Wherein Grandma rethinks the family bed

Our kids climb into bed with Jim and me each morning. Their sole goal? To get us to rise and shine, get up and give them breakfast.

Now, that may seem strange considering our three daughters are adults and don't live in our house. But it's not our human kids I'm talking about, it's our cat kids.

Early each morning, Abby and Isabel hop onto the foot of the bed and meow their way all the way up to our heads, demanding we notice them, love them, and, most importantly, get out of the freakin' bed and feed them. Abby in particular is the alarm kitty. If I ignore her pleas, she heads on over to my iPhone cord on the night stand and starts chewing on it, for she knows darn well that will have me up and at her in a split second.

Yesterday morning when "the girls" got into bed with us, I mentioned to Jim how crazy it would be if we let our dogs into the bed with us, too. Mickey and Lyla have their own bedroom, though, with a baby gate put up each night so they can't get out — which means they can't climb into our bed in the morning, like the cats do.

"Just think if they did," I said to Jim. "We'd have all our kids in bed with us."

Which led me to immediately mention that our real kids — our human kids, our daughters — never climbed into bed with us in the mornings. Never.

Why is that? I wondered out loud. It's not like the girls weren't allowed in our bedroom, weren't welcome to join us if they felt the need.

I remember one night in particular when Andrea definitely felt the need. It was during the summer between her fifth- and sixth-grade years at school, a scary transitional time that caused her to have nightmares. After several failed attempts to calm her fears in her own bed one night, she took me up on the offer to sleep in a makeshift bed on the floor beside ours.

That didn't work. Andie still couldn't sleep, still was afraid.

So I told her we'd turn on the television in our bedroom to the Cartoon Network — at a very low volume — to take her mind off scary things.

Regardless of volume level, though, the George of the Jungle Marathon running on the network that night was the stuff of nightmares, at least for Jim and me. ♪George, George, George of the Jungle, watch out for that tree!♪ kept us awake — and unhappy — for hours.

After a several episodes, we'd had enough. Andie apparently had, too, for she didn't balk too much when I led her back to her own bed. Where she did finally fall asleep.

Jim and I, though, couldn't fall asleep for we couldn't get ♪George, George, George of the Jungle♪ out of our heads, out of our dreams.

Never again, we told ourselves... and our girls. To this day, mentions of George of the Jungle elicit groans and grins from Jim, Andrea and myself as we recall the nightmarish marathon.

Back in those childrearing years, I was thankful the girls rarely asked to sleep in our bed and that they never woke us in the mornings by crawling under the covers with us. But now it saddens me.

It saddens me because as a grandma, I realize what Jim and I missed. The mornings when I'm visiting my grandsons and they crawl into bed with me — which is every morning when I'm at their house... and usually before the sun even considers creeping up over the horizon — are some of the sweetest moments shared with my beloved boys.

Which is one of the more important things Jim and I failed to learn when our girls were little.

There's no going back, though, no way to remedy that error we made with our children. But we can, as grandparents, make the most of the moments when our grandchildren crawl into bed with us.

I will do exactly that with open arms next week, when I'll be sleeping one room away from Bubby and Mac.

Next week I'll have four mornings to relish the slow creaking open of Gramma's bedroom door as the boys together peek in at me, then the pitter-patter of little feet scampering over to my bed while I pretend I'm asleep. Then I'll lift the covers, make room for Bubby on one side, Mac on the other. We'll snuggle for just a bit, and once they've done all the snuggling their wiggly little boy bodies can handle, we'll discuss our dreams from the night, recite our plans for the day.

I didn't get it with my girls, but I now realize with my boys that such times truly are the best part of waking up when there are children in the house.

As a parent, the family bed was never my thing, for I didn't want to be continually awakened by little kids.

As a grandparent, I can't imagine any better wake-up call.

Today's question:

Did your kids climb into bed with you in the mornings? Do your grandkids?

Two things I wish I had learned this week

Funny how children can make it crystal clear the extent of things we parents don't know. Even adult children —perhaps even more so our adult children — shed light on the knowledge we lack.

It took the briefest of conversations with Megan this week to make it clear that I've got some learning to do, especially as it relates to two particular situations.

The first thing I wish I had learned this week:
Megan called me a few nights ago to, among other things, express her distress about the manner in which some folks were acting upon the death of a community member. We both agreed that it gets our panties in a bunch when people who were never close to an individual in life muddle about in various states of dithering and distress upon that person's passing, wearing their pain and sadness at the loss of the relatively distant acquaintance as if they had known the deceased dearly, thus justifying their excessive funereal attentions.

That's annoying. And it's so very wrong as it undervalues the pain of those who were intimate with the one who has passed. And it makes you want to shake such individuals for turning heartbreaking situations into being about them, Megan and I agreed. We also agreed in frustration that there needs to be an accurately descriptive word for that behavior that bothers us so.

A later search online for such a word came up with zilch — mostly because how do you search for something you don't know how to describe... which is exactly the reason you're searching?

A word or phrase for such behavior (funeral mongering? faux mourning?) is the first thing I wish I had learned this week. But I didn't.

Intrigued by Gramma's iPhone

The second thing I wish I had learned this week:
Though Megan's phone call to me began with what I noted above, her main reason for calling centered around the fact that Bubby has started taking things that are not his. I guess you could call it stealing. But do 5-year-old kids understand the concept of stealing when they pocket toys and trinkets from others at school and hide them under the covers in their bed? Well, I suppose when put that way, it does kind of seem like stealing.

But that's not what I wanted to learn. After Megan told the tale of Bubby's infractions and subsequent discipline, Megan and I discussed how frustrating it is to discipline a child and have the end result be that though the child may apologize for his or her actions, they show no remorse. It makes you want to shake some sense into them, we agreed. What good is an apology with no remorse?

More importantly, how do you teach remorse? How do you get a kid to truly and honestly feel bad about his bad behavior? Not ashamed, just... remorseful.

Megan asked me what I did when she and her sisters were young when I caught them stealing. To be honest, I could offer only one half memory of dealing with Brianna (I think it was her) nabbing a package of gum once when we were grocery shopping. I made her hand it to the cashier and apologize for taking it. And I kind of, sort of, halfway recall her showing remorse for her bone-headed bungled attempt at thievery.

I racked my brain trying to recall how I managed to get a little remorse out of my gum-nabbing daughter, yet I had no answer. I couldn't offer Megan advice or tips or sage stories of instilling remorse in a 5-year-old kid because, to be honest, I think I just lucked out in that area.

How I could pass along that luck to Megan is the second thing I wish I had learned this week. But I didn't.

Perhaps next week I'll learn the things I wish I had learned this week.

Or perhaps I'll learn the answers to both today... courtesy your comments on my ignorance.

Perhaps?

Update on my sister: There's actually a third thing I wish I had learned this week and that would be the date my sister — who's still on the ICU floor at the hospital in Denver — might return home. Debbie continues to have issues related to her diagnosed pulmonary arterial hypertension, continues to confound doctors with those issues. I did learn she's improved in many respects, though, the learning of which makes the things I didn't learn matter far less.

Enjoy your weekend!

Today's question:

What did you learn — or not learn — this week?

Photo flashback: Once upon a September

Our first visit with the newlyweds in their new (and hot) neighborhood.
Back before they were parents, back before we were grandparents.

Lisa & Megan — Jim & Preston
September 2006

Today's fill-in-the-blank:

One thing I recall from September 2006 is _____________.