Brain fog, head games and Cranium Crunches

I always admired my mother-in-law's determination to keep her mind functioning as well as possible. She did crossword puzzles every single day and regularly engaged in new activities to help keep the wheels of her aging brain turning.

I used to enjoy crossword puzzles but I've done only a handful in the past decade or so. I did start taking piano lessons in my forties in hopes of increasing the dendrites in my brain, those little networking cables that make the mind move better the more you have. Unfortunately, though, I had to eliminate piano lessons when money got tight. My determination to keep up the practicing sans lessons pooped out soon after, as well as my dendrite production.

My mind and memory have apparently pooped out, too. A recent lunch with a friend I'd not seen in more than five years made me all too aware of my egregious lack of recall. As my friend and I and her daughter dined and discussed getting together with our husbands for a game night, I told my friend that although I don't know her husband, he must be a pretty good guy if she's married to him. To which she responded that I have indeed met him, have actually had him and her over to our house for a barbecue several years ago.

I didn't remember. At all. And felt pretty stupid about it. I couldn't even blame it on having a few too many beers during that forgotten BBQ because it wasn't that kind of a gathering, considering her then-adolescent kids had attended and enjoyed hanging out in our hot tub. Which I didn't recall either. At all.

Again, I felt pretty stupid. I wanted to blame the brain fog on having MS, to say, "Oh, I must have a sclerosis smack dab on top of that specific memory." But that would be even more stupid. And surely a lie.

Truth is, my brain fog, my memory, my total (or even partial) recall has been getting worse and worse and worse as I age. And I'm not really all that aged. But I find myself more often than before forgetting what I was going to say in certain circumstances, and I've become pretty bad at brainiac things I was once good at, like word play and matching games and puzzles.

I've found help, though. It's free, it's fun, it makes a difference, and it can be enjoyed by anyone at any age. It's called Cranium Crunches.

Cranium Crunches is the brain child (yes, pun intended; I can still throw together a pun now and then) of Ruth Curran. Curran, who is degreed in psychology and has extensive research experience, hatched the idea for the site after witnessing dementia issues with her parents—attributable to cancer and chemo in her mother's case, Parkinson's disease in her father—and the difference puzzles and games made in restoring their cognitive ability and their confidence.

"I set out to create a series of photo based puzzles that remind us of our lives," Curran says, "a set of brain exercises with cross generational appeal that provide a safe place to practice those skills that might be slipping, work on/hone some skills, improve focus, or just look at some cool photos and tell stories. It had to be free, require no subscription, no plan, no commitment—just come and play."

Which is exactly what Cranium Crunches provides, as well as a page on what games will help you most. The selection of photo-based games and puzzles include Memory Match, Find the Difference, One of These Things is Not Like the Others and more. All the games are quite fun and engaging, but my favorite so far has been Find the Difference, mostly because I'm determined to find them all before my time is up (which I've not yet been successful at). With increasing degrees of difficulty, it's easy to choose one you like and get better and better and better at it, all the while exercising that cranium and achieving an ageless brain in tip-top shape.

Ageless and tip-top shape is my goal for my brain. I've got quite a ways to go, though, according to the scores I've earned so far in my Cranium Crunches game play. But it's a start. And it's fun. And it's something I plan to incorporate into my daily routine—just like my mother-in-law used to do with her crossword puzzles.

photo: stock.xchng

Disclosure: I wrote this blog post while participating in a campaign by BOOMboxNetwork.com on behalf of Cranium Crunches and received payment for my participation. All opinions stated within are my own.

Today's question:

What do you like to do to keep your mind challenged and exercised?

I've gone and done it

I've always known it would happen, but I've gone and done it, long before my time. I've gotten old. And here's how I know that for a fact.

Well, first a little back story.

When my girls were young, I swore I'd never get a minivan. I didn't care how much simpler it would make life with three daughters, there would be no dubbing me a soccer mom or minivan mom or any of those other stereotypes. Especially since my kids didn't play soccer anyway (at least not when they were little; Andie did play in high school and college and was a rockin' goalkeeper who sported her bruises and bangs with pride).

Anyway, the minivan-mom life was not for me. I was determined to steer clear of that, and I did. The closest I came was purchasing a Ford Explorer, which was kind of the same, only cooler. Like me. Or like I thought I was. (The fact I'm still driving that Ford Explorer makes me very uncool, I know. But it's very paid for, and that's what matters most at this point.)

Fast forward to the empty nest phase. My dad, a younger sister, and another younger sister (neither named Daryl) all own RVs. Recreational vehicles. A monster recreational vehicle at one point, in my dad's case. The kind that are obscenely decked out, obscenely long, and require obscene amounts of gas to get anywhere. And that require cameras at the rear and monitors at the dashboard so you can see what's going on in the event one's actually crazy enough to try backing that thing up. A monster motorhome so huge my stepmom, the navigator to Dad's driver, had to use binoculars to watch for exits ahead so they'd have time to change lanes without disastrous effects when traveling the interstate.

The RV owners in the family have great stories to tell of their road trips and camping excursions with their motor homes. Yeah, they look nice, travel well, and are a nice place to visit, but I certainly wouldn't want to own one. I prefer flying. Get on the plane, get off, get a hotel. That's my kind of traveling.

Until now. I'm a little tired of wasting the hours that lead up to the getting on and off of a plane, hours that could be spent getting somewhere. In an RV. A mini RV, to be exact. I'm not interested at all in owning or driving or sleeping in one of the monster RVs owned by many a grandma and grandpa. No, like the minivan aversion, I'm too cool for that.

But I recently admitted to Jim my desire to possibly one day own a smaller version, one that's 25 feet long or less. A Class C motor home, is apparently what they're called, according to a little searching I did online yesterday. A Class C mini RV that might look something like this with a cooler paint job, of course, as this one looks rather '80s to me (I did find more awesome ones online, but the photos were not copyright-free):

Yep, I could handle that. I could drive that, sleep in that, bring the dogs along when we go out of town in that. And I could imagine the thrills Bubby and Baby Mac (when he's grown a bit more) would get out of playing in that when Gramma and PawDad visit.

Of course, by the time we can afford such a thing, Bubby and Mac will be older, wiser, and more likely to think such a thing is very not cool, and very much for old fogies. Which, as I noted at the outset of this post, is apparently what I've become, long before my time. That's the only explanation I have for fantasizing about owning such a stereotypically old and uncool automobile...and hotel...all rolled up into one. With air-conditioning and a well-appointed sound system. And a DVD player, a refrigerator, and a bed. And most important of all: a bathroom.

Which sounds to me like a pretty cool way to travel.

Yep, I'm old.

Photo: flickr/The Motorhome & US RV Show

Today's question:

What's the most UNcool vehicle you've ever owned?

Old enough to be a grandma

I often come across women who eschew being called "Grandma." As they put it, they're "not old enough to be a grandma," the distaste heavy on their lips, on their words as they offer the disclaimer accompanying the label.

Well, I am old enough to be a grandma, and it doesn't bother me one bit. Having accumulated the number of years necessary to have borne children who in turn grow, mature and bear children of their own comes with many perks, many privileges, many insights younger women may not be privy to.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I no longer feel it's necessary to sort out my past for the sake of my future. What's done is done, what will be will be. I'm living my future ... and it's far better than I once expected.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I can delight in my daughters as adults, not just worry about them as children.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I know it can happen to me. Invincibility is an illusion of youth; reality rings harder and louder as you age. Which means I always wear my seat belt, take vitamins, look both ways. And I savor the moments granted by my precautionary measures.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I trust my gut instinct more. I finally realize it's right more often than not.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I more deeply appreciate and more thoroughly understand the importance of "I'm sorry." And "thank you."

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I find contentment more often in the small things, have stopped pining for the big things. For the most part.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I no longer stifle my feelings simply to keep others comfortable.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I find truth — sometimes ugly, sometimes freeing — in discomfort. Mine and that of others.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I forfeit the beauty competition, having accepted that I will never again look like I did at 18 nor will I ever look like a moneyed celebrity. (One of those freeing truths mentioned above.)

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I put more effort into accepting others for who they are, less effort in trying to make them who I want them to be.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I like my siblings more than I used to.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I say "I love you" more often ... without hesitation or embarrassment.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I am a grandma. I'm proud to say so, proud to be so.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I feel thoroughly, thankfully blessed and will gladly take the title — and the years — over the alternative.

Today's question:

Fill in the blanks: Now that I'm old enough to _______, I ___________.

Please step aside, ma'am

My pretty teen daughters — June 2003I recently started reading "29" by Adena Halpern. It's the story of Ellie, who, on her 75th birthday, wished while blowing out the candles on her cake to be 29 years old again — and was magically granted the wish.

I've so far enjoyed the amusing story of the cantankerous grandma made young again and her exploits with her 29-year-old granddaughter and 55-year-old daughter.

Ellie's desire to be young and attractive like her granddaughter reminded me of the pivotal incident that led me to realize I was getting old. Or at least deemed an older woman in the eyes of others and involuntarily required to step back as a female garnering male attention and watch as my daughters moved forward.

Yes, it was one incident, several years ago, during what would have been an otherwise ordinary trip to the grocery store.

Now, let me first say that I would never claim to be ravishing, a head turner, one hot mama, or any one of a million adjectives describing a gorgeous woman. Yet I admit to getting a fair share of looks from males throughout the years, as most females of a certain age do. It was never a big deal, nothing I put much stock in. Until I was no longer that certain age, until I witnessed in one fell swoop the move of male attention from me to my daughters and remain that way going forward.

On the day of which I write, one of my teen daughters and I ran into the grocery store to pick up a few things. As we reached the register, I expected cheerful banter with the cashier, a man in his mid-30s. So I opened my mouth, about to say, "How are you today?" But he looked right past me ... and started up the "Did you find everything you need?" conversation with my daughter. It was as if I wasn't even there, except for a cursory glance my way when it was time to pay.

The cashier, clearly closer to my age than my daughter's, didn't talk to her in any smarmy way that had me pegging him a pedophile and wanting to rush my little girl out of there. No, he was simply interacting with who he apparently considered the most vibrant, most conversational of the two customers before him. My daughter pleasantly rose to the occasion; I stepped aside.

It was the first time I'd experienced such an obvious shift — outside of the times I'd watched boys in their teens and early 20s fumble to impress one daughter or another while conducting business with mother and daughter(s), times that don't count. But from then on, it was the norm when in public together, be it dining out at a restaurant, attending performances, shopping in the mall. No matter which daughter was with me, my daughter was the one males smiled at, struck up conversation with, held a gleam in their eyes for. Eyes that dulled when they turned to me to take my order, my ticket, my money. No matter the male's age, no matter the reason for interaction.

I didn't cry over the matter, harbor ill will or animosity. I honestly was okay with the transition from front and center to a supporting role. My lovely, vivacious daughters were coming into their own, and the attention, well, most of the attention wasn't sexual or predatory in any way. (There are always a few creeps outside the norm, of course.) So I didn't mind stepping aside, didn't mind watching my daughters shine. I just found it interesting. And surprising. I always thought age crept up on you, as is the case with crow's feet, hot flashes, and inability to read past 9 p.m. at night without falling asleep. This, though, was sudden, immediate. And it caught me off guard.

I was — and am — completely and wholeheartedly accepting of my age, of the need to step aside. Funny thing, though: Now, years later, I've started noticing more and more looks coming my way. It's surely — and thankfully — not because I'm some cougar in the making.

No, I'm pretty much chalking up the increased attention to the ever-increasing, ever-impossible-to-conceal collection of age spots unattractively converging across my face. It's understandably difficult to tear one's gaze away from the artful display.

Just one more aspect of aging that has caught me off guard. One more I'll surely, eventually, come to terms with.

Disclosure: I received a copy of "29" by Adena Halpern free from the publisher for participation in the From Left to Write book club, with no obligation and no compensation for this post.

Today's question:

If you could magically be 29 again, would you want to be or not? Why?

10 things I want(ed) to be when I grow up

Last week I had dinner with one of my favorite people, a dear friend who is very much like me on many things, but oh-so different from me on one very big thing. That big thing being parenting.

It's not that my friend and I have different parenting philosophies, it's that she isn't a parent at all, never wanted to be a parent, a mom. Ever. I, on the other hand, am a mom, have always wanted to be a mom. From the time I was a child, the position of Mom has been at the very top of my list of things I wanted to be when I grew up.

Being a mom wasn't the only thing on my list of things I want to be when I grow up, though. Here are more:

10 things I want(ed) to be when I grow up

A writer. I remember as far back as middle school, dreaming about being a writer. I became a writer, made a decent living for a short period of time as a writer, continue to be a writer.

A disc jockey. In elementary school, I worked on a presentation with a group, and we chose to present our findings on Mary McCleod Bethune radio style, with intermissions featuring snippets of music. The presentation made me realize I loved playing the part of DJ. Every now and then I still get a hankering to host a radio program ... featuring music, not news or blathering bumbleheads.

A cosmetologist. I wanted to be not just a hairstylist, but a cosmetologist. I went to school for it, was on my way to earning my license. Then I got pregnant, the chemicals weren't a good idea for the baby, and "Beauty School Dropout" became my theme song for a while. (Was soon thankful this dream was never realized!)

Interior designer. Again, started classes. Again, got pregnant ... and decided continuing school was too much for a mom with two little ones and an overworked husband.

Backup singer. I'd still like to be this. I don't want to be in the forefront, the glaring spotlight. But providing backing vocals for the star -- and maybe a solo during the bridge now and then -- would sure get my toes tapping, my hands clapping, and heart soaring.

Parenting magazine editor. Ann Pleshette-Murphy, editor of Parent magazine when my girls were little, was my idol. I've accomplished this one. Not to the degree of Ann, only on a regional parenting publication level, but accomplished just the same. 'Twas one of the highlights -- and much-missed positions -- of my writing/editing career.

Librarian. This was at the top of my list for many years, just below writer. Still is some days. Too bad a library science degree is required.

Bookstore owner. Plan B for sharing books, since a degree isn't required to sell them. Cash is required, though, and I never had it. Proof that things happen -- or don't happen -- for a reason, as I'd surely be suffering the plight of today's independent booksellers.

Pie shop owner. I make pretty good pie. I wanted to share it with others. I planned to call it Pie in the Sky. Or Pie Hopes. Again, no money -- and the rise of the cupcake -- brought those hopes to a fizzle. Although, I've been reading lately that pie is the new cupcake. Hmm ...

Restaurant owner. Witnessing hundreds of college classmates of Megan and Andrea, miles from home and craving Mom's cooking, got me seriously considering starting up a Homesick Restaurant featuring daily specials from mothers across the country (credit to Anne Tyler for the name). The girls graduated before I put the plan into action -- fortunately, as the location was seven hours away in a town I never planned to visit again once they were done with college.

Looking at this list, I see that nearly everything on it, attained or not, has contributed to or enhanced my position as Mom. Cosmetology class provided the tools for cutting and styling the hair of three little girls. Interior Design courses helped me in creating the desired ambiance in my home. DJing and backup singing? Well, I love and share music with my kids; always have, always will. The words I write and share -- whether magazine articles, books or blogs -- are often related to parenting in one way or another. Food fancies require no expanation, as that's what moms do: show their love through food.

Bottom line is this: I may not have done all I once dreamed of, but those dreams made a difference in the one that mattered most, the one that became a reality -- being a mom. And who knows? There's still plenty of time to achieve a few of those on my list I still find appealing.

Anyone up for leading a granny band? If you've got the vocal ability and nerves for centerstage, I'd be all over supporting you with a few doowops and handclaps from behind.

Photo credit: stock.xchng

Today's question:

What did you want to be when you grew up?