When Grandma came to town

When I was a child, visits from Grandma were joy-filled occasions. I loved her to the depths of my being and was thrilled she would be spending time with me (and my six siblings, of course). But her arrival did more than provide an opportunity to hug and squeeze this magical woman. Her arrival halted "normal" life in the family household and put us all into "happy" mode.

Grandma would arrive from North Carolina, usually by train because she had a fear of flying, with her stubby little bits of luggage in her stubby little hands. Despite the train ride, her ever-present wig would be firmly in place, her lips and cheeks would be freshly colored -- and her snuff box would be hidden away for later retrieval once the kids were in bed.

When Grandma came to town, Mom and Dad smiled more, fought less, and did their best to make everything appear good as gold in front of Mom's mom. The family would pile in the station wagon for scenic drives, with stops along the way to nearby tourist towns where we'd peruse the souvenir shops and Grandma would splurge for trinkets and ice cream cones for her grandkids.

When we'd return home, we'd have big meals around our big dinner table. There'd be big conversations in bright, happy tones, highlighted by heaps of smiles and warm fuzzies for all.

But Grandma's visits never lasted long, at least not long enough for me. She'd give her warm squishy hugs to each of us one by one then climb back into the station wagon for the trip to the train station. She'd wave goodbye from the window to us kids in the driveway. And as they pulled out, the tears would start rolling down my face.

"What are YOU crying about?" my tough older sister would snarl. But there was no way to put into words -- especially through the tears and limited vocabulary of a child -- that it pained me to the core to see Grandma leave. That I couldn't stand knowing she'd not be back for many months, if not years. It broke my heart that the party was over ... and that life in our household would return to normal. Suffice it to say that normal wasn't good.

I hope Bubby never cries when our visits are over. I want him to thoroughly enjoy the times we have together and for him to miss me when I'm gone. But I don't want his heart to break when I leave. I don't want him to be sad when his life returns to normal. I want his normal to be good.

Grandma banned from taking photos

Sheila Campbell, a grandma in Edinburgh, was a recent victim of political correctness gone awry when a pool attendant at the public swimming pool near her home forced her to stop taking photos of her grandchildren romping and diving in the water. Campbell's daughter, mother to the four granddaughters in question, was at the pool with them, and there were no other kids around.

But when Campbell raised her camera to snap shots of her granddaughter practicing her diving skills, a pool attendant rushed to the rescue, making her put down the camera. Mrs. Campbell complied, fearing the overzealous attendant would take it from her. There were no other kids around. The granddaughters (ages 5 to 10) weren't scantily clad, which may have prompted the attendant to be concerned about child porn or such. No, the attendant was just on a power trip, apparently, following the lead of several other overzealous local organizations that prohibit photography and filming of children at public events and in public places. Authorities have even banned the filming of children at sporting events at local schools.

This is crazy. Yeah, I'd be a little concerned if some smarmy man (or woman) were trolling the parks and pools, camera in hand, snapping the little ones here and there. But common sense has gone out the window in Edinburgh, it seems. Grandma should be able to document moments with her grandkids without government intervention -- and not just behind closed doors.

I've not been out in public much with Bubby (yet!) but some of my favorite photos of him were taken in -- gasp! -- public. If authorities had warned me to step away from the camera, I would not have this:

Or this: Or any of these:

Thank God we live in America!!

Falling TVs

Toys? Who needs toys when the TV's on!?Last week there was an article in the paper about the rising number of children being hurt by furniture. The article mentioned a variety of ways kids are seriously injured by big objects such as bookcases and more, but all I could focus on was the television stat:

Injuries to children from falling televisions and other furniture have increased by more than 40 percent since 1990, according to a study published in May in the journal Clinical Pediatrics. Each year, 14,700 children in the U.S. - most of them under 6 years old - are hospitalized with such injuries, with nearly half struck by televisions.

My reason for zoning in on the TV bit? Because Bubby zones out when the TV is on. He LOVES the television and sees nothing and no one when Elmo or any other singing plush animal fills the screen.

Yes, I have a tendency to be overprotective and a tad paranoid about unlikely things happening to my children. OK, I admit, I'm kind of a freak about such things, and my reaction to this article is continued proof that I'll be the same way with my grandchildren.

It's not that I think Megan won't (and isn't) doing the necessary things to protect Bubby, but I'm older, I've been around longer, I've learned about all the scary and deadly things that could befall my loved ones ... and continue to learn. I've read a lot more, especially considering that as a former parenting magazine editor I read copious copy about horrible happenings and how to protect the little ones.

But besides all that, Bubby LOVES the television! And now that he's mobile, he LOVES to climb on things. A formula for disaster, if ever there was one. And thanks to my overactive imagination, I can see that big ol' magical box that displays Elmo and all kinds of happy-happy, joy-joy goodness for Bubby smashing my little buddy to bits when he pulls the damn thing off the shelf.

I have to temper my cries of "Danger! Danger!" to Megan, though, since she's already tired of my freakouts that started from the minute I learned she was pregnant. "Here's a newfangled gadget to count the number of times the baby has moved so your child's not stillborn!" "Bassinette? Don't get a basinette! Studies have shown SIDS is much higher for babies in basinettes!" "Do NOT put pillows in the baby's crib or he'll suffocate!" "Grapes? You're not allowing him to eat GRAPES, are you??".

No, I have to be subtle about my warnings going forward, as I think she's turning a deaf ear to my panic. So I'll just post my concerns on this blog. I'm doing nothing more than passing along some information I ran across. I'm not freaking out. Really, Megan, I'm not. I'm not begging you to BLOCK OFF THE TV SO BUBBY CAN'T GET TO IT! Honest. It's just an idea ... But you really may want to consider it ....

What a difference a year makes

When Bubby was born, certain aspects of our family life were a given. One given was that my husband and I had decent jobs, making a decent salary, and we were able to fly to visit our grandson as often as our accrued vacation hours allowed. But then the winds of change rolled in. Six months after Bubby was born, my job was outsourced and I've yet to find employment. And my husband's job is set for outsourcing next month, with no new job on the horizon. Needless to say, money is tight.

But it's just money.* The more important changes in the past year have involved life and death. Lower on the scale of importance - but still heart-wrenching - was the death of our 12-year-old family dog, Moses. When Bubby was born, I envisioned Moses, a black lab/collie mix, being a major attraction for Bubby when visiting our home, with the two of them enjoying endless games of fetch. It wasn't to be, though, as Moses had an appointment in heaven and won't be around to befriend Bubby.

High on the scale of importance, though, is the loss of my mother-in-law, aka Granny, who, although still living, is "just not there" mentally or physically, thanks to several strokes. When Bubby was born, Granny was thrilled about her newest great-grandson. When she first met him, she kind of freaked out Bubby's mommy by continually stating, "This is MY baby," and refusing to let others hold the baby. Megan knew it was a joke, but she did worry about the way Granny clutched the newborn. It was just love, not lunacy. But Megan no longer needs to worry about that. Granny will never be the Granny we all once knew. She recognizes few family members, is unable to maintain a conversation, cannot walk without assistance, wears a diaper. And she will never cuddle Bubby again.

It breaks my heart that Bubby will never get to know Granny, never get to hear her too-oft-repeated stories about her son (Bubby's grandpa). He'll never get to listen to her sing hymns in a voice reminiscent of a wanna-be opera diva. He'll never be one of the lucky kiddos who knew they had a rapt audience in Granny, no matter how long-winded and rambling the child's story may be.

It sucks. It's sad. It's the worst change we've faced in the past year. And it's one that's not as easily remedied as finding new employment or picking out a new dog.

*It's easy to be blase in a blog, but the reality is that it's scaring the hell out of me!

Body painting

I bought Bubby some fingerpaints as a birthday gift so when I received an e-mail from Megan with "body painting" as the subject, I figured I'd open it to see a precious display of reds, yellows and greens all over my grandson's body. A true work of art.

This is what the e-mail said:

Big Bubby decided to do some body painting for our anniversary - what a sweetie, huh! Oh yeah, did I mention he was painting with what he found in his diaper?

And this was the picture:

Ugh! Of course, my first question was, "Why in the world is his poop so black!?" Well, turns out Bubby had a pint of blueberries to himself the day before.

It's this kind of thing that makes me oh-so happy to be Grandma, not Mom!