I had my tonsils out in the sixties. (That's the 1960s, not when I was in my 60s!) I remember only three things about the experience:

1. The book read to me to prepare me for the hospital visit. I recall there being brightly colored pictures of a little boy who's hospital gown didn't stay closed very well and nurses in white uniforms with the matching hats they wore back in the day. I search for that book every time I vist a used-book or antique store. I'm determined to one day find it.

2. Jello being served to me in the hospital bed afterwards.

3. Quisp. The character from the cereal. Somehow Quisp figures into my tonsil-removal experience. I think I received the stuffed Quisp doll from someone ... or maybe a lucky child in the bed next to me received the quirky alien ... or maybe I've imagined the entire thing. Imagined or not, the Quisp doll and tonsils go hand-in-hand in my mind.

(Let me stop here and say that if you are one of the young-uns who don't know what the cuss Quisp is, you can catch up by reading all about the cereal, the character and the battle with Quest right HERE.)

So last weekend, Brianna and I were out shopping for butt-toning shoes for my walks, along with a few other things. I bought my shoes, she bought two pair (not butt-toning ones) and we moved on to Target.

No, I do not fill my ceral bowl this full. Illustrative purposes only.We're toodling toward the kitchen gadgets -- or whatever the heck it was we were there to get -- and what do I happen upon but an end cap stocked to the brim with, you guessed it ... no, not Jello ... but QUISP cereal!

The quirky little pink alien smiled from the blue box, just like I remembered from 40 years ago, beckoning me to the shelf. My eyes widened, my heart leapt and phantom pains from long-gone tonsils squelched squeals of delight. So I didn't squeal, but I did smile wide, pick up a box and share my Quisp story -- or my imagined Quisp story -- with Brianna.

I also bought a box. How could I resist?

When I got home, Jim, too, squealed upon seeing Quisp. Okay, he didn't really squeal, but he was just as excited to see the little guy as I was. Which surprised me because he certainly didn't know me when I had my tonsils out and never had the good fortune of seeing my Quisp doll. And he definitely is not a fan of cereal (I've never seen him eat a bowl of cereal in our entire lives together).

"Now that's a cereal I could handle," he said. "Dry, of course." (His aversion to cold cereal has something to do with milk, I've been told. Never, ever will he eat cold cereal with milk. Dry, apparently, is another story. Especially if it's Quisp, even more so apparent.)

So I happily placed the alien cereal in the cabinet, looking forward to having a bowl or two during the week. Which I did yesterday. And it was everything I remembered: little flying saucers that hold smidgens of milk ... and float in the milk as the saucers become few. A sweet, crunchy taste much like Cap'n Crunch -- without the damaging-to-the-roof-of-the-mouth crunchiness of Cap'n Crunch. Soggy saucers if if not eaten quickly enough. And the nausea that comes soon after swallowing the last bite.

Nausea? Yeah, the stuff always made me sick to my stomach for some reason. But I loved it so much -- call it successful marketing, maybe -- that I ate it regardless of the nausea, regardless of how I'd feel afterwards.

Also regardless of the nausea: I plan to buy two more boxes of Quisp before it disappears from Target. Not because of the taste -- nausea's not as easy to ignore as it used to be -- but because <insert drum roll here> with just three proofs of purchase and $4.95 for shipping and handling, I can receive by mail an authentic Quisp T-shirt!

I am so ordering it! And I plan to forevermore proudly wear my Quisp T-shirt as I peruse used-book stores and antique shops in my hunt for the out-of-print picture book featuring a little boy's hiney peeking from his hospital gown as he visited the hospital for his very first medical procedure. A little boy who wasn't as fortunate as I to receive a Quisp doll during his visit. Or to even imagine receiving a Quisp doll, as my case very well may be.

Today's question:

What do you remember about your very first hospital visit (well, first other than being born)?

Too-cool Bubby in an outfit NOT chosen by Grandma.I went shopping with my mom and my sister yesterday, to one of those warehouse clubs with 10-pound packages of peanut M&Ms sold alongside tires and cappuccino makers. Of course, they sell clothing, too, and we ended up at the racks for little boys.

"Oooh, look at this!" Mom said ... of a little pants outfit that included a (hot!) lined vest that would cause Bubby to suffer heatstroke if he wore it in their 100-plus-degree weather -- or even their way-too-warm winter weather. She also pointed out plaid cotton onesie short outfits (aack, Megan!) and a few more non-Bubby-looking garments. I politely smiled at each of her choices, never gushing over any or throwing them in the cart.

Then my sister -- who's childless and never plans to have kids or grandkids -- got in on the action. "What size does he wear?" she asked enthusiastically. Her choices included "Nemo" and "Bob the Builder" outfits.

"Yeah, those are cute," I said, moving on to others.

I'm sure my lack of enthusiasm made them wonder at my grandparenting abilities.

"Don't you send him packages of stuff all the time?" my sister asked.

Well, no, I told her. We see each other (or did) on a pretty regular basis, so I just give him stuff when I see him.

But I don't give Bubby clothes. And maybe that makes me a bad grandma.

When Bubby was first born, I bought little sleepers and T-shirts and onesies and such. But as he's gotten older, it's become quite clear that Megan is as picky about his clothes as she always was -- and still is -- about hers. Shopping for clothes with her has been hell from about the time she was 4 years old. And shopping with her for clothes for Bubby has turned out to be just the same.

Megan lives near an outlet mall, so most of Bubby's clothes come from Gap or Gymboree. I tend to be more of a JCPenney and Target shopper. But even when I'm looking at clothes at the upscale retailers with her, the things I pick out make her snarl her nose and say, "Ahhh ... No!"

So just as I did when we shopped together for her as a teen (which we rarely did as it was not a good experience for either of us), I stand back and keep my mouth shut, pretending to be interested in the racks of socks and such, while she chooses Bubby's clothes. She only asks my opinion after she's made up her mind what she wants. And, of course, my "opinion" is a glowing review of whatever it is she's chosen.

But all that's a long story to explain to my mom and sister as we're going through the racks at the warehouse store. And I may seem harsh and un-grandma-like to them when I don't gush over the little outfits I want to buy Bubby, loading the cart up with this cute one and that cute one. So I just kind of brushed it off and we moved on to the five-ton canisters of Country Time Lemonade.

I'm thinking this morning, though, that maybe I'll head back to the store this afternoon and check out some jammies for Bubby. I can't go wrong with jammies, right? If Megan hates them and thinks they're really not cool enough for Bubby to wear in public, that's okay; jammies aren't meant to be worn in public. And as long as they're comfy and they're chosen with love by Grandma, what else matters?

Right?

This post linked to Grandparent's Say It Saturday.