Pomp and certain circumstances

In recognition of graduation season, here are 9 reasons I'm glad I don't have a teen graduating from high school.

1. Been there, done that. Three times over.

2. The cost: senior pictures, announcements, class rings, yearbooks, caps and gowns, and more.

3. Aforementioned senior pictures. Not so sure how it goes with boys, but with girls there's the trauma, the drama of portraits. (Tho I must admit my girlies' senior photos were lovely ... and they kept their bodies appropriately covered, unlike some senior portraits I've seen of late.)

4. The cost, part two: graduation gifts. No cars for my kids, but there were computers for college.

5. Gah! College! Graduation from high school means college plans or at least considerations. So, so, SO glad to be done with college app fees, FAFSAs, food plans, and travel to and fro.

6. Senior prom. Enough said. If you've ever gone to one — or had a child go to one — you know what I mean.

7. Graduation night parties. Fear and trembling on the part of parents with kids who think the flip of a tassel has made them an adult and they're ready to party like one. (Kids who don't realize that adults typically party hearty in a less hearty — and more safe — manner. Usually.)

8. The summer before college. Again, fear and trembling on the part of parents with kids who think they're adults ... except when it comes to picking up their room, saving money, packing all the right stuff for college, and being considerate of parents who still expect them to come home before the crack of dawn (or at least call if they're not).

9. The next chapter: The empty nest. It's a tough one to get used to. Been there, done that, too. Am now finally used to it. And am so glad I don't ever have to go through the transition again.

All kidding aside, to those who do have lovelies marking the end of their high-school careers this graduation season, I sincerely say Congratulations! (And good luck!)

Photo: stock.xchng

Today's question:

What is one of the more valuable lessons you learned from high school?

The grandma two-step

When my children were babies, I made all the decisions. Big or small, it was all up to me. And Jim, too, of course.

Soon my girls grew. And tested my choices, my decisions. Their wishes and input were taken into account ... with the understanding that the last word belonged to Mom.

When the teen years hit, so did the realization that the last word doesn't have to belong to Mom. They were older, thought they knew it all and that Mom knew nothing. So they occasionally rebelled, made wrong choices, eventually came back to Mom with unspoken apologies. As long as they came back, that was all that mattered.

Then my little girls become adults. They've long since gone their own way, have their own say.

Decisions are no longer mine. But the girls — fortunately — still share their trials and tribulations, their challenges and changes ... and their choices related to such. Maybe the choices are about day care or tonsil surgery, partner selection, where to live, when to change jobs, how to make the most of the lives they've been given.

As they share, I read between the lines, hear the tone of their voices, the music behind their words that sings — sometimes with joy, sometimes with desperation — "I want your opinion, your advice, your approval."

So we start the dance. Two steps forward, two steps back, one step forward, one step back. I give my opinion, my advice, my approval. They accept it. We rejoice. We dance.

Sometimes it's that easy.

Other times it's not.

In the not-so-easy times, they share, I temper my opinion, my advice. And sometimes I withhold my approval, my support. Because I don't approve, don't want to support. We still dance, only at such times it's often gingerly, occasionally angrily. I want to support them, validate their choices, approve of what they're doing. I want to give them exactly what they seek. Yet experience, age — and yes, sometimes fear — make it impossible for me to do so without reservation.

They don't like that tune. And I can't change it with any degree of sincerity. So we both end the dance feeling hurt, slighted, misunderstood. But we dance around saying those things out loud. Usually.

I'm getting pretty good at figuring out right away which tunes are likely to trip us up, end on a sour note. It's at the outset of those dances that I'd like to say, "I love you with all my heart, my dear, but I think I'll just sit this one out."

But I've not yet figured out how to do that. Because just exactly how does a mother, a grandmother — a lifelong friend, confidante, advisor, protector — sit out the big ones and maintain a clear conscience, a clear heart?

Especially when the possibility looms large that turning down an invitation to dance may result in being invited no more.

Photo: stock.xchng

Today's question:

Do you find yourself more often GIVING advice or SEEKING advice?

This post linked to Grandparent's Say It Saturday.

Failure analysis

I recently received in the mail an unsolicited copy of "Raising Happiness: 10 Simple Steps For More Joyful Kids And Happier Parents" by Christine Carter, Ph.D. The accompanying form letter was addressed "Dear Blogger." Such letters tucked inside of complimentary copies of books are a subtle request for a review. Which is okay ... but this is not a review.

I will eventually review Ms. Carter's book -- or at least use it for blog fodder and mention it kindly. But I've not yet been able to focus on the book innards because I've been entranced by one of the quotes on the book jacket and can't seem to move my mind and heart forward. Which is weird. And something I can't really explain. So I'm spewing forth here in hopes of expunging whatever it is that has me so emotionally invested in a silly book jacket quote.

Thing is, it's not so silly. Here's the quote, or at least the part that caught my attention: "The learning curve for all parents is in failure analysis -- where and how we went off course -- and how we can do better the next go-round." This said by Michael Riera, Ph.D. and author of "Field Guide to the American Teenager" and "Right from Wrong."

I never knew there was a technical term for figuring out how we screwed up, at least a term used for our parenting screw-ups. But "failure analysis" it must be; I guess I just failed to read the right books that would have provided me that term earlier in the parenting process. Yet I'm having a rough time wrapping my head around that term. It's so cold, so technical, so corporate and so much feels like a term used to describe a failed rocket launching in which everyone aboard perished.

I have to admit that it scares me to look back on my parenting and analyze where I failed. Overall I'm a success -- my girls are grown, living on their own, paying their own bills, and semi-sorta-kinda succeeding in their relationships -- but I know I've failed in many, many ways. I never deluded myself into thinking otherwise. In fact, I've felt like a failure more often than a success. But isn't that how all parents feel: like they certainly could have done better? We give it our all but are pretty darn sure that somewhere, somehow we could have done just a little bit more, been at least a smidgen better.

So I don't know ... I'm hesitant to crack the cover of "Raising Happiness" because it'll likely point out all the ways I really, truly failed to raise happy girls. And it just might be in the areas in which I thought I did okay.

I guess it comes down to this: I'm not ready to perform failure analysis on my parenting skills. My little ones so recently flew the nest that I think I need to take a bit of a break before dissecting and analyzing.

Especially because, despite the second half of that quote, the part about "how we can do better the next go-round," there is no next go-round. I don't get another chance. What's done is done and I definitely will not be throwing out my first set of kids as if they were the cussed up first waffles that didn't form correctly and now I can cook up a batch that comes out better.

Or is that what grandchildren are supposed to be? The second batch?

I guess I should start reading "Raising Happiness" sooner rather than later, just in case. Because Bubby just may be my "next go-round."

And I sure don't want to dread the failure analysis with my grandchildren to the degree that I am with my kids.

*Stay tuned for an eventual review of "Raising Happiness" by Christine Carter.

Today's question:

Forget the "failure analysis," what's one really good/successful thing you've done in your life?

My answer: I've remained an optimist.

Take a picture -- it lasts longer

As a parent, you'll occasionally have moments when all is right with the world, at least within the confines of your own little world. Everyone in the family is getting along, the sun is shining in your hearts, the love is flowing, the future looks bright.

That's when you need to pull out the camera. Even if there's no major event, no happy holiday, no striking of a pose, no magical reason to record the moment, I urge you to take a picture.

Really. Take a picture. Because that moment won't last.

All of a sudden, with no warning whatsoever, the dark clouds will roll in and the ground will shift then crumble beneath your feet.

I know. I've been there. Several times. In fact, I offer that advice as Jim and I sit atop a pile of rubble, looking at each other, shaking our heads, asking "How did we get here?"

We'd been down this road before, thought the lessons had been learned, thought we'd never have to pass this way again.

Yet here we sit, dumbfounded, asking "WTF?"

And our daughter just shrugs her shoulders and waves from her pseudo-solid ground, oblivious to the way she's knocked our world off its axis.

So we pick ourselves up. We dust ourselves off. We start all over again.

And out of the blue, as we go through the motions of daily life, one of us mutters, "This sucks. This really, really sucks!"

"Yeah," the other responds, "this sucks."

We don't know what else to say.

Mere days ago we had a brief moment when all was right with our world.

I wish I had taken a picture.

('Nuff said.)

Today's question from "If...(Questions for the Game of Life)":

If you had to cancel one hour of the day, every day, which hour would you eliminate?

I'd eliminate 5 a.m. That's the time I usually glance over at the clock on the night stand and realize I have only one more hour to sleep.

And so it begins

This is my first post on Grandma's Briefs, my spot for snippets and snark on the state of parenting redux. And, of course, I'll be posting plenty of photos of my grandson "Bubby," the most handsome grandson in the country.