Coupon queen

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Coupons are a hot commodity in my world. Sure, I use coupons for products when grocery shopping, but what I'm talking about here are coupons as gifts.

Somewhere along the line of rearing three daughters, creating coupons to be redeemed for good deeds and great times became a recurring gift, either from me to them or from them to me. Of those, I especially remember giving coupons for expensive jeans and athletic shoes that I surely would not pick out for a persnickety and brand-conscious teen daughter without her present to do the picking. I also recall often receiving coupons "good for one foot massage" (a popular one, as I do love me a good foot rub now and then).

As the girls grew older, their coupon gifts to me became more elaborate. Not all that many years ago, I received an entire book of coupons from Brianna, good for everything from dusting to dinner out to a night at the movies to — oh, glorious girl! — her to do the grocery shopping (my most detested chore).

There were so many good offerings, so many great intentions wrapped up in that raffia-bound booklet that I never got around to using them all. It was one of those gifts in which the thought truly was what counted most to me.

This past Mother's Day, Andrea proved that coupons still work their magic on Mom — even as my little girls are no longer little and head ever closer to 30 years of age.

Andrea's gift coupon was not so much an actual coupon this time, but a promise written in the Mother's Day card for a good deed to come. A handmade Mother's Day card. Made of quarter-fold construction paper written on just as my little Andie used to do, and it included a reference to one of the sillier cards she's given me in the past, one that makes me chuckle each time I run across it in the box I've filled with cards given to me throughout the years.

The good deed Andie promised for Mother's Day was a day of helping out in the yard, in preparation for summer. It's a gift I requested — and received — often for Mother's Day when the nest was still full.

Yesterday was the promised day, and what a busy day it was. Andie and I shopped for flowers then together we planted the many begonias and fuchsia in various containers and hangers on the patio. She bagged up piles of pine needles I had raked Saturday. And she helped Jim "plant" a humongous fallen tree...in cement...in our "tree graveyard" in the backyard (a long twisted story, one I'll possibly share another time).

Let's just say I got my coupon's worth. And then some.

The "then some" was that while Jim, Brianna, Andrea and I ate dinner on the patio, Andrea mentioned a coupon she had previously given me, possibly for my birthday last year. One for a pedicure that I had forgotten to redeem. So we made plans for redemption.

Which later got me to thinking: That pedicure coupon was rather old, but so are those remaining in "Mom's Coupon Book" from Brianna. Coupons for making dinner, giving back rubs, and even a few left for her to do the grocery shopping. Yessiree, I do believe it's time to finally cash in on one or two of those.

I must admit that during my time raising three daughters, I did a few things right. Teaching the girls to give coupons as gifts was one of them.

Not teaching them to include an expiration date on the coupon gifts was definitely another.

Today's question:

Question suggestions: Offer up any question, plus your answer, and I might use it in the future (I hated my original question today).

Open wide and say 'Awww...'

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I had my tonsils removed when I was a youngster. Tonsil removal was a fairly common procedure for kids during the 60s, but it fell out of favor soon after. Seems being a major operation requiring general anesthesia was a little off-putting for some ... and a lot dangerous for others.

When I became a mom, I didn't think much about tonsils. Until Megan, that is. Firstborn Brianna had no breathing difficulties; Megan was another story. By the time Megan reached elementary school, she had sinus issues, adenoid issues, tonsil issues, all so bad that her roommate at the time — Andrea — complained that Megan kept her awake at night because, "she sounds like the iron!" Apparently Megan's breathing sounded eerily similar to steam leaving the iron as clothes were de-wrinkled.

For that reason, along with many other more serious and valid reasons, Megan's adenoids and tonsils were removed. I was nervous about having my little girl put under, but it was necessary if I wanted her to breathe. And I did. And it was successful: Megan could breathe, Andrea no longer had to put up with night-time steam sounds.

Then Andrea started having tonsil issues of her own, primarily tonsillitis on a regular basis. Yet her doctor didn't think she met the criteria for having the tonsils removed, and I didn't push the issue. My paranoia as a mother was moving into high gear, and I'd been reading more and more about the dangers of tonsil removal. Yes, despite the successful surgery on myself and Megan — and literally millions of others between my surgery and hers — I figured the odds would now be against us if I persisted and requested another of my babies undergo the procedure.

To this day, Andrea still gets tonsillitis more often than the average bear. And she growls at me about it more often — and more loudly — than the average bear. Thing is, I'm even more against tonsil removal for her now that she's an adult than I was when she was a child because studies have proven adults have far more life-threatening problems with tonsil removal than children do. I screwed up by not having Andie's tonsils removed, but I figure it's too late now. Scary thing is, as an adult, she can get them out any time she chooses. And it seems she's one bout of tonsillitis away from so choosing.

Those are my tonsil tales as a child and as a mother. Now it seems that as a grandmother, there's a new chapter to add.

Bubby has tonsil issues ... big time. The poor kid, whose not yet three years old, has had more bouts of strep throat than most kids have their entire childhood — five in the last year, four of which have been just since Christmas. He's a strep factory, apparently, or at least a strep carrier, the pediatrician tells Megan. When Bubby's in the throes of a strep infection, my poor grandbaby's tonsils are so swollen you can't see past them to his throat. More importantly, he can't breathe past them. Many nights Megan has put her baby to bed worrying whether he'd be able to breathe through til morning, all because of the insane size of his tonsils.

So she wants them removed. And the pediatrician has referred her to an ENT to discuss the possiblity. And I'm conflicted as cuss about the whole thing. Fortunately, as the grandma, I don't have to be the one making the decision. I've read too many horror stories about tonsil removal, stories I won't share with Megan ... because she does have to make the decision.

Yes, I'm a paranoid mother, which has resulted in me being a paranoid grandmother. But I'm working at keeping my paranoia to myself, mostly by considering an article I wrote several years ago for the parenting publication I was then editor of. It was about the resurgence of tonsil removal and the new — safer! — methods for performing the surgery, with lasers rather than scalpels. One thing that stands out in my mind about the article is that the ENT I interviewed said that not only does tonsil removal help children physically, it helps those suffering tonsil problems with their behavioral issues, too. Little ones who can't sleep and can't breathe well can be a pain in the cuss for those around them because they're so darn crabby. One particularly telling quote came from a mother who told the doctor that when the doctor removed her son's tonsils, he removed the "devil" from her son, too. She exclaimed that it was much like an exorcism.

Bubby certainly doesn't need an exorcism, by any means. But he does need to breathe. So I'm holding my breath awaiting Megan's decision on the procedure. I'm sure she'll make the right choice for Bubby. And I'm sure glad it's her making the choice, not me. Especially considering the wrong choice I made for Andrea all those years ago.

Today's question:

What tales do you have of tonsils?

16 things I learned from my daughters

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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?

Now I lay them down to sleep

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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?