A "light bulb" moment

So now that Oots (22 months) and Lucky (21 months) have mastered the whole walking thing, each with their own personal variations of skill, their language and comprehension skills are taking off like rockets.

At first, they parroted everything, every noise, every word.  Oots would make us all giggle with his "Please":  He would show all of his teeth in an ingratiating grin, and - with his mouth barely moving - say, "Tcch".  Also, "Blue" was a favorite word, but his pronunciation was worth another giggle: Lips pressed together, again, barely moving, "Bbbbooommmm" but with more of a buzz. It's really impossible to create the pronunciation in writing.

Lucky parroted entire phrases at a run:  "Bye bye see y' soon" (from "Pocoyo" closing scenes); "Habit? Tekoo. Wehcom" (translation:  "Can I have it?  Thank you! You're welcome") and "oh baby y'okay?"

But slowly individual words are becoming clearer and their meanings.  Dancer tells me Oots not only started identifying objects  but putting possession on them:  "MAMA's chair",  "DADDY'S truck".  And learning again at a run - like 10 new words a day. She said, "I'm right here with him and it's moving so fast I can't keep up."

The whole identifying thing.  It's like they have both had that light bulb moment when they realize all that stuff coming out of our mouths has meaning.  It's not just noise we are making, but we are naming objects and actions. 

I was fortunate enough to witness a lightbulb moment and realize it a few days ago.  Sadly, I can remember very few of my own children's moments (what can I say? I'm old) so I have to write this down before the next moment comes and goes.

Two weeks ago Thursday:

Lucky likes to sit in my office with me while I work.  She has her little easy chair and there is a second computer in here to play Super Simple Songs playlist or set up Giggles for Baby for her to play with the keyboard.  On that day, Giggles for Baby was on, one of the "games" where a baby can press the keys on the keyboard and ABCs and 123s pop up and say things like "A is for Apple".   Lucky has a few favorites ("5 chocolate chip cookies! yum!") but today she was just randomly hitting buttons.

"C is for CAT," said Giggles.

She stopped tapping keys.  Walked to the monitor.  Touched the screen lightly with one finger.

"Cat," she said quietly.

"Yeah, that's a cat.  What does a cat say?" I played along, you know, being interactive, workin' the whole animal sounds routine.

"Cat!" she pointed again, this time with more emphasis.

Still attempting to encourage, I responded with, "You're right, that is a cat.  Cat says 'Miaow'!" in my best growly kitty cat imitation, which she usually laughs at, or at least smiles.

"CAT!" she said a third time, decisively, louder, her hand flat on the picture of the cat, and looking back at me as if to say, "No you are not getting it. This is important. I just realized. THIS IS A CAT."

"Cat!" I repeat, watching her. 

"CAAAA-AAAT!!!"  She nearly shouts and all but rolls her eyes at me. But this time, I have indeed gotten it.  No comment from me is required or desired.  So I just nod.

"Cat." One last time, she gently pats the cat on the screen and moves on to the next.

Doodle-isms

Doodlebug (3) spent the weekend with me, due to an extended 10th anniversary celebration of Dilly and Baby Boy.  Yep, they hve been married 10 years and still crazy in luv.  Or just crazy, not sure.

He made arrangements for the kids to be taken care of so Dilly could meet him on the road where he is setting up for his new gig.  He's working with a carpentry stage crew for a theatrical show on national tour.  Anyway, she got a  4 day vacay from childcare and I got the 3-year-old for the weekend.

Some things were frustating - she still has problems communicating.  I mean, she's 3, her language patterns are still going to be a little bit confusing.  But so many things happened that I want to remember and cherish. So...

Here are a few Doodle-isms from this weekend:
1. If you leave cookie dough or peanut butter unattended, the mess that results is your own fault
2. If it gets very quiet, she is either into something or asleep. Guess which happened most often
3. If she says "NUFFIN'!" she is definitely doing something she shouldn't
4. If she comes running in saying "I sorry I sorry", it's probably way too late
5. She can eat her weight in grilled cheese, bacon, and chocolate chip cookies. Fortunately, she's only about 25 pounds.
6. Her active imagination: a baby bed became Ariel's ocean and a pier for fishing, Minnie Mouse got told "Don't you MAMA me!"
7. If something meets her approval, she declares it "Perfick!" (where did she get that?)
8. She matches tone perfectly - she could sing with every TV theme song and commercial in tune, and even "beeped" in tune with the microwave.
9. She loves to cuddle on my lap and sing songs with hand motions, over and over again. Bunny FooFoo, anyone?
 

There are probably dozens more - everything this weekend happened so fast, I can't remember them all. 

 

I just want to remember that I love this little girl - she's not an angel but infinitely more interesting.

Bubbles

[insert absolutely adorable picture of grandkids chasing bubbles.  I can't find it]



    ***************************************************************************

"No!" the Duchess cried out loudly.  "No! Don't get the bubbles off! Nooooooo! Not with the tickle water!"

I went to see why the bathroom sounded like a Fourth of July battle at Water World.  

Oh.  Bathtime.

'Tickle water' is the handheld shower head.

    **************************************************************************

"Bobbooo!  Bobboooo!"

18-month-old Oots pronounces 'bubbles' like 'bob-boo' and of course wants to hold the bubble stick himself.   He earnestly pumps the bubble wand in the bubble cup and, with more enthusiasm than accuracy, attempts to create bubbles. 

He doesn't like it when someone else blows the bubbles.

Much like his mother, not a follower, not a chaser of other people's bubbles, but determined to make his own.

    *************************************************************************
Words of... wisdom? encouragement? something anyway - from the five-year-old Duchess.

"Good job on the bubbles, Lovey," she stated solemnly as she watched the sink fill with hot water and bubbles, getting ready to wash dishes.

She was right. I did do a good job.

Learning to talk

I love the babies.  Even the one who is 10 years old. But the most fun are the ones just learning to communicate.

19-month-old Lucky relating a conversation, an argument it seems, between "Mama" and "Rora", gestulating, turning from side to side, facial expressions, full on drama:

"Rora, Mama, Daddy, bitabitabita ahoppa DOWN... Rora Mama MAMA RORA animita baortisor OH NO atipado..." and so it goes. 

Enunciating her words - those words in her own language - so carefully.  I can hear bits and pieces of words and phrases that I know she has overheard. She doesn't know what they mean, not really, but she has heard them enough to try to repeat them. 

At the end of the story, she looks up expectantly, waiting for ... what?  Applause?  Comments?  Not sure. But I responded, wide-eyed, and interested, "And then what?" only to receive a slightly disparaging look indicating that I have somehow missed the point.

Just a couple of short months ago, I could respond with a breathless, "Really?!?" to which she would reply, firmly, "Yeth!"  It would make me laugh, and she was sure I was in complete agreement with her.  Now that her stories have gotten more complex,  she quietly demands more understanding, and is frustrated that I don't understand all of her attempts at language.

I know I will love communicating with her, and knowing what she wants, and hearing her stories.  But I know I'm going to miss that innocent baby language that is all her own.

Why I call her "The Duchess" and also, Men Cannot Multitask

The Duchess is a picky eater - no surprise, she's four and Daddy (WoWguy) eats like a teenager - pizza, tacos, burgers, etc - so when she started eating regular sandwiches, specifically peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and cheese sandwiches, naturally Turtle and WoWguy were thrilled.  

One day last week, the Duchess and her daddy had a PB&J for lunch.  After she finished, she said, "Ok, now I'm ready for my cheese sandwich."

Just then the phone rang.  "Ok, baby, but Daddy needs to take this phone call from work first, then I'll get you a cheese sandwich."

A few minutes later, she said again, "Daddy, I'm ready for my cheese sandwich."

"Sure, ok, I'll just finish this and get a cheese sandwich for you."

Little while later, "Daddy, where's my cheese sandwich?"

"Oh yeah, I need to do one more thing here, then I'll get it."

Then, while she waited patiently, spinning around his office chair, a song on the radio and caught his attention:

"Duchess, come here! Listen to this! It's Daddy's favorite song!"

Stopping the chair, she put the full Duchess mode on:

"NO IT'S NOT!!  Your favorite song is GET. ME. MY. CHEESE. SANDWICH."

She got her sandwich.

We all have special needs

Reading an old guest post on Rants from Mommy Land on "Special Needs Mommies" led me to think about Pooh Bear and the Dancer and their relationship.

The Dancer is the oldest but still, she was only three and a half when the Pooh was born.  At first, we didn't know that Pooh had special needs, but it was really apparent by the time the Dancer had her 4th birthday.  Especially since, if I am not mistaken, the birthday party had to be postponed because Pooh was in the hospital - again. 

The point being that the Dancer probably does not remember a time when Pooh's special needs didn't come before anything else.  Special needs kids are DEMANDING.  Like 24/7/365 demanding.  Because the moment you stop paying attention for JUST ONE SECOND JUST LET ME PEE FOR HEAVEN'S SAKE, disaster strikes. 

Pooh was in a wheelchair when she was four - mostly in a stroller before that, because by the time she was adept at sitting up by herself she was dangerously top-heavy in like a shopping cart or whatever.  But being in a wheelchair brings stares and inconveniences and heaven help us, comments and questions. 

"Why is she in a wheelchair?" 
"Can she talk?" 
"What's her name?" 
"How old is she?"
etc ad nauseum

I had to grow a thick skin quickly if I wanted to live a normal life and teach my girls to treat Pooh like a human being and not something to be hidden. 

The thick skin did not grow well on the Dancer. Really, still hasn't.  It still bugs her.

First time I realized that it bugged her is when she verbally attacked another kid her age, maybe 9 years old?, in a department store that was asking all the regular questions.  I was trying to both shop and answer as honestly and as simply as I could without going into too much personal, when the Dancer rounded on them:

"WHAT ARE YOU STARING AT? Didn't your mother teach you that's rude?  Why are you asking so many questions?  Is it REALLY any of your business?"  and so on until I nearly had to drag her away.

"The way you behaved was as rude as what they were doing,"  I lectured her.  "Pooh does not need you to defend her from stares and rude questions.  And besides, I'd really rather them ask the questions than walk away with the wrong idea about her." 

This has had mixed outcomes:  On the one hand, Dancer and her other siblings, and for that matter, cousins, tend to see the person before they see the handicap in almost everyone they meet.  They accommodate handicaps without thinking.  Opening doors, opting for the table that's easiest for the wheelchair to pull up to, talking to disabled people like PEOPLE and not like the handicap, if you know what I mean.  It's given them a perspective that I'm sure they would not have had without Pooh Bear.  On the other hand, they are hypercritical of the starers, the commenters, and have developed strange strategies to cope with them.  Especially Dancer.

This was obvious when Pooh Bear and I went to visit Dancer and her husband one weekend.  There was a street fair going on a few blocks from her house so, it being a gorgeous day, we decided it would be nice to walk down there and wander around. 

Occasionally, Dancer would, out of the blue, speak to someone:  "Hi, how ya doin'?  Great day for a festival, yeah?  Y'all here from out of town...?"  At which point I realized that she didn't know these people. 

"What are you doing? Do you know those people?" I hissed.
"No.  They were just staring at Pooh."

At least she doesn't tackle them any longer.

I never thought I'd hear...

List of things I never thought I would hear:

• Oldest daughter, Dancer.  She's uber-independent, I-can-do-it-myself, DON'T GIVE ME ADVICE.  She called to ask, "Mom, how do you take a baby to the store if you don't have the stroller?"
• Turtle, second daughter, uses my computer to check her bank balance.  Does The Happy Dance. Why?  "My raise came through and now I have enough to buy CLEANING SUPPLIES!"  Wow.  Who was that?
• My daughter-in-law, who hated school, who has always hated to read, has started BORROWING BOOKS!  I know RIGHT?  Anyway, she said, "I was so happy when the kids went to bed early and Baby Boy (her hubs) was not home yet, I thought, 'Great! Maybe I can finish this book before he gets home!'" 
• Grandson Boogah, spending the night last weekend.  "Lovey, what time is it?"  "Nearly 8oclock, why?"  "It's WAY past my bedtime!"

Sometimes life is stranger than fiction.

Our Lucky Penny

Well, the new baby did indeed arrive January 20, 2011 at 2:48pm.  Stats:  5 pounds 8 ounces, 18 1/2 inches long, lotsa black hair, already loved by all.  Just gorgeous!

There was some excitement, but nothing like the first one.  She was born before I got there and that suited Mama Turtle and Daddy WowGuy just fine.  They are both uber-private people - Dancer says anti-social, but whatever - and to have the baby with only the doctor, a couple of nurses, and the anesthesiologist (spelling?  don't care enough to check) in the room was pretty much heaven for them.  One big push once the time came and it was done.  Baby here.  I walked in the room moments after they handed new baby to Mama.

Since one of the names they thought about - although they ultimately named her something else - was Penelope, and since several good things have already happened since her birth, I think she will be Lucky Penny here - Lucky for short.

So here she is - Lucky Penny:

UPDATE: there are no pictures, but there is, on a phone somewhere, a video of the first meeting of Duchess and Lucky.  Big sister, is ENTHRALLED in a good way, with her new baby.  She met me at the door last night, top volume, "The baby is HERE!  The baby Lucky is here!"  (Although she called her by her proper name, not "Lucky".  That's just here, for me.)  It was reported, and I saw for myself, that Duchess is rather unwilling to share new baby Lucky with anyone else.  It's always her turn to hold the baby (on a pillow in her lap, as her hands forget that they are supposed to be holding a baby).  Just precious!

Hopefully, video (or pictures) soon. 

Plus One - Today may be the day

Meaning that Turtle is on her way to the hospital to get checked.  We may have a new baby on the way.

She called me at 3:30am - proving that when you can't call anyone else, you can call Mama. 

"I've already called the doctor and he told me to go to hospital [note: it's 45minutes away from her house] but I wanted to know what you think I should do."

Her water was "leaking" but she was not having contractions.  Water hadn't actually broken - just leaking.  We discussed her condition, her memories of the birth of Duchess, my memories of her own birth.

With a smile in my voice, I told her, "Don't leave it too long - you were born less than two hours after we called the doctor, and you know, I've told you he didn't make it."

"Mama, don't tell me that!" she exclaims in (maybe mock) horror.

In the end, she decided to listen to her body and wait until contractions started.  The baby was not due to be here until February 9th.  But that's another thing with babies - sometimes they have their own schedule.

Now here it is, 7:30am.  She called an hour ago to say that contractions had started, slow contractions, possibly first stage of labor.  Timed 45 minutes apart.  She called for babysitter advice - can't take the Duchess, of course she could, but if today isn't The Day, there would be disruption and confusion for no reason.  I can't - Pooh Bear still sleeping and her schedule is pretty much king around here.  So they were going to call WowGuy's mom to come stay with Duchess.  If today is The Day, then she can bring the Duchess here and stay with Pooh and Dilly, who should be here by the time we know whether it's really time or not.  Or if this is a false alarm.

And now - Birth of Turtle:

Dancer was nearly two.  Pretty much a Duchess in her own right, oldest grandchild on both paternal and maternal side.  On daddy's side, there had since been another baby, but she was rarely there the same time Dancer was at MawMaw's, so she still pretty much ruled.

Two months before Turtle's due date, a drunk driver had pulled on the highway right in front of me, night before Thanksgiving, roads crazy, I'm trying to get home.  I could not avoid him.  Seatbelts saved our lives, drunkenness apparently saved his.  Long story short, Dancer was traumatized, I was bruised mightily on pregnant belly and legs, car was totalled. 

Subsequent checkups showed baby was fine, I was fine.  But.  I stopped gaining weight.  Baby stopped gaining weight.  Which, let's be honest ME not gaining weight was not a bad thing to me - baby not gaining weight was a little troublesome. 

Time marches on, and due date was approaching - January 16th? maybe? was the due date.  It passed, doctor started getting a little bit worried, but tests showed nothing out of whack. 

12:30am January 18, 1980.  I wake up gasping for breath.  Unmistakable contraction. I don't wake hubby up, but choose to watch the contractions.  For the next three contractions, they are about 30 minutes apart, lasting about 1 1/2 - 2 minutes.  Breathe.  May not be it.  Long pause - no fourth contraction. Start drifting back to sleep when - BAM! - hard contraction.  Next two are every 15 minutes.  Wake hubby.  We start timing together.  He's concerned, goes to call the doctor, I call my mom who comes to stay with Dancer. 

2:30am January 18, 1980.  On the road to hospital.  Contractions have stepped up, harder and longer.  Hubs is making an effort to concentrate on driving.  Fortunately, the roads are nearly empty. 

3:00am January 18, 1980. We get to the hospital safely, nurses do their examination quickly, glance at each other and ask, Have you called the doctor?  Yes, we say.  With a (maybe panicked?) glance one nurse leaves to go call him again.

By this time, contractions are coming in earnest, moving  quickly from 5 minutes apart to 2 1/2 minutes apart.  They've moved me already to a delivery table (back in the day, they still had a separate delivery room).  Hubby had not been through the hospital "Daddy Training" so he was banished to the hall, to watch from the daddy window. 

3:30am January 18,1980.  Two nurses now, trying to be encouraging, but I still hear the sort-of panic in their voices.
Breathe, they say.
Here have some nitrous oxide, they say. 
DON'T PUSH, they say. 
The doctor is on his way, they say.
PLEASE, they say.

4:10am January 18, 1980.  My body and my baby have other plans.  Pushing almost against my will, Turtle is caught by two nurses who had had no plans to deliver a baby tonight.  As they lay her across my now nearly empty abdomen (doesn't that word look like it needs to be "abdoman"? If it's just one?) and she looks at me with huge eyes, fist - no, maybe it was already her thumb - in her mouth studying me quietly, for just a moment.

The doctor runs in delivery, hair dripping wet still from an apparently hurried shower (to wake up? because he thought he had all the time in the world?), just in time to finish with cutting the cord, repairing a little tear from the birth, delivery the yucky stuff.  They whisk Turtle away. 

It turns out that, yes, she had stopped growing about six weeks ago.  The placenta was scarred from the accident.  Everything had matured normally, but her birth weight was less than six pounds:  5 lbs, 12 oz.  Not only was her weight a bit under normal, but she was tiny all over.  Like I said, completely normal (they watched her like a hawk for two years), but tiny.  Her head was small, but not microcephalic, her shoulders were small, her hips were small.  She had to wear preemie diapers and clothes for about a month. 

And now this tiny baby girl is on her way - possibly - to have a (second) daughter of her own. 

The wheel keeps turning.

Sick Day - and Gratuitous Baby Cuteness

Well.  I guess the flu got me anyway. 

By the time I went to bed two days ago, I was running a pretty good temp.  I went ahead and emailed work - not coming in.

Crashed - kinda in and out all night - kept getting up and checking temp and taking ibuprofen all night.

Morning.  Drag myself through getting Pooh Bear out of bed.  One of those days when I wish there was someone else. But there isn't.  Crash on the couch where she can see me if she needs me. 

HOURS later I stumble around and get her lunch.  Managed to get a load of laundry in the washer after mouldering on the floor all day. *ewwww*   So.  Crash again on the couch.

Suddenly, about 4pm it seems to be over.  I'm up.  I still have a bit of a runny nose and a HUGE headache.  But the worst is suddenly gone. 

**************

I got a packet of pictures in the mail of the new baby.   A-DOR-A-BLE!!   He's in a little elf outfit.  Too cute! 

There were a bunch more.  But this is Oots.  Maybe one day his nickname will make more sense.

The bane of winter

All Baby Boy's babies have the flu.  I woke up about 4am burning up and stuffy.  So.  Either the flu or a cold.  Doesn't matter. I'm currently miserable.

Papaw left sometime during the night to have a "minor" outpatient spinal surgery.  They would not do it unless he had a driver.  I'm glad it wasn't me. Driving that is.  Or having "minor" surgery.   Or going to B'ham. 

Ok, I did have a story, but you know what?  Feeling crappy enough that I am not in the mood to tell. 

Let this be an effort towards writing daily.  Good luck with that.  Crap had to spell "that" three times.  Best to let it goooooo.

Undermining Parental Authority - Lovey's Sacred Duty

"Mom.  You are undermining my parental authority." 

This is a phrase so oft repeated by my son that I no longer feel the need to respond.  The daughters and Dilly (Daughter in law - DIL get it?) don't even bother.  They have all learned the "mom" look, the one that - when the child in question looks from mom to Lovey - the look that clearly says, "You will continue on this path at risk of grave bodily harm to your person."  Kids KNOW that look.  They respect it.

They love to go up and down the stairs.   I'm all for it.   Sort of.  I think they need the practice.  Also, I DON'T want to go up and down the stairs, so I can send them up there to fetch and retrieve things.  Mostly.  Sometimes they forget to bring me what I sent them for.

The parents - MY KIDS - do NOT like to let them go up and down the stairs.  They are terrified.  As a matter of fact, my son and his wife moved out of a two-story townhouse because they were afraid Lulu would fall.  I keep telling them that it would take only one time and they would learn to be careful.  Probably.

Doodle had - maybe she still has, I just haven't seen it recently - a really bad habit of climbing the chairs to the kitchen table and running from one end to the other.   That was mostly this summer.  She was maybe 15 months old when she started, about the time she learned how to climb.  She was/is QUICK, scary quick, as well.  She could be in the living room, you walk to the kitchen to get a glass of water, turn and she's running on the table.  Less than 5 seconds.

One time I was babysitting Doodle when Turtle and Duchess came for a visit.  Doodle was maybe 18 months, Duchess was three and a half.  Thinking that with Turtle there, there was little risk of Doodle doing her table dancing act, I turned my back for just a second.  Next thing I know, Doodle is doing laps on the table.  (I think she must like it because it's big enough to seat ten - takes up the whole dining room.  And I keep it bare - mostly because she is able to climb.) 

Turtle and I both rushed to grab her, Doodle thinks we're playing KeepAway.  After we've got her contained - again - and move all the chairs out of range (not that that will stop her, but it's a hurdle), Duchess remarks, clearly holding back a giggle, "That's very, very dangerous!"  then ruins it by bursting into laughter.

Duchess, you are undermining Lovey's authority as well.

Aaaaand we're back at work..

Now I get it.  Hard to find ANYthing positive to write about, much less have the time, when I'm back at work.  I think of a thousand things a day to write about but by the time I get home and have a moment, I've lost interest.  I guess that's why some people update their blogs on their cell phones and whatnot.

Happy New Year to all!  Yesterday was the first time in years I totally broke with all my New Year's traditions.  No resolutions.  Didn't create or eat the annual "good luck" meal.  Yeah, I'm probably going to burn for that one.  I did laundry - my husband would not let me do laundry on New Year's Day, some kind of bad luck thing, I don't know what for sure.  Maybe it was just a tradition born of his mother or grandmother wanting to have a day off, way back when.  Whatever the case, laundry needed to be done so I did it. 

*********************************

Turtle and the Duchess came for a visit. Really very nice.  Duchess kept telling me, "We will have a party and I am almost four years old!"  and "Lovey, you are my best friend!"  Really, can a New Year start better than that?

Turtle told me a little heartwarmer that happened on the way to Lovey's house.  Duchess had been chattering about parties and Christmas and fun at Lovey's house.  When she grew quiet, Turtle got a little alarmed  (Duchess has a tendency to get carsick) and asked, "Sweetie, are you okay?"

Duchess turned to her with a look of serenity and contentment and said on a sigh, "I'm just so happy.." 

Rare moment.

***********************

And now for the bad news:  I'm on call for the weekend.  The co-worker who was SUPPOSED to be on-call for the weekend had some phone issues (Turtle was calling BULL! but *sigh* what could I do?) so I agreed to take it for him.  The calls have not been that bad but people, PEOPLE, sometimes I hate dealing with people - unreasonable, snarly, snide. 

For example, I had two calls yesterday, back-to-back, with nearly the same issue.  Phone line problems, or could be a bad phone.  I am only required to dispatch a field tech if the phone doesn't work at all, but in both cases it was an issue with house wiring, and the phone was working if it was directly connected. 

CALL ONE: 
Me:  Connect the phone directly to the device.  Do you have dial tone?
Nice Customer:  Yes, it's working now.
Me:  If you would like for us to come out and check your house wiring, please call the office Monday morning and schedule an appointment.
Nice Customer: Thank you!  We'll do that.  At least we have a working phone!

CALL TWO:
Me:  Connect the phone directly to the device.  Do you have dial tone?
Bitchy Customer:  No.
Me:  (Looking at the diagnostics, I can tell she hasn't made any changes)  You need to disconnect the line on the device and connect a phone directly to it.
BC: I can't do that, you need to send someone.
Me: (I know she CAN disconnect the line, we had already been through that step)  If I send a tech on a holiday, you will be charged.  I'm just trying to help you avoid any additional charges.
BC:  There better not be any charges on my account!  This phone been like this since I got it!
Me: (Checking records, I see that she has had the service for over three years and this is the first time there is a record of a bad phone line call)  *SIGH* I understand, but I do have to warn you.  I am not responsible for charges but accounting will put charges on your account if they see that I've sent a tech out there.  Now, please connect a phone directly to the device and let's check for dial tone.
BC:  But then I won't have a phone in my livin' room!

The fact that you have a cheap crap cordless phone that is messing up the internal lines is NOT an emergency.  Just saying.

Also, the fact that a customer has TIME on a holiday that he normally doesn't, does NOT mean I want to hang out and chat.  If I ask, what can I do to help you?  Do not ask if I'm having a happy new year.  Duh!  I'm WORKING what do you think?  I'm also not going to take an extended amount of time to help you set up the XBox/Playstation/IPad you got for Christmas.  Not when you've had an entire week to call during business hours and didn't. 

One last thing:  If you call me on Saturday night at 9pm and open with, "It's been doing this for a couple of weeks now...."  Guess what?  It's probably going to have to suffer until Monday.  Really? Couple of weeks?  And you don't want to troubleshoot, you want me to send someone on a rainy Saturday night JUST BECAUSE you just now have time to deal with it?  I think not. 

I hate being on call.

Kid Quotes

Kids say the darnedest things.

After the Dancer's baby "Oots" was born, her husband's nephews were observing him through the nursery window.  We were all anxiously awaiting a visit with Dancer and her hubby - and maybe even holding the baby!

Youngest nephew, age 2, looked at the tiny red-and-white striped stocking cap on the baby, put there of course to keep him warm, and quipped, "He looks like a EFF (elf)!"  Santa on the brain, kid.

A little while later, after looking at the nativity scene someone had set up at the nurses station - still waiting to see the new family - the same nephew was being held by his grandmother, again, at the nursery window.  He patted her face with his chubby little hands and said, "He's not Baby Jesus?"  Grandmother didn't even try to hold her laughter as she assured him that, No, he was not Baby Jesus.

***********************

Now for a little history:

A year ago, the Duchess was age two going on 15 - drama queen.  She had been scolded SO MANY TIMES about touching the Christmas presents, that when it finally became time to open them, she reportedly stood in her bedroom door and cried in despair, "I can NEVER open presents!" and then ran to her room weeping.  She eventually got over it.

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One more history:  Just after Lulu's 7th birthday, she and Boogah (4) were going to ride with Lovey (me) to the store, and 3-month-old Doodle would ride with mom and dad.  Mom and dad's relief that I was taking the two older kids was so strong that Lulu commented on it.

"Three must be a lot harder than two," she said, raising that one eyebrow in the way she does.  (She won't teach me how to do that).

Sometimes nobody else will do

Attention all mothers-in-law:
"There's nobody like your mama, but I.... (fill in the blank)" is not an acceptable phrase.  Especially when "mama" is sitting RIGHT THERE.

There's no "but" after that phrase.  Just accept it.  Sometimes your daughter-in-law wants her mama. Period the end. 

I can't be close enough right now to fulfill all the wishes and needs my daughter has.  But that does not mean she needs or wants anyone else to do so either.  It's a mama thing.  A little empathy please?

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Daughter the second, Turtle, keeps after me to write.  She says I'm funny.  I have trouble being funny here apparently.  It's been one complaint after another.  This has come to be the place where I can vent all those unspeakable thoughts that I can't say out loud.

My mother had no problem speaking those thoughts out loud - and nobody loved her for it.  I guess that's what I'm trying to avoid.

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Sobfest yesterday afternoon.  For the record, NOT the reason I'm going home.  You know how it is, one person gets started crying and then it's contagious.  Man, I may cry again thinking about it. 

Dancer was venting herself a little.  New mama, you know there are frustrations.  And she's trying to figure it out, I'm trying to give her room, but she feels crowded.  She told me that it's not me that's crowding her (I don't know whether it's a lie or not).  My key point was this:

"Now you know.  Now you know how you feel about that little man in there, right?" She nodded.  "THAT'S how I feel about you, when you were born, then, now and always. I love you and want to do what's best for you."

There was more, but I wanted her to know that although I was here to meet the baby, and hold him, and maybe introduce him to my voice, my main objective was to take care of her.  My job.

She has a husband, though, that is doing wonderfully.  He's pretty amazing to her.  So I feel right leaving now.  I want to be here but to stay longer would be to indulge myself.

Maybe next time I'll have a funny story.  Time to get back to the other kids and grandkids.

Feeling Awkward

There is no age limit on feeling awkward.

I'm a gramma.  Five times now.  And there are still situations that make me feel like I'm still in junior high.  Where the popular kids shun me or make me feel shunned.  Where I'm somehow the odd man out.  Why is that? Do we never grow up? Am I one day going to get to the point that I'm one of the popular kids?

Oh, wait, I was one of the popular kids.  Way back when.  Doesn't matter. Really didn't matter then either, but REALLY doesn't matter now.  Ancient history.

My daughter and I talked about it last night, when we had a moment (sort of) alone.  Her hubby had gone to get something to eat and maybe find someone who wanted to talk about something other than baby.  Baby is super important but I think he might have been feeling a little claustrophobic.

"I felt really bad for you today," she said. 

"Why?" I asked.

"Everybody here has a connection and interconnections, and your only connection here is to me. You don't really have anyone here."

And that's when I told her that it was okay, in the hospital surrounded by so many people, friends of theirs and hubby's family, to be expected.  I didn't expect to have the connections or whatever, it's not a cocktail party, the focus was pretty much on the baby.

I did tell her that I thought it was rude the first night I was here, before the baby got here, when his parents showed up about the time we were getting ready to go out to eat and more or less invited themselves along. And don't get me wrong - I think they are great folks and I really like them.  I can't tell whether they like me or not because there is little that we talk about outside of our children and, now, common grandchild.  I sometimes think they wonder how such an amazing girl as my daughter came from someone like me.  But maybe that's just my current jr. high insecurity talking.

His parents showed up with a Christmas tree, which was great.  And, as I said, they came to dinner as well.  They paid for it, but that didn't make up for the fact that I wanted to spend some time with my daughter, just catching up, touching base, getting those wordless messages you get when she doesn't have her game face on.  With the in-laws there, the game face was on and I felt excluded. 

I sat next to Pooh, preservation of everyone's dignity I guess.  She has a tendency to draw attention, sometimes in negative ways, and I was REALLY trying to make this a good visit. Mother-in-law seated herself next to Dancer and proceeded to dominate one-on-one conversation with her.  HELLO MY TIME!  I was miffed but I don't think it showed to anyone but my daughter.  Really, I wanted time with her as much as I could without an audience of thousands.  I mean, I live five hours away, I'd made the trip with much effort.  If it could be just me, that would be easier to go back and forth, but it can't.  I just don't have anyone I trust to take care of Pooh several days running.  Which is MY OCD showing there, but whatever.

So there I was feeling like I was sitting with the popular crowd but being ignored.  Didn't want to embarass my daughter so.  I just let myself continue to be ignored and only brought it up last night when she mentioned feeling bad for me. 

It so makes me wonder what it would be like if it were the other way around?  Would the Mother-in-law get that junior high feeling when she visited?  I'll probably never know.

Long Awaited

New baby born today - he still doesn't have a name, which has been an ongoing issue for a lot of people that have driven my daughter crazy about it.  She wants to get to know him a little better first before she hands him a moniker that may be totally inappropriate.  That girl takes her naming seriously.

He was due nearly a week ago - December 13.  She wanted to have him as naturally as possible, go with the flow.  I had hoped that she would be able to.  But the OB kinda pushed a little - stripped the membranes - in order to get the juices flowing, I guess.  THAT was Wednesday.  Dancer was really getting impatient by late last night, almost to the point of "I'm going to be pregnant FOREVER" but not quite. 

She texted me at 5:45 this morning - "Contractions but no rush.  Will call in a little while".  Nearly 8am they were leaving for the hospital.  I waited about an hour and even though the monitors were showing mild contrations about every 2-3 minutes, she appeared to be in more pain that was warranted by the monitors. 

After nearly 4 hours, she finally opted for an epidural - a bit sad that she couldn't take it, she was, but moving on is the name of the game here.  She told me (as everyone but her husband was banned from the room) that things moved pretty quickly after that, there was no time to bring in moms and moms-in-law for last minute advice.  SHE SAID it moved pretty quickly.  I SAID that was a crock because we waited for hours, nearly four hours after the epidural.  She was pushing the whole time.

Little man is a mircle.

Global Warming? Really?

I mean, seriously?  Y'all are going to try to sell me on global warming.  Ummm, I don't think so.

In case you hadn't noticed, this is Alabama.  SOUTH Alabama.  And we've had temperatures more suited to, oh, say, CANADA.  Sixteen degrees?  So not about the global warming.  Now, give me 70 in December, in Alabama, maybe even A/C weather on Christmas, then talk to me about "global warming".

All of which was to say this:  Crap, I'm cold.  Yes, I know I'm a weinie, this is why we don't live in Chicago, thanks.  But, like, 30 degrees is the warmest it's been in DAYS. 

I need a Snuggie. Or not. They are really ugly and if they are not cotton, no, thanks.  I'm sensitve that way.

Best and Worst of Christmas - Memories of My Sister

Due to an tragic accident in middle school, my sister - let's call her "Pixie" - was never able to bear a child. I want to tell about the worst Christmas we spent together and the one that I will always cherish the most.  And both were centered around Pixie.

Christmas 1984. My husband had passed away in August, leaving me with four small children, a new job, a new house, and all alone.  I just didn't want to do it.  It was the darkest time of my life thus far.  Adding insult to injury, my baby sister soon after that, that her five year marriage was over. 

"He's been sleeping with someone else - I haven't been with him for months, not since I found out, I just can't.  And now he wants out because she's pregnant."  Double ouch.

Not for the first time, I wondered to myself, what was worse? Divorce or death?  At least as a widow, I had closure. She still saw him nearly everywhere she went.
So Pixie and I spent that bleak Christmas Eve wrapping Santa gifts and weeping on each other's shoulders, for broken hearts and broken dreams and hope blown away like ashes.  I was so glad to have her there the next morning.  I would have been a basket case without her.

Three years later, after careful deliberation, I had quit my job to be Mama.  I figured if I budgeted carefully I could just about do it.  And I could, and did, but it left little room for things like, oh, I don't know, CHRISTMAS PRESENTS.  I had managed to scrape together about $100 for Santa, which, while it's better than a lot of people had - and have - felt pitifully thin for four kids.  I was all ready to make the best of it - who needs dozens of more toys anyway? - when my golden-hearted sister came to me with an idea. 

"I want to be Santa this year," Pixie said.  "It's not much, but I have $300 I've been saving for a rainy day and I think it's storming right about now."

I didn't want to let her, it felt selfish and greedy.  Then she said, "I'll never be able to play Santa for any of my own," and my heart broke for her.  Suddenly, letting her be Santa seemed exactly right.

We planned a big shopping blowout weekend, just the two of us, and managed to make that $300 (Guilty, I used the original $100 on non-Santa stuff) go a LONG long way.  We had SO MUCH FUN visiting toy stores, craft stores, kids' clothing stores (the older two girls were 7 and 9, so clothes were really becoming important to them), then hours wrapping everything.  In the "true" spirit of Santa, she kept everything hidden in her apartment until the appointed hour. 

This particular Christmas Eve was very different.  We giggled like school girls over our selections, sang as we stuffed stockings, stayed up way too late reminiscing over childhood Christmases past.  I remember wanting those moments with her to last forever.

And the next morning, Christmas morning, my Pixie sister experienced the joy of being Santa first hand.

Survivor

Well, I survived the weekend.

I didn't get much sleep Friday night (hello 4am with a squirming toddler - I'm way too old for this!) but I did manage to nap a bit to make up for it on Saturday. LATE Saturday, as the Baby Boy and his wife didn't make it until almost 2pm.  But that's ok.  If free overnight babysitting is what he wanted for his birthday, my sanity barely cost me a thing.  I mean, I did survive raising four children of my own - and with the constant "help" of my parents.

That's probably not fair. My parents were always a lot of assistance, helping me to keep the balance, allowing me to keep a position where I could spend most of my time being mother to my kids.  With four of them, and one of them special needs - VERY special needs (bless her, she still is special needs, but not so hospital-y as she was as a child), keeping balance was near impossible on my own.  My mom would either stay with her in the hospital or take her to clinics as needed, and let me focus on the other three from time to time, or vice versa.  The thing is, mother guilt, my own personal mother guilt, with the added assistance of my mother acting like she was doing it ALL while I took the easy road EVERY TIME, ate away at my sanity.

I could not have done it all without my parents' help, but it did extoll a price.

Lesson learned:  Parents are parents of their own children.  They may ask Lovey for help, but Lovey must remember, that in the end, PARENTS ARE PARENTS OF THEIR OWN CHILDREN.  I don't have to approve of their methods - occasionally I do have to suffer the results of their methods - but I also don't have to live with them full time.  Any fallout, long term, will fall on them.  If what they are doing is a mistake. 

The converse is also true:  I can't take credit for what they are doing right, except for once-removed. 

Credit for raising children, whether it takes a village or what, has always been a pet peeve of mine.  Probably because so many other people have tried to bask in the reflected glow of one of my children, when they are a public success. 

My oldest, the Dancer, has been a public success most often.  LOTS of people want to take that limelight and drag it to themselves.  Makes me crazy.  There was one client I had when Dancer was in college - I never met him face to face - but my daughter had been working with the children's choir at his church for a couple of years.  He would make a legitimate call, but before he would disconnect, EVERY TIME, he would ask, "So how's our girl?"

Um, she's not OUR anything.  She's mine. but mostly she owns herself.  I worked hard to teach all of my kids that.

Why did that absolutely burn me?  I'll tell you why.  She worked HARD for everything she got, both then and now, and none of what thanks to anything I'd done except be her mama.  When she needed me.  But there have been dozens of "friends", relatives, her employers, etc, who tried to take ownership of all she had accomplished (and they still do it and it still makes me crazy).  Her grandmother was the worst. 

"You know, I helped raise her," she'd say.  As if Dancer would be wandering around, still in diapers and sucking a paci if it were left up to me.

PS - sorry for the despairing turn.  Didn't mean that.  Dancer is on my mind today, she is expecting her first (it's a boy) and her due date is today.  I'm expecting a call.  I'm also trying to remind myself how to be the most amazing grandmother / mother / mother-in-law EVAH.