What I learned this week: I'm bad and Toyota is awesome

I've been bad. Very, very bad. And I'm feeling pretty guilty about it.

What I'm feeling guilty about is the thing that I learned this week. And that thing is this: I can eat a batch of lemon bars. All by myself.

Okay, it wasn't an entire batch, but close enough to be an utterly disgusting deed for me to complete on my own.

But I did. And that's something I have never, ever done before.

See, I made lemon bars for eating after Easter dinner. Just something small, considering that I, er, the Easter Bunny had given loads of chocolate, jelly beans and other sweets to Jim, my daughters and their boyfriends.

A few of the bars were eaten on Easter. Then I forgot to give each of the girls some to take home.

Jim doesn't care too much for lemon bars. I, on the other hand, care far too much for them. Which meant that I simply could not just let them go to waste.

So nearly every day since Easter, I've nibbled on a lemon bar or two, pulled from the dish in the fridge. In all justification fairness, I usually chose to eat them for breakfast — as my breakfast, not in addition to it, in order to swap out at least some of the extra calories.

I couldn't waste them. I couldn't resist them. And as of yesterday, this is what was left:

 

Which I promptly ate. For breakfast... instead of breakfast.

So very, very bad. And so not what I wish I had learned this week.

(But they were pretty darn good. If you'd like the recipe, you can find it here. Just learn from my mistake — share them!)

So what do lemon bar sins have to do with Toyota? Well, absolutely nothing.

Toyota is part of this post because I wanted to tell you today where I'll be going and what I'll be doing for the next few days, starting tomorrow and courtesy of Toyota. (Though you will find new daily posts here; can't ruin my record.)

Toyota contacted me not long ago to be one of their guests at the annual Lifesavers National Conference on Highway Safety Priorities. With all expenses to be paid by Toyota for me to attend the Saturday through Tuesday event. Transportation, hotel, meals. Yes, I feel so very privileged.

Lifesavers, according to the conference website, "is the premier national highway safety meeting in the United States dedicated to reducing the tragic toll of deaths and injuries on our nation’s roadways." Which means I should have some pretty great info to share with you all afterward on keeping those we love — little ones, big ones, and older ones (including ourselves) — safe on the roads.

One of the highlights for me will be the stay at the fabulous Brown Palace Hotel in Denver. It's the spot where Jim and I celebrated our 20th anniversary more than 10 years ago, and this return trip will surely be quite a treat... even though Jim won't be along.

One particularly amusing note about my trip: The conference is in Denver. I live in Colorado Springs. Toyota is flying me there instead of providing a rental car, as I suggested. Flight duration? Forty-two minutes.

It's not often — at least not yet — that baby boomer bloggers are honored with such invitations. The fact Toyota has put their money on baby boomer bloggers in general and this baby boomer blogger in particular makes them, in my opinion, totally and completely awesome.

Now if only a brand would invest in this baby boomer blogger and foot the bill for me to attend BlogHer13 coming up in July. That, I must say, would be equally totally and completely awesome.

Perhaps offering lemon bars to brand representatives might do the trick. Ya never know — those lemon bars make folks do things they have never, ever done before.

Or so I unfortunately learned this past week.

Today's question:

What did you learn this week?

Black feet, black bears, and getting back to normal

Last week was a week I will never forget. A week so surreal, a week so not my normal.

My normal is as quiet as I want it to be, with time to do what I want, what I need, with all of that time punctuated with varying degrees of missing my grandsons.

Not last week, though. Last week my grandsons were at my house, and I was their primary caretaker. The house was blissfully loud—interspersed with occasional loud moments not so blissful, too, I must admit. I had little time to do what I needed for myself, but also no time to miss my grandsons, for they were by my side while their mom and dad attended a conference nearby. Time with Bubby and Mac was the very best part of my not-normal week.

My normal is relatively mild in terms of temperatures. Not so last week. Triple-digit heat, record heat, historically high heat literally never before felt in Colorado Springs marked the temperature gauge in unprecedented fashion. Day after day after day. It’s just heat, some might say. Stay in the house and turn on the air. It's no big deal. In a house—in my house—that has no air conditioning, though, it is a big deal. It’s hot. It’s hell. A hell I didn't want to deal with myself, much less impose upon my grandsons.

And then, well, then there was the Waldo Canyon Fire. The horrific part of the week. The heartbreaking part. The surreal part.

Tuesday evening rush hour, driving with my grandsonsSurreal in that on the west side of my city, hillsides, landmarks, homes were burning. People—families—were evacuated from their homes. Smoke and ash filled the sky, reaching as far as the city’s east side, my side.

Surreal in that every local television station went to 24/7 coverage of the disaster, the devastation. While my grandsons played nearby, I tried to watch. When they slept at night, Jim and I did watch, far into the night, especially on the most horrific day, on Tuesday.

Surreal in that I continually, obsessively checked Facebook, Twitter, email for news on friends and family, their safety and their homes. That I regularly received reports and texts from Megan and Preston as they tried—yet often failed—to enjoy their mountaintop conference and festivities while homes and Megan’s hometown burned within clear and heartbreaking view.

Surreal in that our health department warned residents to stay indoors, with windows shut and air-conditioning on, so as to not breathe in the ash and the soot. Having no air conditioning, we opted for taking the boys to various indoor play areas. We did our best each day to have a good time with them while the west side of our city burned. At night we wrestled with choosing between opening windows to let in cooler air to lower the hellish temps in the boys’ upstairs rooms or keeping the windows closed to avoid the soot and ash we were warned to keep out of our homes, our respiratory systems. Especially respiratory systems with itsy bitsy lungs the likes of Baby Mac’s…or even Bubby’s.

Wednesday afternoon, heading to an indoor play placeSurreal in that access to my mom, my sister, attractions we’d planned to visit with the boys was shut down, impassable for the entire week, as fire raged and firefighters needed to protect the highway, use the highway. That shelters, like refugee camps, were set up around the city for evacuees. That the state governor, the United States president visited to view my city’s disaster and devastation firsthand, to offer support.

We watched each day and each night—as often as we could while still attending to and enjoying our grandsons—as not only local news but national broadcasts revealed burned areas that looked like war zones, yet were neighborhoods I had visited, places friends lived. We and the rest of the city anxiously watched news conferences at 8 a.m. and 4 p.m. each day for updates on the status of the fire and evacuees, the successes of the firefighters.

All this while I and every other resident not in the line of the fire worried about, prayed about, cried about those who were.

All this while my grandsons visited and the hellish hot temperatures continued.

Even after the initial shock and awe of the fire and its horrific trail and toll, strange things, things so very not normal, continued. Expected things like subconsciously searching the sky for new plumes of smoke and endlessly tossing about with others the figures related to homes burned, evacuees remaining, fire containment percentages.

Bubby's soot-covered feetUnexpected things, too. Such as realizing that going barefoot around my house—which my grandsons and I usually do—resulted in black soles thanks to the soot and the ash coating my home despite the miles between the fire and us. Black soles that required me to scrub my grandsons’ little piggies at bath time and scrub my own big piggies before bedtime to remove the grime. And the unexpected sound of packs of coyotes howling as they roamed my neighborhood, of having a black bear amble down my street. The coyotes and the bear, along with elk spotted in the center of town and countless other wild and displaced animals searched for a home that, like the 350 homes of local human residents, burned, is gone.

So strange. So sad.

This week I’m still sad about the displaced animals, the displaced people, the burned homes and trails and landmarks. Yet, this week, I feel a little closer to normal. The air and sky are clear of smoke, the ash and soot have been cleaned from my house. My grandsons have gone home, television coverage of the fires has been reduced to a crawl at the bottom of the screen. The pass to my mom has re-opened. The fire moves ever closer to containment.

I do still scan the sky for new smoke and for rain that would lower the still-hot temps and dampen the still-burning fire. And I make sure to watch the evening news and check #WaldoCanyonFire on Twitter throughout the day. I also continue to be on the lookout for lost and frightened animals in my neighborhood. Overall, though, it’s been relatively easy for me to get back to normal.

I’m fortunate, blessed, and thankful. For many others in my city, getting back to normal hasn’t been so easy. My heart, my thoughts, my prayers go out to them—to those who are still reeling, who must build new homes and new lives, who have yet to create a new normal.

Today's question:

The Waldo Canyon Fire evacuees had mere hours, sometimes less, to gather personal belongings from their homes. What would you grab first—other than people and pets—in the event of evacuation?

Batteries included: Childproofing Grandma's house

During the days I served as sole caretaker of Bubby and Baby Mac a few weeks ago, Baby Mac's favorite thing to get into was the television cabinet. He loved nabbing the Wii remotes hidden within and walking around with one in each hand. If he didn't feel like going through the hassle of wrangling the Wii remotes out of the cabinet, he simply grabbed the universal remote for the television, which was usually nearby on the recliner or ottoman.

The kid likes remotes. No big deal.

Turns out it is a big deal, though—a big dangerous deal, thanks to the easily accessible and potentially fatal batteries inside the clickers he covets.

Because of Baby Mac's obsession with remote controls, the following news story struck quite a chord when I happened upon it Monday evening:

Scary, huh!?

Then, the very next day I received an email from the Battery Controlled campaign from Energizer and Safe Kids Worldwide. It offered stats from the American Academy of Pediatrics plus additional information on the dangers of lithium batteries, including a link to this video:

As grandparents who often have little visitors, we've childproofed our homes, just like the parents of our grandchildren have done. We've covered outlets, wrapped up window cords, secured screens on windows, bought baby gates and bathtub mats and hidden our medications and more in cabinets where little ones can't reach them. But did any of us—parents included—consider the dangers of remote controls, key fobs, hearing aids, greeting cards, bathroom scales, iPods, iPads and more?

I sure didn't.

That's no longer the case, though. Not only will I have an eye on every remote and other button battery-operated gadget next time Baby Mac and Bubby visit my house, I've shared the videos with Megan and encouraged her to do the same battery-proofing at her house.

I encourage you to do the same, too: Share the warnings with the parents of your grandchildren, and heed the warnings in your own home.

Today's question:

What's your guesstimate of how many button battery-operated gadgets you might have around your house?

This post has been linked to:

SITS Saturday Sharefest

and

Grandma's a chicken

♪♫ "Grandma's a chicken. ♪ Grandma's a chicken." ♪♫

That's what my sister told me last week.

Well, no she didn't.

I'm not only a chicken, I'm a liar, too. My sister didn't tell me that at all.

That's just what I felt like after getting off the phone with her. Not only did I feel like a chicken, I felt like a party-pooping chicken at that.

See, my sister and her husband own a ranch. With lots of outdoorsy activities for energetic people with get-up and go and gumption. And last week she called to invite Jim and me to spend a day or two at the ranch.

"We can go four wheelin'!" she said.

To which I immediately said, "Uh, no. I'm not a four-wheelin' kind of person."

"Not canyon-wall-climbing kind of four wheelin', you silly goon," she swore.

Still, my answer was no.

"Then you and Jim can ride the ATVs!"

"Definite no on that!" I quickly countered. After many years as editor of a parenting magazine and receiving a plethora of press releases from safety organizations of all sorts proclaiming ATVs the deathtrap of all deathtraps, my invitation to hop on a deathtrap just for the heck of it was DE-CLINED. No ATVs for me. Or Jim.

"Well, you can sit in the hot tub."

We have a hot tub...that we never use...and recently emptied because we never use it. Not a big draw for either of us.

"Jim can shoot things! We have a shooting range and everything you can imagine to shoot with. Manly violent stuff Jim will like."

Jim with a gun? Now THAT is scary?

"And we have horses! Do you like horses?"

Of course I like horses. Who doesn't like horses?

"And would you get on one?"

Umm...maybe.

I texted her a few days ago. Yes, we'll come this weekend, I told her.

And, yes, I'll ride a horse. Which I've not done since the late '90s when a family trip to Estes Park included a horseback-riding excursion. I'm crossing my fingers she'll saddle up one that's more of the walkie-walkie not trit-trot-trit-trot-gallopy-gallopy-gallopy sort.

And, yes, Jim will shoot things, I added. Maybe. (He has no idea I told her yes on that one. The shooting range will be a test of possibly unrealized machismo; this paragraph a test to see if he reads to the end of my posts.)

"Good. Then he can go on an ATV ride, too," she offered. "A sissy one."

We'll see—on all counts.

I'll keep you posted on all counts.

Including whether I chicken out and sit in the hot tub instead.

photo: stock.xchng/jdrjosh

Today's question:

What are your plans for this weekend?

Lesson from Grandma: Address earworm

Last time I visited Bubby, he and Megan shared with me a recent lesson he'd learned.

"What do you do when there's an emergency?" Megan asked my 3.75-year-old grandson.

"Call 911," he proudly responded, showing Gramma exactly what numbers to press on Mommy's cell phone.

I was indeed proud of Bubby. I was concerned, though, when I later asked him what he'd tell the 911 operators if they asked him where he lived and he didn't have an answer.

See, Megan and the family had just moved into a new house mere days before my visit. It was Bubby's third home since being born, and he recalls each as "Old House No. 1," "Old House No. 2," and "New House." While living in Old House Nos. 1 and 2, there was really no need for Bubby to be able to recite his address. With New House, though, he should—for lots of reasons, including the outside chance he may one day need to call 911.

Many folks think a call into the 911 system will automatically log a person's location, so technically there's no longer concerns that a child know how to tell responders his address. That's not necessarily true when it comes to cell phones, as it depends on the cell phone provider, the tower a call goes through and more. Leaving location tracking to a cell phone in an emergency can lead to disastrous results, in some cases. I don't want my grandson—or any of my loved ones—to be one of those cases.

So I set to teaching Bubby his address for New House. By song.

I made up a simple tune to go with the simple words of, "I live at XXXX <full street name>, XXXX <full street name>". Then I sang it to and eventually with Bubby off and on during the time I babysat the boys while Megan and Preston were away. Much to their dismay, I continued singing it now and again once Megan and Preston returned home, too. It became such an invasive earworm that Megan eventually groaned each time I started up.

I'm telling ya, though, I know the tune came in handy not only for Bubby, but for Megan, too. Having just moved to a new home, she didn't know the address off the top of her head. Thanks to my song, though, she had it down in no time.

It also came in handy for Preston. One day while Megan and the boys and I were having lunch at the kitchen table, Preston phoned from work. "What is our new address again?" he asked, needing the new info for something at work. Having heard him myself, I chuckled and started up the song. Megan shot me a don't-even-start-that-again look then easily recited the new address for her husband. Thanks to my little ditty, I'm sure.

When I returned home, I shared that ditty with my other daughters and with Jim. They'll surely need to know it for sending mail to our desert-dwelling family members. I'm pretty sure they'll be singing it next time they address a letter to Megan.

I certainly do. Each time I prepare a package or letter for Bubby or his family, I sing the unforgettable tune—sometimes in my head, sometimes out loud. Then I text Megan to say, "I just put a package in the mail...and guess what's now stuck in my head?" Her response? "Don't even...!"

I like to drive my family nuts by providing ever-so-annoying earworms. More so, though, I like helping my grandsons in concrete ways that make a difference, things that go beyond just having fun together. Teaching Bubby his address for New House covered all bases surprisingly well.

Of course, I don't want that lesson to be tested by Bubby needing to recite it for 911 operators in the event of a real emergency. No, groans from Mommy as Bubby sings out his address for her again and again will be more than enough proof that Gramma's lesson had its intended effect.

Today's fill-in-the-blank:

The last thing I learned or taught through song was _______________.