T minus six days

Megan and Bubby are coming to visit on Sunday -- for five full days! Which means it's time to babyproof the place.

It's not like Bubby's never been here before, but each time he's visited Grandma's, he's been relatively immobile. Now he gets around ... a lot. And my house has stairs ... a lot.

The other day on the phone, Megan gingerly brought up the topic of our zillions of stairs.

Megan: "Ummm, have you thought about your stairs, Mom?"

Me: "Yes, Megan, I've thought about the stairs." (How could I not? There's at least one step into and out of every room in our house, plus massive staircases from one level to the next.)

Megan: "Well, Bubby climbs stairs now."

Me: "I know. I remember you telling me that. But we have baby gates. Lots and lots of baby gates."

Megan: "No. That's why I'm saying this, Mom. Bubby doesn't need baby gates. He does stairs now."

Me: "Uh, I don't think so, Megan. Not our stairs."

Megan: "He does fine, Mom. Really. He's a big boy. He's allowed to go up and down stairs."

Me: "I'm not comfortable with that. Nope, not comfortable with that."

Megan: "I kinda figured as much, which is why I'm mentioning it now, Mom. Just think about it."

Is this a crazy conversation or what? I thought new mothers were supposed to be hyper vigilant, chastising Grandma again and again about all the dangers lurking in her home and how to babyproof those dangers away.

But here's my daughter telling me I don't need baby gates in my house of 10,000 stairs? With a 21-month-old toddler on his way? For five days? And with me so proud of myself that I have SIX baby gates in my possession for ensuring his safety during his visit?

Apparently that's six too many.

At least Megan knows me well enough to not spring such things on me at the last moment. She knows I need time to deliberate, time to think things through.

So I've thought this through. And -- call me crazy -- but we will be using baby gates while Bubby's here.

At least five two of the six I have on hand.

Now, is there anything else I need to be sure to not babyproof before Bubby gets here? Any suggestions would be appreciated, as I've clearly not yet figured out this whole grandma thing.

Today's question:

What's the worst accident that's befallen you or another in your own home?

My answer: I fell off the top of a ladder while Jim and I were remodeling our previous house and was quite bruised and battered by the fall and subsequent entanglement with the ladder that fell with me.

Fave photo of the week

'Twas a happy birthday for Jim!

Brianna, Jim and Andrea

Today's question:

What expression do you normally have on your face?

My answer: Concentration. I have to occasionally remind myself to stop furrowing my brow and open my eyes in wide surprise to reverse the big ol' wrinkle thinking too hard creates between my eyes. My mind is always going 631 miles an hour -- and not necessarily on anything of any importance.

Sink, swim or hold on!

Back in the '80s, before the real estate market crash that marked the end of that decade, I worked for a mortgage company. Business was good, and we were rewarded well by the company's owner.

One of the bigger rewards we once received was a day off work ... and on the owner's boat. On a day we should be processing loans, the entire office (it was a small office) would get to don bathing suits and hang out at the reservoir, on a boat, sipping beer in the sunshine.

I didn't want to go. I really did not want to go.

I didn't want to go because despite having been born in Minnesota, the land of 10,000 lakes, I didn't know how to swim. Which would have been okay if it were to be just a slow row around the reservoir, but one of the planned events was a contest of who could survive the longest on the inflatable "bullet" attached to the boat by a rope and pulled around the reservoir at top speeds. An activity in which my participation meant certain drowning. Assurances from the only coworker who knew of my fear telling me again and again "You'll have on a life jacket!" were of no comfort. I still didn't want to go.

But I did, of course. It was a "reward" and I was expected to accept it.

When it came time for the bullet contest, my coworkers took turns hopping on the bullet, whooping and hollering about what fun, what fun! As they straddled the bullet, they gave our boss -- the man behind the wheel and the gas pedal -- the thumbs up and off they went, skidding across the water at top speeds. Another thumbs up meant "faster, faster." Each would go through the same routine, seeing who could go the fastest, who could go the longest. Each would fly off the bullet and into the water when the speed became too much for them to bear.

Then it was my turn. I could barely breathe. Only the coworker with whom I'd shared my fear knew the terror I faced as she helped me onto the deathmobile. I straddled the inflatable, grabbed onto the handles on each side, then gave a weak thumbs up. The boat slowly moved away from the bullet until the rope was taut. I gave another thumbs up, then quickly grabbed the handle again. As the boat gained speed, I began scooting across the water. Another thumbs up then quick hand grab and I went faster. I did it again ... and again ... and again, each time quickly flashing my thumb then returning to the handle. Each time going faster and faster.

As I flew and bounced and soared across the water, I kept my hands gripped around the handles and my eyes fixed on my coworkers as they laughed and smacked each other on the back and gave me a thumbs up in return. Faster and faster I went, holding on tighter and tighter, praying harder and harder that the insane fun would end soon because I was not having any fun.

Finally the boat slowed and they began reeling me in. "What's the deal?" I wondered. Maybe my coworker had told them of my fear and they decided enough was enough.

As the bullet reached the boat, everyone cheered and shouted congratulations to me. I was the winner! I had gone the fastest, the longest ... and never fell off the bullet! Yay, Lisa! They slapped me on the back, helped me off the bullet, handed me a beer. Woo-hoo for me!

My coworkers couldn't believe my cojones, my nerves of steel, my ability to hold on. What they didn't know was that I held on because there was absolutely no way in hell I was going to fall in that water. I didn't know how to swim, I didn't trust the life jacket to save me. And I surely was not willing to die during a workday spent at the reservoir drinking beer and riding bullets when I had three babies at home who needed me for many, many more years to come.

I held on for my life -- and looked like a success to everyone else -- because there was no other option.

Which is exactly what I've been doing all my adult years: I hold on with a steel-plated grip because I have no other option.

In every facet of my life, I've survived, made it through, didn't drown. But it's definitely not because of any special ability, powers or knowledge. In fact, it's precisely because I don't have any special ability, powers or knowledge that I'm surviving from one day to the next. I cling so tightly because there's nothing else I can do. I don't have a Plan B. I don't have a safety net to protect me from failure -- financial, physical or otherwise. And despite taking swimming lessons at the age of 40, I still don't really know how to swim.

But I do have one helluva grip.

And I continue to hold on.

Today's question:

Time to brag: What's one thing you do really well?

My answer: I make excellent chocolate chip cookies!

The next Grilled Grandma

Cheryl Ann is our next grandma up for a grilling, and I'm quite impressed by this woman's ability to juggle. It's not balls or bottles or chainsaws or whatever folks typically choose to juggle that Cheryl Ann juggles; it's her time with five horses, four cats, two dogs, eight blogs (yes, EIGHT blogs!) and one precious grandbaby.

In addition to all that juggling, Cheryl Ann also provides yet another super-original answer to my question of "What is one word you hope your grandkids think of when they think of you?" Her answer: "HORSES!" Her hope will be answered, I'm sure, once her grandson spends just a smidgen of time with the impressive rescue horses, geldings and more that Cheryl Ann takes care of. (I don't know horse lingo, so that's as good as you'll get from me. Sorry! Just take a look at the beauties on her blog and you may be speechless, too!)

Take some time to get to know Cheryl Ann by reading her grilling HERE. And do leave her a little comment love, if you have time.

Administrative note: If you've been a Grilled Grandma in the past and didn't get the snazzy new badge I created for Grilled Grandmas (you can see it on the Grilled Grandmas page), let me know and I'll send you the code to create a badge for your blog that links directly to your grilling.

Of course if you've NOT been grilled and want a badge for yourself, offer yourself up for a grilling and a badge is yours once the grilling is complete. Simply contact me to get the ball rolling.

Today's question:

If you could own any animal, what would you like to have? (Cost/space/feeding logistics aren't a consideration.)

My answer: I think it'd be kind of cool to own a giraffe. They're so odd yet seem so mellow and content. Plus, Bubby and all the grandkids to come could spend hours feeding her crackers and giggling about her long, long tongue. (Yes, it would have to be a girl ... just because.)

Time marches on

Today is Jim's birthday ... the 29th birthday of his that we've celebrated together.

Like many long-time wives, I spend far more time complaining about my husband than I do complimenting him. So today, for his birthday, I'd like to do something a little different.

My top 10 reasons why I love my husband:

1. He makes the bed every morning and helps with the dinner dishes every night.

2. He loves independent and subtitled films as much as I do.

3. Bubby's the cheese on his pizza, too, even though he'd never put it that way (and said I sounded really weird when I wrote that post).

4. He has unflagging faith in my ability to make a living as a freelance writer, even to the point of encouraging me to not apply for jobs and not accept ones I'm offered -- despite our dwindling savings.

5. He sings loud and proud and can sound just like Johnny Cash, Jeff Keith, Randy Travis, Brent Smith, Bobby Darin and Vusi Mahlasela from the South African township of Mamelodi ... to name just a few.

6. He willingly buys tampons for me when I ask -- and gladly purchased the Black Forest cakes for the "period parties" we threw when each of the girls had their first period.

7. The more grey he gets, the more handsome he becomes. 

8. He loves Lyla, Isabel and Abby even though he tries to pretend Mickey is the one and only animal for him.

9. He's given me shots, changed my catheter bag and literally carried me to the doctor when I couldn't walk. And would do it again in a heartbeat, if need be.

10. He's my forever partner in parenting, grandparenting ... and home repair.

Happy birthday, Jim. I kinda think you are the cheese on my pizza, too!

Today's question:

What was your best birthday celebration ever?

My answer: The year Megan scared the hell out of me surprised me on my birthday by flying home to be at the house when I got home from work. (And Jim kept the secret for months!)