It Takes Two!

            Last week, I had almost-five-year-old Harrison and just-turned-two-year-old Fisher in the back seat of the car, heading to our house after getting them from their other grandmother’s house. 

            I told the boys I had a little surprise for them at home.  Harrison quickly asked, “Is it one thing or two?”

            When I answered that there were two – one for him and one for Fisher -  Harrison said that was good, because when there’s only one thing, they fight. 

            So, I thought, this might be a great one of those “teachable moments.”  I explained how important it is to share, that sharing with others is good and that taking turns is what people need to learn to do. 

            That’s when Harrison spoke up again: “The thing about sharing is when me and Fisher share, Fisher doesn’t.”

            Yep, that could certainly be a problem – when two people share except that one of ‘em doesn’t. 

            We all know what that’s like, don’t we? 

Very Random Thoughts

            Random means having no pattern or no aim or something along those lines.

            Well, today, I have a few random thoughts to share.  There’s no pattern to them; all they have in common is that they’ve been on my mind (in my mind?) lately.

            1.  This one is a recurring thought; I have it every two years: Isn’t it ironic that Halloween and Election Day are so close together?  “Trick or treat” seems to fit both days, don’t you think?

            2.  Just the other day, daughter Mandy sent a message asking if I wanted “face time” with her two sons.  I thought maybe it was a request for babysitting (which I love.)  No, it was something like a video phone call on Facebook with a cell phone.  We haven’t done this yet ‘cause she’s still “‘splaining” it to me.  Next thing you know, we really will be able to just reach out and touch someone!

            3.  Mandy’s younger son, Fisher, is looking just like my son, Tree.  He’s just about the spitting image, in fact.  (Tree's picture at a young age is the middle one, dressed in yellow.)

 

            Recently Mandy sent a text message to Tree that said, “My son is beginning to look just like you.” 

            Tree responded, “You just don’t know how many times I’ve gotten that same message from others.”

            Uh-oh!

            4.  Just over a week ago I turned 63.  I don’t mind sharing my age; I’m grateful for the opportunity to grow older.  On each birthday, I am painfully aware that brother Rod didn’t have that opportunity.  He died in 2010 at the age of 56.

            I miss him.

Can You Pick the Unhappy One?

My daughter's friend, Sarah R. Sass, took this photo of my two grandsons, Harrison and Fisher.  Can you tell which one isn't happy?


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Boxes - and More Boxes

                        I’ve never seen so many boxes in my life!

                        It’s been six weeks since we moved, or at least since we started moving.  The whole moving process seems unending.  We’re still surrounded by boxes.

                        With everything else going on – like sleeping, eating, cooking, church, work, etc. – we can’t spend 24 hours a day unpacking boxes.  I wonder if we’ll be through by Christmas. 

                        Since Dupp and I are still relatively newly-wed, we have “his stuff,” “her stuff,” “our stuff” and stuff that has been stored in PODS for a few years. 

                        And among all of this stuff are some things we don’t recognize.  At all.  A visitor asked recently about a clock.  I told her to ask Dupp about it ‘cause I’d never seen it before.  Strange.  Dupp said it wasn’t his either. 

                        We found parts of three blenders but not all of the parts to any one blender. 

                        We’ve also found enough crockpots to open a crockpot museum.  I’ll admit that I enjoy using crockpots, even for boiled peanuts.  I’ve been known to use two or three at a time when we had folks coming over. 

                        It’s no telling what all we will discover or rediscover. 

                        Until today, going through boxes was a slow process.

                        That changed when the two grandsons came for a five-day visit.  Do you know how fast a four-year-old and a seventeen-month-old can open and go through boxes? 

                        It takes less than 24 hours for two little boys to unpack every box. 

                        Sure, it’s going to take a long time to put stuff away or donate it or sell it or whatever.  But, thanks to the grandsons, we don’t have as much unpacking to do.

                        Besides, boxes make wonderful toys for playing, imagining, creating and building.  The two boys love having empty boxes.

                        And so do we!

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Popcorn and Plans

            Ah, the best laid plans.

            Yep, you know the rest of that, don’t you?  It’s the saying that “the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.” 

            Taken from a Robert Burns poem and a John Steinbeck novel, the saying, of course, means that, sometimes no matter how hard one plans, things just don’t work out according to those plans.

            Here’s my newest “best laid plans” story:

            Iris, a really good friend, and I like to get together to play Buzztime Trivia on Wednesday afternoons.  This particular trivia game is played throughout the US and Canada in restaurants, pubs and other such establishments. 

            Iris and I usually go a neighborhood family pub (O'Lacy's) late on Wednesdays and then The Duppster joins us after work to play a round or two of trivia.  Typically, we’re out of there by 6 pm or 6:30.

            Last week, the two grandsons were staying with us.  They are just-turned-four (Harrison) and 17 months (Fisher.)  I didn’t want to tell them we were going to a pub or anything like that. 

            Since this particular pub has free popcorn, I told Harrison and Fisher we were going to the “popcorn place” where we could eat popcorn and have fun.  They were excited! 

            Iris was in on this temporary-name-for-the-business scheme.  She got to the pub a few minutes before I arrived with the two grandsons, so she told the owner what was going on.  When the boys and I walked in, the owner said, “Welcome to the Popcorn Place.”

            As is normal for late Wednesday afternoons, there weren’t many people there.  We all had popcorn while Iris and I played trivia.  Everything was working out just right.

            As we were leaving around 6 pm, several other people were coming in.

            That’s when Harrison exclaimed, “Boy, this bar sure is filling up fast!”

            This bar?

            So much for the Popcorn Place.

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Supper With the Boys

            The Duppster and I had the two grandsons over the weekend. 

            Harrison is almost four; Fisher is 14 months.  What this means is that we had our hands full. 

            Sunday meant Sunday School and church and we made it through much, much better than we feared.  Now THAT was something for which to give thanks!

            Fortunately, there are several neighborhood children, so both boys were able to play outside with others in the afternoon.  That was yet another reason for thanksgiving.

            Meal time was something else.  Fisher has learned to say “cracker” and continually asks for crackers, even while eating something else. 

            Sunday night, after a long but enjoyable day, it was time for supper and I wasn’t sure what to fix in a hurry that Harrison would eat and that Dupp liked.

            Well, as it turns out, both Harrison and Dupp love peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  Voila!  That would be the perfect quick supper, even though we had to use different kinds of jelly based on personal preferences.  Wouldn’t you know it?

            Harrison was at the table, gobbling down his peanut butter and (blackberry) jelly sandwich, when he turned to me and said, “This is just a fake supper.  Right?”

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Peanut Butter Sausage

So, here I am for a couple of days taking care of two grandsons, Harrison, 3 3/4, and Fisher, 11 months.  Yes, I put "3 3/4" 'cause there's a lot of difference in 3 and 4.  He'll be 4 in mid-March. 

This morning I asked Harrison what he wanted for breakfast.  Well, that was my first mistake; his mom has told me before not to ever ask Harrison what he wants to eat - just fix something and tell him that's what he's having. 

By the time I remembered her advice, the damage was already done. 

Harrison answered that he wanted "peanut butter sausage."  I was still half-asleep, so I thought perhaps I was hearing things; I asked again, and again got the same answer: "peanut butter sausage."

I had no idea what peanut butter sausage was.  I told Harrison I had no idea what he was talking about.  Actually, my exact words were: "What in tarnation is peanut butter sausage?" 

He said, "I'll show you."  He went to the refrigerator and opened the door.  Then, as he looked over the contents, he explained, "You get the sausage out of the drawer and put peanut butter all over it.  Then you mix it with milk.  And then with cheese.  And then with diet Coke.  You put grapes next to it."

By then, of course, I knew there was no such thing as peanut butter sausage. 

Harrison knows how to play tricks on his grandma.  And he does it with such a straight face.  And a sweet, innocent one at that. 

He had cereal for breakfast. 

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Baby Blues - and Going Green

I had forgotten the joys of having a baby.

Oh, no, no, no! I don’t mean having a baby, as in giving birth to one; I mean having one in our home.

Fisher, our six-month-old grandson, is with us for about a week. And, yes, I had forgotten the joys of having a baby around.


The joy came back quickly with his first soggy, heavy, warm diaper. Oh, did it ever! This particular diaper change gave new meaning to the color known as “Army green.” I don’t think I’ll ever view my daughter’s Army uniform the same way again. I believe there were also shades of “spoiled asparagus green.”

I don’t think this is what environmentalists mean when they speak of “going green,” although that’s exactly what Fisher has done. Our house will never smell the same.

And then there are those joyful feedings in the high chair. About half of the food drips from his mouth and down his chin onto the bib. That’s when he chooses to wipe his fist across his mouth, then on his head. Fisher’s almost-bald head is a motley assortment of colors by the end of a feeding and, perhaps, by the end of the day, depending on how many baths he gets.

As I lean in with his spoon to give him more food, he usually grabs my hair. Apparently, this has become a favorite game of his. So, by the end of his feedings, my various shades of blonde and gray are intermingled with “carrot orange” and “garden vegetable green.” Ah, such an inexpensive form of hair coloring.

When Fisher looks up with his big blue eyes and his even more humongous grin, when he snuggles with his head on my shoulder, when he stretches his arms and reaches for me – these are the joys that warm the heart and bring the delight that overshadows all the messy diapers and feedings in the world.


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The Sofa and the Old Woman

This is the story of the sofa and the old woman. 


It happened like this: I spent several days this past week with daughter Mandy; her husband, Adam; their three-year-old, Harrison; and the almost-four-month-old Fisher a/k/a The Fish.

Early in the week Mandy called to let me know that she and The Fish were sick and she had no energy.  As most reasonable folks know, a mother of an infant and an active three-year-old must have energy.  Mandy said she needed my help, so I drove to Murrells Inlet to help as I could.

And it was during these few days that I learned a new indicator of "old age." 

There's a sofa in the room with the TV, the official "hang-out" room at their house.  And there's one spot on the sofa that I occupy when I'm feeding The Fish, or reading, or checking e-mail - well, you get the picture.  It's just the point to which I gravitate. 

One night the family decided to play a joke on me.  They put a "whoopee cushion" under my usual spot -- the place on the sofa  that I seemed to claim as mine for giving The Fish his bottle or for whatever I'm doing. 

So, I - the innocent victim of the prank - plopped down on that spot on the sofa.  And, yes, there was one of those awful sounds as I crushed the whoopee cushion.

And that's when I learned what old age really is.  They all laughed.  I didn't know there was a whoopee cushion there.  It was just a typical sound for me, one that I seem to make all too often -- without the aid of a cushion.

And, my friend, if you don't understand what I'm saying, just wait.  You will.  When you're this age -- old -- you'll understand -- totally!


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Oops! Things I Had Forgotten

Last week, I quickly remembered some things I had forgotten.


I was in Murrells Inlet taking care of my two grandsons – almost three-year-old Harrison and 10-week-old Fisher. It took only a 24-hour period for me to realize why God created women in such a way as to end child-bearing years before women are my age!

One of the things I had forgotten was how important it is to go quickly when changing a boy baby’s diapers. I was sprayed twice in three minutes! Diaper-changing time is not a time to play “goo-goo-goo” with baby, at least not between diapers.

Nor is it a good time to play “goo-goo-goo” when baby is ready for his bottle. When he’s hungry, he is not in the mood to smile. Babies can be extremely goal-oriented.

I also quickly remembered that if the two children are ever sleeping at the same time, quickly do anything you need or want to do. That little block of time is when the adult showers, dresses, cooks, sleeps, returns phone calls, checks e-mail, reads Facebook, etc. Yes, everything in a short time frame.

I had also forgotten that days are spent wearing clothes infused with the aroma of “eau de spit-up.”

Through Harrison, I realized (again) that toddlers repeat what they hear. I’m still holding my breath on this one.

He also reminded me that little boys have an unending supply of energy, enthusiasm and inquisitiveness – and that grandmas don’t.

Harrison made me think about the various names grandparents are called. New grandparents often wonder what they will be called: Nana, Granny, Pops, Poppa or whatever. Harrison calls me “Puff,” but last week he often used “Puffy.”

No, neither name is very flattering, but it doesn’t matter. Every time Harrison says my name, I am reminded of how fortunate I am to have two healthy and wonderful grandsons.

Smelling of “eau de spit-up” is an aroma of love. I’m happy to wear it any time.

 
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