween party when I was 17. My green hair finally faded right about Christmas time!