Bugging me

Megan's scorpion, heroically nabbed by Preston.My parents transplanted our family of nine from Minnesota to Colorado nearly 40 years ago. Three talking points I recall of their spiel trying to sell my siblings and me on the move were 1) "The people are so nice, even strangers on the street say 'hello';" 2) "Out west, everyone wears blue jeans;" and 3) "There are no bugs."

Nos. 1 and 2 registered slightly above a "meh" with me. No. 3 had my attention. As a child who was traumatized by had memorable run-ins with leeches, walking sticks, and woodticks that turned white and grew to the size of marbles when not removed from dogs or the hairline of a little girl who thought she might be feeling a tumor growing on the back of her scalp and was too scared to seal her fate by telling Mom about it, the idea of no bugs sounded pretty darn good. More than just good, in fact, it sounded worth the move. I was sold.

I've lived in Colorado the biggest chunk of my life now and I'm still sold. I'm sold on Colorado for myriad reasons, but after Megan's revelations the past week about the critters in her part of the world, I admit minimal bugs are still one of the greatest appeals. I've actually said such a thing to Jim in the past week, and he agreed. Yes, we'll stay put in Colorado. Likely 'til Kingdom comes.

The revelations from Megan that heebie-jeebied me so involved scorpions. Just days after their visit to fairly bug-free Colorado was over and she headed back with Bubby to their desert home, Megan spotted a scorpion in the corner of her living room ceiling. A vaulted living room ceiling that she couldn't reach on her own, not even with the tube of the vacuum cleaner stretched to the max to suck up the critter. In her third trimester of pregnancy, climbing a ladder to reach the scorpion wasn't an option. Especially because it might skitter away causing Megan to fall from the ladder in fright, threatening the well-being of not only herself, but her unborn Birdy and the surely freaked-out Bubby below. So she and Bubby kept tabs on its location until Preston could leave work early to get home and save his loved ones from the ceiling-bound scorpion.

Disaster averted, thanks to Preston, a vacuum tube, and duct tape. Except that they spotted another scorpion in the same room upon their return from a weekend trip to Sea World. The scorpion professionals were to be scheduled to rid their home of the critters. For this month, anyway. Apparently such pest control is ongoing, a monthly service required of residents of the desert. At least those who don't want their babies stung by the little cussers.

When I shared Megan's scorpion story with one of the tutors I oversee for the literacy center, a woman who has lived in various spots around the country in the past 50 years or so, she shrugged off the tale. She'd gotten used to such things while living in desert climes, she said. You shake out your shoes before putting them on, you shake out your clothes before dressing, you shake out your bed covers before jumping under them. She'd lived with worse, she said, including rattlesnakes coiled up in bushes she'd started to trim ... then slowly had to back away from to keep from being bit. Now that was scary, she said. But the fear of the rattlesnakes was balanced out by the harmless geckos that climbed the walls, she added. The little critters that were oh-so cute ... except when you forgot to shake out the toaster before pushing down the handle on your breakfast bread. Toasting up a crumb-savoring gecko is not a good way to start your day, she stressed.

Shaking toasters, shoes, and bushes or sucking up scorpions with the vacuum don't sound like good ways to spend any portion of a day, if you ask me. I honestly don't understand how folks live in such places.

I especially don't understand why Megan hires scorpion zappers to make floors and cribs and ceilings safe for my grandbabies instead of packing up the brood and heading to the hills. Specifically, heading to the hills of Colorado ... where she was raised ... and where she knows there are no bugs to threaten the lives of her — and my — loved ones.

Disclaimer: Yes, I know there are brown recluse spiders and spotted ticks and rattlesnakes and more in Colorado. But they're up in the high country for the most part, not in residential areas where we have to fear for our lives and the lives of our babies on a daily basis.

Today's question:

What memorable run-ins have you had with creepy-crawlies of any sort?

16 things I learned from my daughters

Megan and Bubby will be here this weekend, which means lots of time with not only my grandson but my entire family, including my lovely girls who have taught me so much.

16 things I learned from my daughters

1. The answers can't always be found in books.

2. Trust my gut. Most times. Other times, ignore it because it's not really my gut trying to tell me something but the ravings of a paranoid, overprotective mother with an overactive imagination.

3. That brined turkey is the best turkey. And that it's not difficult to do.

4. Eminem can be worth listening to. DMX not so much. Actually, not at all. Still.

5. Jumping without a net often reaps the biggest rewards.

6. Yes, sometimes I am just like my mother. But also that, yes, sometimes, they are just like theirs.

7. An awesome, heartfelt wedding is possible on a shoestring budget.

8. Let go and let God. Or at least let someone else now and then.

9. Those who love me will wait while I work my way through a verklempt state. And that they will laugh when they realize they've inherited the very same verklempt gene.

10. Agreeing to disagree is sometimes the best we can do. And that's okay.

11. My babies can survive -- even thrive -- miles away and with no direction from me.

12. I can survive -- even thrive -- with my babies miles away. Even though it's not what I wanted.

13. "Sorry" is indeed the hardest word, but one of the most important.

14. An empty nest doesn't have to be lonely. And is full of possibility ... and plenty of space for return visits.

15. Laughing so hard it hurts is so worth the pain.

16. Most importantly, that despite all Jim and I lacked from the outset, we did indeed teach our children well ... and they took what we taught them, ran with it, improved and added to it, then returned with wisdom beyond our expectations.

Today's question:

What is one lesson you are thankful for having learned?

Emergency in the desert

Emergencies in the desert are far different than the ones I'm used to in the mountains. Monday morning, there were a few hours to kill before I had to return to the airport and hop a plane back to the mountains. Preston had left for work, and Megan, Bubby and I were relaxing, chit-chatting over this and that and some coffee.

Bubby had just commenced looking one more time at the "There's Going to be a Baby" book from my Grandma Bag when, all of a sudden, he let out a screech, pushed the book away, jumped up from his spot on the floor, and raced to the front door as if a fire alarm only he could hear had just gone off.

But Megan apparently heard it, too. She jumped up from her chair and followed Bubby, shouting, "We gotta hurry! Look out the window! Bubby ... here ... out the window." She pulled open the living room blinds as Bubby, far too short to see out the window, became visibly distressed.

Then Megan grabbed up Bubby -- who danced nervously, unsure of what to do and nearly pawing at the front door -- and quickly unlocked one deadbolt on the front door, then the other. She threw open the door and, with Bubby firmly in her arms, raced out onto the porch.

Where they stopped in their tracks.

And looked down the street.

"The garbage truck!" Megan shouted in glee, and Bubby heartily seconded her exclamation.

Then they both froze and patiently waited as the rumble and roar of the garbage truck became louder and louder and finally -- halleluiah! -- stopped right across the street.

The garbage man did his duty as Megan and Bubby stood transfixed.

Slowly, the banging and clanging truck scooted up to the next house. Then the next. Bubby's eyes never left the glorious garbage hauler -- the most wondrous thing in his world.

As it continued on its route, past Bubby's house, past the neighbor's, Bubby and Megan waved.

"Buh-bye, Garbage Truck!" they said as the rumbling and bumbling vehicle headed up the block and out of sight.

And me? All I could do -- after grabbing my camera to capture the emergency in action, of course -- was think Thank God. Yes, thank God such a thing didn't happen while I was the one and only adult in charge of Bubby. For I have never, ever experienced such an emergency. Not in the mountains ... especially not in a houseful of non-garbage-truck-loving little girls.

If I had been the sole adult when the seemingly silent alarm went off in Bubby's head, I surely would not have known what to do.

Hard as it is to admit, I must say that Megan and Preston returned home to relieve Gramma of her Bubby duty just in the nick of time. Clearly, a disaster averted.

Today's question:

If you were to look out your front door right this very minute, what would you see happening out there?

Now I lay them down to sleep

Well, it's happened. Jim and I have become those people. You know, the ones whose animals take the place of their children once the children are grown and gone.

Sure, I have plenty of friends whose animals have always been their kids. Which has worked well for them. It's what they do. It's what they've done. It's their normal.

But it's not been our normal, my normal. Until recently. So it's a bit disconcerting.

We've always had animals, if not a dog or two, at least a cat or two. And in the last few months, I've come to realize that I now pay just as much attention to their eating, sleeping, pooping and entertainment schedules and options as I once did with my kids. Oh yeah, and bathing options, too.

This past weekend, Jim and I converted the shower in our downstairs bathroom to a DOG shower, with a fancy little hand-held shower head with an on/off button that makes it easy to wet down the kids dogs, pause the water, lather 'em up, then unpause and rinse. It was quite simple showering up the little ones on Saturday. So much easier -- on us and them -- than taking them to self-wash at Petco or Petsmart or to a groomer. Going forward, our spoiled little Mickey and Lyla will bathe in the comfort of their own home, the comfort of their own cussing bathroom.

Come to think of it, that's more than our daughters ever had. The girls shared a bathroom -- all three of them plus me -- until one by one they moved out. Yeah, our dogs are spoiled.

In return, they do for us something the girls never did: They go to bed each night without complaint. At their scheduled bedtime. Without a single delay tactic.

Each night at 10 p.m., Mickey and Lyla, who have been hanging out with us in the family room -- on their beds pulled from their bedroom (yes, the dogs have their own bedroom ... well, they share it) -- get up, stretch and head to the back door for a final drink of water and potty before bedtime. I open the door, they trot out to the back yard -- in the dark, mind you, with no begging, "Can you please turn on the light, Mom?" Then they do their business, head back to the patio for a final slurp of H20, then stand at the door, waiting for me to let them in.

Once I let them in is when the real fun begins. At least they think so. For some reason, Mickey and Lyla -- especially Lyla -- believe that bedtime is the most wondrous time of day, the reason for getting through the day, the reason for living. The second I slide open the glass door, they scurry through the family room, tails wagging like mad, past Jim and his "goodnight, guys" brush along their sides, and into their bedroom. They climb aboard their newly fluffed beds -- pulled from the family room and returned to the correct positions while they were out pottying. Then they circle a time or two and plop down in their little nests. I rub their heads, their necks; they nuzzle my hand. "Goodnight, kids. See ya in the morning," I tell them as I back out of their room.

Just like tucking in the kids. Only these kids don't request another sip of water or remind me that the tooth fairy is scheduled to visit in the night or remember at the very last second that they are going on a field trip the next day and need an extra-special packed lunch with a drink for the trip. Yep, the dogs are so much easier to put to bed than the girls were.

There is one part of the bedtime ritual that the girls did so much better, though, so much sweeter. That was the bedtime prayer. Brianna would come from her room to join me and the other two in Megan and Andie's room. We'd sit on the edge of their beds, fold our hands, bow our heads, ask for guidance through the night, then request "God bless Brianna and Megan and Andrea and Mommy and Daddy and everyone we love and care about. Amen." I miss that. The dogs don't do that.

I'm wondering how much work it might take to get Mickey and Lyla to fold their little paws in prayer each night.

I'll get back to you on that.

Today's question:

What time do you typically go to bed?

A Birdy by any other name

Megan and Bubby, before he became "Bubby."Wednesday as I ran errands, I called Megan to see how she, Bubby and Preston were doing. They'd been sick -- Bubby had strep -- and I wanted to find out how recovery was going. I also wanted to verify the spelling of the name she and Preston had chosen for Birdy. So I asked. Which was clearly a mistake.

"We've not decided 100 percent that that is the name we're going with, Mom," Megan said. "Why are you getting so psycho about this?"

First let me say that I'm a pretty mellow person. I don't do a lot of yelling, I don't do a lot of freaking out, and I certainly don't go psycho. But because of my relative mellowness (if that's a word), the girls have always and forever considered it "freaking out" if I raise my voice and "going psycho" if I ask too many questions. 'Too many' usually being about three. I'd apparently hit my quota regarding Birdy's real-life name.

I had first asked what names Megan and Preston were considering not long after learning the baby would be a boy. A fairly innocuous question, I thought. Other than grandmotherly inquisitiveness, I was asking simply so I could have a reference point in coming up with a name to call my second grandson on this blog. Bubby was originally nicknamed "Bubby" in real life by Megan and Preston, and I thought there may be some real name followed by a nickname for Baby No. 2, the latter being what I'd use here. Because it was still early in the pregnancy, I gave it little thought when told there wasn't yet one.

The second time I asked was when Megan was experiencing some rather scary pregnancy problems that required lots of prayer. I find prayer to be a little easier, more personal -- seemingly more effective -- when I can put a name to those I'm praying for. So I asked ... and was immediately shut down. So I prayed for "the baby," and the baby turned out just fine.

After that, Megan and I talked now and then about the baby names under consideration. I'd offer up suggestions that fit the parameters they'd set for the name as they crossed my mind. She in turn would tell me a few she and Preston were tossing around. There was one in particular I did not like at all -- and told her so -- and it, fortunately, ended up being the name of the street they've moved to so that name was tossed out the window. Yes, it's not very nice of Grandma to vocalize dislike for a new grandchild's prospective name, but let's just say it was the name of an idiotic actor who thrives on Twitter and makes me nauseous. I couldn't help myself.

Eventually Megan told me the name she and Preston were pretty sure would be given to their newborn -- but I was sworn to secrecy, even to Jim, Brianna and Andrea. Which didn't make sense to me. ("What's the BFD?" is more along the lines of what I was thinking.) But I kept the secret. She did end up telling Jim herself. Brianna and Andrea still don't know. But Bubby does, and it's the name Bubby uses when talking about the brother in Mommy's tummy. So I figured it was a pretty sure thing.

Hence my question regarding spelling, my third and final time that put me over the line and into "psycho" territory. I wanted to know the spelling because I planned to buy the domain name matching the little guy's name before it was nabbed up, as they do have a fairly common last name. I purchased the domain names for everyone else in the family -- including Bubby -- and was trying to stay on top of things with Birdy.

Upon Megan's indignant response and questioning of my sanity because I wondered about the name and the secrecy surrounding it, I shot back at her.

"What's the deal?" I asked. "Ya know what I think it is? I think you're not even pregnant. There is no baby. You just needed an excuse for your weight gain because you're getting fat! Ha!"

I said it with a snicker. I said it in jest. Honest. Obviously, I've seen the ultrasounds, I have no doubt my daughter is pregnant. But because she was being so cussing stupid and secretive silly, I pulled out the big guns and shot them straight at my hyper-weight-sensitive daughter. Using the F-word. The F-word being "FAT".

Yep. That's the classy, grandmotherly way this grandma does things.

Sheesh. Maybe Megan's right. Maybe I really am "getting so psycho."

Today's question:

Have you ever greatly disliked the name given to any of the newer members of your family, immediate or extended?