Distance from Grandma a good thing? Maybe ...

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Here's yet another reason why Bubby is probably better off with me being a long-distance grandma rather than us living within close proximity of one another.

(Wait ... I don't recall there ever being previous reasons why he's better off with me living 819 miles away. Oh well ...)

Anyway, a recent study shows that children whose grandparents serve as their primary daycare providers are more likely to be overweight than kids in other daycare situations. And not by just a smidgen. Those wee ones watched by Grandma and Grandpa full time had a 34 percent increased risk of being overweight. That's THIRTY FOUR percent.

I can so understand why that is, though. I love watching Bubby eat. I love giving him food that he loves to eat. I love taking pictures of him eating. My favorite video of Bubby is one in which he learned to say "Mmmm..." -- over and over again as he ate food Grandma fixed just for him.

If I were Bubby's daycare provider, man oh man would that kiddo get to eat some yummy stuff. All day long. There'd be snow ice cream in the winter, root beer floats in the summer, macaroni and cheese for each and every meal -- if he wanted it for each and every meal; if not, I'd make him anything else he requested.

Oh, and there'd be ketchup. Lots and lots of ketchup. Bubby loves ketchup!

So yeah, it's probably a good thing Bubby lives in the desert and I live in the mountains and rarely the twain shall meet.

But we will be meeting this weekend. And I've got five full days to plump up my Bubby's skinny little legs.

Don't tell Megan, but I've already stocked up on ketchup ... and the fixins for macaroni and cheese ... and baked up a few loaves of banana bread ... and a couple dozen chocolate chip cookies ...

Today's question:

What was your favorite food as a kid?

My answer: Macaroni and cheese. Definitely. Oh, and homemade mashed potatoes. I still love the two more than just about anything else. (As long as the macaroni and cheese isn't made with that powdery cheese from a package!)

Blowin' the game

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I've always felt like I'm a pretty hip mom, a pretty with-it grandma.

Apparently I've been deluding myself.

Brianna and her boyfriend, David, were visiting recently and we, along with Jim, somehow got on the topic of Facebook, of which I'm a member (see, I'm sorta hip and with it).

Brianna said, "Yeah, I just became a fan of 'When I was your age, we had to blow on our video games.' Did you see that one, Mom?" She and David laughed as if it was the funniest thing on earth.

Jim's face went blank as he's not on Facebook and didn't get any part of the conversation. My face went blank as I tried to figure out what the heck that group could be about. All that came to mind was the old games in which miniature metal football players or hockey players moved across a metal playing field via magnets under the players' feet. I didn't remember those ever having to be blown into position, but then again, I never really played those games.

Brianna quickly realized I saw no humor in the blowing on video games group.

"Don't you get it?" she asked.

Uh, no.

She and David tried to jog my memory -- and Jim's -- with tales of having to blow on the Nintendo cartridges when the game froze up. They laughed and went through the motions of cartridge blowing.

"Everyone did it. Don't you remember?" Brianna asked again, as if maybe it were just a matter of diminished memory.

No, I don't remember. I don't remember because I never did that. And I never saw the girls do it while playing the Nintendo. (Sheesh ... what kind of mother am I to not notice such a weird thing?)

It was a moment of generational differences made oh-so clear. A moment that shattered my Cool Mama/Cool Grandma facade.

A moment that was to bound to come, I guess. Because I'm old. I'm uncool. And I never blew on my video games.

But, ya know what? If there's a Facebook fan group called "When I was your age, our video game was a dash-shaped paddle that volleyed a two-dimensional black ball back and forth across the screen" I am so all over that one.

Because, believe it or not, I am still hip in some circles.

Today's question:

What game do you remember playing most often as a kid?

My answer: I did play PONG as a kid, but more often than not, I was out and about, making up imaginary lives with my BFF, in games that didn't include boards or technology of any sort.

The next Grilled Grandma

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As I formatted this week's Grilled Grandma, one word kept coming to mind: a lot. (Well, that's technically two words.) Grilled Grandma Donna has a lot of kids, a lot of grandkids, a lot of energy and chutzpah (she's a true motorcycle mama), and clearly a lot of love as it just oozes from her answers and the photos she's shared.

She also has a lot of wisdom, evidenced by the great answers she gave to my grilling. One of the biggies was her response to my question of what she finds most challenging about being a grandma. Donna said, "For me it’s worrying about them growing up in this day and age. Growing up in the 50’s was a pretty good time, I wouldn’t want to be a kid now and have to deal with the information overload and peer pressure they have."

I think that's something all grandmas worry about but because most of those I've grilled so far (and myself) have fairly young grandchildren, it's not yet been voiced. It's refreshing to see that shared worry put into words.

I've never met Donna in person, but if I did, I'd want to just give her a great big hug. She warms my heart ... a lot. I think she'll do the same for you, too. Check out her grilling HERE, then be sure to visit her websites. She's an interesting woman with a lot to share. (Yep, there's that word again.)

If you or someone you know may be up for a grilling, be sure to send me a first name and e-mail address and I'll get right on it.

Today's question:

What do you think is the most positive difference between what kids now experience compared to the formative years many of us experienced decades ago?

My answer: I think there's more knowledge of and acceptance of (I hope) different races, cultures, religions, etc. We were much more sheltered and ignorant of those realities years ago. Being aware of and accepting of such differences makes for better kids, a better world. (And yeah, there's still much, much room for improvement in terms of acceptance.)

With this kiss, I thee wed

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Jim and I will celebrate our Kiss Anniversary tomorrow. We used to call it our First Kiss Anniversary but we got lazy at about our 15th and it's now known by the slightly shorter name. This is our 29th year celebrating it, usually with just a card ... and a kiss.

I'm not a mushy gushy kind of person. I don't watch Lifetime television, I'm not a fan of Nicholas Sparks, and my musical preferences lean more toward hard rock than ... gosh, I don't even know the name of mushy gushy love-song singers. Oh, wait. That's probably Celine Dion or someone along those lines. That kind of music does bring a tear to my eye, but it's usually because I'm trying to control the waves of nausea that come over me when I hear anything from that genre.

That being said, I've always recalled the date of our first kiss ... but only because it was the date of my older brother's birthday. My brother wasn't there for that chaste but fateful kiss; it just happened to take place on his birthday.

It was Jim -- who's a little more mushy gushy than I -- who started the tradition of celebrating the moment that changed our lives. Only that first celebration wasn't all that fun. In fact, it scared the hell out of me and, for a few moments, I was pretty sure I wouldn't live to see another day, much less another celebration of any sort.

Jim had an apartment of his own and I lived a few blocks away with my mom and sisters. We lived in an old house that had only a bathtub, no shower. And I hated taking only a bath. Jim had a shower, and I regularly drove the few blocks to take a shower at his place.

This one particular day, the date of our first kiss anniversary (although I didn't consider it any big deal) Jim was leaving for work as I was arriving to use his shower. Like I said, we kissed hello, kissed goodbye, he headed to work, I headed for the shower.

As I got out of the shower, I heard noises. In the apartment. An apartment that wasn't in the best part of town and had creepy weird guys living upstairs. I froze and listened. Yep, there was someone in the tiny apartment, moving stuff around, going through Jim's record collection.

What do I do? I searched the cabinets for a weapon and found nothing more than a brush and a Bic shaver. I held my ear to the door. Still there was shuffling. I couldn't open the door -- my clothes were in the bedroom and I refused to be seen naked by some killer. I couldn't climb out the window for the very same reason ... plus, I'd already checked it and there was no way I'd be able to reach the opening far above my head.

I sat on the toilet lid and started to cry, as silently as possible so the killer wouldn't realize there was some frightened naked girl hiding out in the bathroom.

Then music started playing. The killer had put on a record. A Led Zeppelin record ... one of the more mellow songs. Well, if he's playing "Thank You" or something similarly sweet from Zeppelin, he can't be that mean and horrible of a killer ... but a killer just the same.

I once again assessed my situation. No weapon, no way out, no clothes. And no choice. I had to get out of there.

I slowly, quietly turned the door handle ... and cracked open the door, trying to survey the tiny bit of the living room I could see. I heard music, but saw no one. I wrapped the towel tighter around myself and crept into the hallway. Peeking around each corner, it became obvious that the killer had left.

But wait! The killer had left something on the table. I scooted closer and closer ... and found a Hostess Ding Dong on a saucer, one lit candle in its center. And a greeting card next to it.

"Freakin' crazy," I thought to myself as I opened the card, imagining serial killer scenarios involving wooing the victim into eating Ding Dongs and listening to Zeppelin as the killer stealthily dropped from the ceiling brandishing a long, sharp blade of some sort.

No serial killer dropped. And my heart swelled as I read the card: "Happy 1st Kiss Anniversary. Love, Jim."

While I showered, Jim had dashed to the store, grabbed the celebratory goods, arranged them on the table and turned on our version of a love song. Yep, this was the guy for me, the guy I'd spend the rest of my life with.

And the guy who almost made a scared, naked me crawl through a tiny opening in the bathroom in hopes of escaping some wacko Ding Dong-obsessed, Zeppelin-lovin' killer.

Now that I think of it, maybe it's that, the manner in which the first anniversary of our first kiss was recognized, that makes it a date impossible to forget. It really has nothing to do with it being my brother's birthday after all.

Regardless, I'm glad to still be celebrating Kiss Anniversaries with Ding Dong-obsessed, Zeppelin-loving Jim.

I'm even more glad I didn't smash out that bathroom window and shimmy through the shards of broken glass to save my naked butt from an imaginary killer. I'm pretty sure Jim wouldn't have stuck around to celebrate a second kiss anniversary if that had been the end result of his sweet gesture.

Today's question:

What's one non-traditional celebration you share with your loved ones?

My answer: In addition to the Kiss Anniversary, we had family-only Period Parties when each of the girls had their first period. The honoree received a box of sanitary pads, we ate Black Forest cake (ya know, the cherries and all), and we blasted Urge Overkill's version of "Girl, You'll Be A Woman Soon." It was a tongue-in-cheek way to mark a major milestone in the lives of our little women.