Bound to happen

Well, it's finally happened: I've gotten old. I've not come to that realization because of my wrinkles, my achy joints or my crotchety disposition of late, but because of how freakin' young those in the medical profession now seem to me.

My eyes began to open to this truth when noticing that doctors interviewed as experts on various news programs regularly caused Jim and me to comment, "Wow, that's a young one" and "Sheesh, has that kid really actually completed medical school?" Only old people say such things. Hence a conclusion began to form: I'm just old.

Then I started physical therapy to repair the damage from little cusshead Mickey pulling me into a face plant when a deer nonchalantly crossed our path during a walk a few months ago. My regular doctor referred me to a fine physical therapist. I read her impressive credentials (she's one of the physical therapists for the US Figure Skating team) then was shocked upon meeting her at my first appointment. She looks the same age as my youngest daughter! There's no way she could be just 25 since she's been practicing since the early '90s. She's performing miracles on my back and has clearly worked hard and long to get where she is in her career, so my conclusion is this: I'm just old.

The final incident relates to Megan's medical scare this past week. Because of the fortunate outcome of a worrisome circumstance, Megan gave thanks and gratitude to her ob/gyn on a recent blog post, a post that included a photo of the doctor. I have never met her doctor and I was amazed at how young this gal is -- this gal who holds the lives of my child AND my grandchild in her hands. Yet, her expertise in the field and the way she's proved herself exceptionally capable lead me to now stand firm in my conclusion: I'm just old.

When I first became a mother, doctors were older folks whom I looked upon with respect and admiration, much as I would a wise grandparent. As the years went by, doctors seemed a little more my age, like a colleague or friend or at least someone who enjoyed the same music and television shows as I did and understood the same pop culture references.

Now, all of a sudden, the doctors I come across are youngsters, many years behind me and certainly not interested in the same music or television shows that interest me. And I don't even seem to know what constitutes pop culture anymore, let alone share any references to it with today's doctors.

My only conclusion: I'm just old.

My only question: How the heck did that happen?

Photo: MS Office  

Today's question:

In what ways do you most notice you're getting older?

A bird in the hand

Our family had a bit of a scare this week: Megan, in her 19th week of pregnancy, experienced some funky business with Bubby's brother-to-be. So her doctor ordered an ultrasound.

Thankfully, all turned out well. Baby is alive and kicking and nestled firmly in (the right) place. And Megan and Preston were once again treated to an inside look at their second son ... which they then kindly shared with the family and I now share with you:

Bubby got a kick out of his baby brother's peek-a-boo stance and joyfully played a game of the same with PawDad and me during our Tuesday night Skype session, giggling and demonstrating how he and his brother will soon play.

The baby does indeed look like he's playing peek-a-boo in the photos. He also looks, to me, like a little bird, his wings still tiny and frail but soon to be strengthened then stretched as he learns to fly and eventually soar.

The thought of him being a little bird immediately brought a song to my heart ... and an earworm to my head. This is the song, the earworm, the empowering "Little Bird" the ultrasound pics bring to mind:

SORRY! VIDEO DISAPPEARED IN BLOG REDESIGN

(Annie Lennox - Little Bird found on YouClubVideo)

In light of the way I see the little guy in the pictures and the gotta-dance-about-it song he's lodged in my head and heart -- and despite Megan and Preston not yet settling 100 percent on the baby's name, despite the cute monikers offered up when I asked for suggestions on Facebook -- I've officially chosen a name to call Bubby's brother here on the blog. Well, more accurately, a name has been chosen for me, for the baby.

So without further adieu, dear Grandma's Briefs readers, I hereby dub thee, my newest grandbaby ... Birdy!

Stay tuned for the further adventures -- and peek-a-boo games! -- of Birdy and Bubby.

(PS: Just for kicks, take a look at Birdy's mouth and nose in the first ultrasound picture, then scroll down to the picture of Bubby in the "Changes on the way" post from two days ago. Do they not look alike already?)

Today's question:

When did you last have a "shew!" experience, a moment of relief when you -- literally or figuratively -- wipe your brow, sigh "shew!" and feel like everything's going to be okay?

A grandma to review ... and grill

As a blogger who (occasionally) posts book reviews, I often get approached by folks wanting me to read their books. Sometimes I turn down the authors (or PR companies), sometimes I take them up on the offer, and sometimes I ask if I can grill them.

Okay, I've asked only two writers if I could grill them. This week's Grilled Grandma, Carol, is one of those two.

Carol originally e-mailed me in December regarding her book, Who Gets To Name Grandma: The Wisdom of Mothers & Grandmothers. I told her I'd check it her book if she'd let me roast and toast her over hot coals. She agreed. I think I got the better end of the deal, thanks to all the great advice and info included in the book she sent me to review.

For "Who Gets To Name Grandma," Carol says on her blog, "I interviewed 40 mothers and grandmothers and asked them what advice they would like to give to each other and wrote a book about the experience." Carol organized the answers from the interviewees in chapters based on age (newborn through high school) and notes whether the advice came from a mother or a grandmother. Then Carol, aka Granny-Guru, follows up the quotes with sage advice and often humorous anecdotes from her own experience ... plus a bonus box on each filled with "Granny-Guru's Grains of Wisdom."

Although I disagree with some of the "advice" from grandmothers (there's one where the grandmother complains about getting in trouble with the parents when she "spanked my grandchild with a spatula for bad language," and Granny-Guru doesn't take her to task for the act), there are many nuggets o' gold sprinkled throughout. My favorite:

"Life gives feedback. Parents can't, nor should they protect a child from all of it. Where to draw that boundary of when to step in to prevent mistakes and when to allow a child to learn from life will always be a parent's challenge."

Amen to that, Granny-Guru!

Read Grilled Grandma: Carol for an up-close and personal look at this interesting writer. Then visit her website -- a link is included at the end of her grilling -- for more on author Carol Covin, aka Granny-Guru.

Today's question:

What is one adage, quote, piece of advice or nugget of wisdom you turn to again and again ... and/or share with others again and again? For example, one of my favorites is "The key to patience is finding something to do in the meantime."

Changes on the way

At the start of a new year, everyone seems to have plans for how things will change in their lives in the coming months, whether stated aloud or kept private. One person I know has the biggest changes of his life coming his way, and at this point, he's thankfully oblivious to how those changes are going to rock his world.

I'm talking, of course, about Bubby.

As many of you know, Bubby has a sibling on the way. Sure, it all sounds fine and good when told "You're going to be a big brother" and "You'll have a new baby to share your toys with" and to be given a new babydoll to practice his big-brother skills. All those things make Bubby smile. (Well, not so much the idea of sharing his toys.) But it's the sharing of Mommy and Daddy that Bubby's not yet grasped, not yet even considered. But it'll happen, like it or not, and I'm crossing my fingers he does okay with it, remains the happy, usually silly, sometimes snippy (aren't all toddlers at times?) kiddo who has a firm and forever hold of my heart.

That's change No. 1. Although there's a lot of talk about it now, the true changes won't take place until the end of May.

Change No. 2, on the other hand, is happening soon. Which makes it the very first major change in the little guy's life. It's a move to a new house ... to accommodate change No. 1.

Bubby and his family will be moving into a larger home the first of February. Which is a good thing. But it can be a scary thing, too, to have one's world packed up in boxes, turned upside down, shaken here and there, then set down reassembled in a whole new spot, a whole new design. Especially scary for a 31-month-old who has never known anything but the happy little place he, Mommy, Daddy, and Roxy currently call home.

In the new place, Bubby will again have his own room -- no need to share with his new brother. He'll get a dedicated playroom out of the deal, too, and a new backyard that faces north instead of south like it currently does, with the scorching desert sun putting the kibosh on outdoor play most of the day, most of the year.

Even with all the good things coming his way with both changes, the changes mean stress. And, as we all know, high stress levels can do a number on mind, body and soul.

Based on the Social Adjustment Rating Scale, a list rating stressful life events, a new baby and a new home puts one's stress level at the "low" point (considering no other stressful factors are involved). That's for an adult. For a little boy who's always been the one and only child, the one and only grandchild and who has always and forever lived in only one home, I'd say the 'high" point as a more appropriate score.

The answer to high stress levels, according to the experts, is to create a "stress-management plan." The answer to high stress levels for Bubby, according to this admittedly non-expert grandma, is an "extra-hugs-kisses-and-attention-from-Gramma plan."

My advice when it comes to stress-reduction plans of any sort? They're far more effective when set into motion sooner rather than later. Which is why it's a splendid coincidence that I just so happen to have an airline ticket booked for a visit to Bubby -- just four days after his move into his new home. (Thank you, Preston!)

I say forget laughter being the best medicine, it's hugs from Grandma that are going to do the trick this time. And as I've been a little stressed out myself lately, I suspect my hugs-and-kisses-stress-management plan designed especially for Bubby is going to do us both a heap of good.

Photo by Megan's friend Alison.

Today's question:

What is your favorite stress reliever?

Calendar girl

Yesterday I copied all the birthdays and anniversaries from my 2010 calendar onto my 2011 calendar then added the old calendar to my stack of those I've saved for years -- every year since 1997, to be exact.

I abhor packrats and do my best not to be one, so holding onto reminders of dentist appointments and "No School" dates of years past may seem in opposition to my cause. But the old calendars are so much more than appointment reminders: They are time in a bottle. Snapshots of the hustle and bustle of a once busy household. A record of the good, the bad, the scary, the sweet -- an organic record that didn't require me to journal or scrapbook or keep a diary or update a blog to maintain it.

Most of the markings on the grids of daily happenings are in my handwriting. Others are in the handwriting of one or another of the girls, applied in painstakingly perfect penmanship befitting an occasion important enough to be included on the family calendar for all to consider in their schedule.

Each notation holds much more than just a record of where we had to be and what time we had to be there, though. They hold stories, stories that bring mostly grins (birthday parties and school sporting events) and groans (dentist appointments and work schedules). Others cause my eyes to well up, my heart to grow a little cold, and a lump to form in my throat. Those are the notations of occasions that serve as poignant reminders of our challenges, the growing pains that strengthened our family fabric and made it the resilient, tight-knit one it is today.

As I skim the calendars before placing them back on the shelf for another year, here are some of the scribbles that touch my heart:

April 28, 1997: "Closing" - This is the date we officially bought the house we rented for 10 years before finally getting up the nerve -- and the income -- to ask our landlords if we could buy it. It's the house that became the childhood home of our three girls, the place we raised them all, from kindergarten through college.

July 21-25, 1997: "Brianna in Texas" - Brianna went to Work Camp; we remodeled our new house to add a fourth bedroom while she was gone. Andrea and Megan rejoiced at no longer having to share a room, no longer having to divide the space with duct tape down the center. Jim and I rejoiced that the bickering would end.

May 25, 1998: "Andie leaves" - Andrea spent a week at Sea Camp in San Diego and to this day still dreams of working with dolphins. Somewhere. Somehow. Which is a tad challenging considering she lives in the Rocky Mountains.

March 22, 1999: "5:30 a.m. Brianna skiing" - Clinches the heart a bit as Brianna will likely never ski again after the damage done to her back when her (stopped) car was rear-ended at a stoplight by a landscaping truck.

April 24-25, 1999: "Retaining wall" - One of the many "huh?" markings on the calendars, important at the time but now completely forgotten.

October 15, 1999: "UNC College Day" - Our first visit to check out a college for our first-born.

July 18, 2000: "Test w/HR 2:30" - The beginning of my newspaper career.

July 28-29, 2000: "American Co-ed Pageant" - Megan needed college funds and left no stone unturned. She won no pageant money but we both received an unexpected -- and unpleasant -- introduction to pageantry and "pageant moms." Believe me when I say Little Miss Sunshine resonates.

October 25-27, 2001: "Seward" - Our first visit with Megan to what would become her college town. And eventually Andrea's college town.

June 22-27, 2002: "Disney World" - Our last vacation as a family. <sniff>

June 29, 2002: "Marked words: Brianna will NOT be with Eric at this time next year!" - Too funny now. What's not funny is that marking one's words doesn't make things magically come true ... or eliminate the need to keep marking them.

May 25, 2003: "Andie's Graduation Party" - My baby, my last daughter, graduated and soon off to college.

June 27, 2003: "I'm old" - Any guess as to whose birthday this was?

July 22, 2006: "Meg's wedding!"

June 18, 2008: "BUBBY!" - Okay, it doesn't really say "Bubby," it says his real name. An all-caps pronouncement of joy just the same.

December 5, 2008: "D-Day!" - This was the day my layoff was scheduled ... and occurred. The end of my stint as a special sections editor. The end of my newspaper career.

Sprinkled throughout the calendar pages, amidst notes about the girls going on mission trips, attending prom, graduating from high school and college, are red-letter dates of concerts and performances that Jim and I were to attend: Pearl Jam, Live, Tommy, Black Crowes, Rent, Counting Crows and more. Memorable occasions all. But my pile of ticket stubs serves as a better reminder of those particular dates. And, yes, serves as another large stack of paper this non-packrat refuses to get rid of.

On second thought, maybe I am a packrat after all. A sentimental packrat with lots of memories worth holding on to.

Today's question:

What do you do with your old calendars?