Maria
I went to Maria’s softball game this week. This is her first year playing fastpitch, and I’m thinking she may want to work on her self-confidence in the batter’s box. She appears as likely to wait for the walk as to swing at any given pitch. Not a bad strategy actually, and one I can relate to, but connecting bat and ball seems sort of core to the game. On the other hand, the girl can run once she gets on base.
Christian
Christian, who turned eight this week, is feeling miffed that his march to adulthood hasn’t equated to something more than bigger sneakers. As he told his mother, doggone it, he is old enough for the 12-inch sub at Subway now.
Grace
Grace was at Maria’s softball game, although she wasn’t exactly in thrall of the action on the field and as a result spent a good part of the time capturing the local color with my camera. Which is how I end up with photos like this of some random bald guy…
and the now ubiquitous, but always riveting shot of Gracie’s feet…
Cosette
Cosette spent the week fixating on her birthday, still three months away but why wait till the last minute. It was the subject of numerous phone calls, with instructions on finding Thomas the Tank Engine toys (Aisle 2 at Target), the theme for her cake (Thomas the Tank Engine), and where to park when I get to the party (not in the street but in the driveway next to the neighbors’ flowers, Daddy will show me where).
Bret Jr.
Toddler Bret remains as exuberant as ever. Recently he conked me in the head with a cookie. (I know it shouldn’t hurt, but it did.) We were at a birthday party where they passed out big hard cookies in plastic bags, an open invitation to reckless cookie swinging and I should know better than to bend down to talk to a toddler in those circumstances. It wasn’t as painful as the time Toddler Christian broke my nose, or even the time Toddler Maria clobbered me with a hair brush, but it smarted. So don’t go giving toddlers potentially harmful cookies in plastic bags. Just don’t.
A small bird has built a small nest in the ivy growing up a pillar outside my front door, and now I can’t get up on a ladder to pull the wayward ivy off the house without risking being pecked in the eye. And so it goes.
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For the third day in a row I’ve had to pull a pile of twigs out of my newspaper box. Some clueless but determined bird fills it up about as quickly as I can empty it. While I don’t mind a persistent bird as much as persistent hornets, who continue to try to establish a hive in the eaves over the kitchen window despite the fact that I keep blasting it off with the hose, obviously I cannot allow wildlife to nest in the newspaper box. Even if I had the carrier throw the paper in the driveway until the baby birds had hatched and flown away, the mailbox is part of the whole setup, and I can’t have some territorial mother bird dive-bombing the mail carrier. I am not going to the post office to pick up my mail just because a stupid bird can’t figure things out.
One fall some Swifts built a nest in my chimney. They made a racket up there and, convinced it was a raccoon, I sent up an exterminator, only to find out that Swifts are protected and cannot be removed from your chimney no matter how much they annoy you. You just have to put up with it until the whole family picks up and flies away. Forget about having a fire.
I don’t know why the creatures of this earth want to torment me. There was a turtle in the garage last week. It had parked itself under the car and I was afraid to back out, because the last thing I need to come home to is a dead turtle. I think it’s the same one that’s been hanging around since Mother’s Day, when daughter Jessica spotted it in the driveway and made her boyfriend John reluctantly put it in a bucket and then transfer it into a plastic kiddy pool to show the grandkids; except that it looked so pathetic trying to scramble up the sides of the pool that they let it go and it crawled off into the raspberry bushes to hide, which was ridiculous because any one of my grandchildren could have been the inspiration for Lord of the Flies. Well, not Grace.
Since then I have seen the turtle plowing through the grass, parked on the front walk and lurking in the rock garden. Yesterday it was back in the raspberry bushes. At least I think it’s the same one. They all look the same, green and neurotic. Stalked by a turtle, besieged by things that fly. No wonder I’m a mess.
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All kinds of things change when you’re the fifth grandchild. For one thing, Grandma doesn’t have as many pictures of you to pick from when she needs one. For another, you have to be more assertive than numbers 1 to 4 to get any attention at all. Luckily, this is not a problem for Toddler Bret.
I call him Toddler Bret because he’ll be two in July and I can’t call him Baby Bret anymore. His sister said so. As I believe I mentioned, when his parents chose to make him a Junior, they failed to come up with a nickname, leaving everyone to muck along with two Brets in the family. I’m starting to wonder what Toddler Bret makes of it himself. Conversation at the dinner table, for instance.
“How was your day, Bret?”
“Bret, eat your apples.”
“Would you pass the mashed potatoes, Bret?”
“Bret, do you want more milk?”
“Ursa really needs a bath, Bret.”
“Bret, no feeding Ursa from the table.”
I picture him throwing up his little hands in despair. “What in the name of Fisher-Price does the woman want of me??”
Or maybe not. His days are full. He’s like a little locomotive, legs pumping, running here, running there. He has wants. He has needs. He has a lot to think about: “What’s going on? Wait for me, Cosette! I want to do that. Run, run, run! Where’s Ursa? Get the ball, Ursa! Where’s Mom? It’s time to jump off something! I can dance like the Wiggles. Mom, I need a hug. I want to go outside now. Where’s Cosette? What’s Cosette doing? I can do that!”
And that’s pretty much how it goes, all day long. His sister is commander in chief, i.e., whatever she does, he does. WHATEVER she does. Cosette jumps off the bed, Bret jumps off the bed. Cosette sticks out her tongue, Bret sticks out his tongue. Cosette marches down the driveway carrying a stick, Bret marches down the driveway carrying a stick. Cosette picks a flower and throws it in the bushes, Bret picks a flower and throws it in the bushes. Well, you get the picture.
Cosette likes to call me on the phone and let me know what’s going on at their house. Lately she’s been putting me on the speakerphone, because Toddler Bret has things he wants to say too. Well, yell. “Ball! Dog! Ma! Down!” God knows what he’s saying. It doesn’t matter, he just wants to be acknowledged.
Of course, very soon now he won’t be the youngest grandchild anymore, but number 5 of 6. It’s hard to say how that’s going to go over. As I said, he has wants, he has needs. On the other hand, he could end up commander in chief.
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“EVERY AILMENT, FROM PSORIASIS TO POISON IVY, COULD BE CURED WITH WINDEX.”
You know how it is. First you can’t buy a vowel in the game of life, then you notice it’s been two months since you looked at your blog. I wanted to write something here, I really did. I was waiting for a happy thought.
I had a Moment of Joy on Friday. It was casual day at work, so blue jeans all around. I had on a light blue pair I like that don’t make me look too fat. As usual, I brought my breakfast to work, including yogurt mixed with mashed strawberries. At 7:30 a.m. I sat down at my desk, opened the little plastic container, and promptly dripped yogurt in my lap. “Why does God hate me?” I wondered.
Berry stains are notoriously unforgiving. Drop yogurt with mashed strawberries in your lap and, make no mistake, you will get a pink spot that really pops on light blue denim. Time was of the essence. I dipped a napkin in my water glass and attacked the stain, which was about the size of a quarter and already had a stubborn, hopeless look about it. “Nobody likes me,” I thought.
Then I noticed the bottle of Windex I keep on the floor by my desk because any day now I’m going to clean my office. I grabbed it, aimed, pulled the trigger and… the spot vanished. Disappeared. Poof, stain gone! “All my troubles are over,” I told myself.
For the rest of the day, I preached the gospel of Windex. People were amazed. That night I woke up at 3 a.m. thinking about Windex and how it might be my salvation in other ways. Mustard is tough. Would the magic work on mustard? There was nothing for it but to get up, go down to the kitchen, put some mustard on an old rag and shoot it with Windex.
Which did not work. BUT it wasn’t REAL Windex; it was a bottle of blue stuff that looks exactly like Windex but costs less because I am committed to saving pennies in any small way I can to offset the thousands of dollars that fly away every month. Obviously, I need to get the genuine article and try the mustard test again. Yes, I will buy Windex. And maybe a little spray bottle I can fill and keep in my purse. Better safe, as they say.
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Photo: Cinema surveillance images (thecia.com.au)
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Grandma Judy had a birthday this week. She doesn’t care much for birthdays anymore and would prefer to forget them altogether, but people keep making her celebrate anyway.
Grandma Judy’s idea of a good birthday is finding an expensive present to buy herself. This year she bought TWO presents (because she deserves it): a silver bracelet from Turkey and a black corded clutch purse from the 1940s. These things help Grandma Judy feel a little less irritated about life. She bought some shoes, earrings and books too, which didn’t count as birthday gifts, but what the heck, she was out.
Grandma Judy’s family took her to Red Robin Gourmet Burgers for dinner, an excellent choice when your party includes five children under age eleven, including a toddler who gets mad if you put the wrong food in front of him. Grandma Judy finds her grandchildren highly amusing even when their parents do not.
Grandma Judy’s grandchildren gave her several wonderful homemade drawings to help her forget how much she doesn’t like birthdays. These children are the most precious things in her life. So if there is a lesson to be learned here, I guess it would be: if you are going to get older, better get yourself some grandkids. Also, there is no harm in surprising yourself with a nice birthday gift.
SOME PEOPLE ARE MORE THRILLED THAN OTHERS
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Made my list of New Year’s resolutions yet again. I find that list-making gives me a sense of accomplishment, almost like actually doing the things on the list. Probably the only 2010 resolution I kept was quitting smoking, a big surprise to me and no doubt others, motivated primarily by fear. I may have kept other resolutions. I don’t remember them anymore.
Reflection is good though. I wanted to reflect on the many memorable events of last year, but for the most part I just came up with things that annoyed me, like:
1. The stitches behind and under my ear were supposedly removed two weeks after surgery, yet every other week another fragment of surgical thread works its way up and I have to yank it out myself. Is this my job? It’s gross.
2. Hi-lex has lost the bleach war. It’s a mystery to me, but there you are. I don’t like Clorox, i.e., chlorine bleach; I like Hi-lex, i.e., some other kind of bleach not chlorine that gets clothes really white. I knew of one major chain that still carried Hi-lex (a tiny island amid a sea of chlorine on the shelves), but in 2010 that store too bowed to the god Clorox. Civilization has taken a step backward, if you ask me.
3. Just when it looked like we may be nearing the end of the Paris/Britney/Lindsay madness, along came the Kim/Khloe/Kourtney insanity. “Keeping Up With the Kardashians” actually won a People’s Choice Award this week (Best Guilty Pleasure). If, like me, you were trying to retain a shred of faith in the American viewing public, just forget it.
4. How is it that younger women today do not understand the concept of The Slip? One of last year’s popular fashion trends was the little print dress in silk, rayon and other clingy fabrics. Fine, but please, look in the rear-view mirror. The only people behind you who enjoy seeing every bump, bulge and ripple of cellulite are people you probably wouldn’t want to be alone with. The Slip. Learn of it.
5. Billy Joel had double hip replacement. Billy Joel! How old does that make you feel? They said it was for a lifelong congenital ailment. Right.
Maybe remembering the things that annoyed you isn’t the most positive way to start a new year. I did get a beautiful, if fat, new grandson. And I also bought some very cute shoes.
So I was idly surfing Google Images recently (and who doesn’t do that?) when I ran across this picture, which started me wondering what it might be like if the Daughters and I had taken up lounge singing. This is the kind of thing that happens when you don’t have a date for New Year’s Eve.
MOI, JESSIE IN HER BLONDE WIG PHASE, JILLY AND BABY GINA
It’s true! The Caramels are back, out of rehab and performing live on stage this New Year’s Eve at the beautiful Weewahatchee VFW in beautiful Weewahatchee, Minnesota. Let us sweeten your night with all-new arrangements of our biggest hits, including “I’m Itching for You, Calomine,” “Walter on My Mind,” “I’m Just A Package Marked Fragile” and, of course, “You Don’t Know the Meaning of Auld Lang Syne.”
But hurry – tickets are going fast. Just $5 gets you a rollicking good time and all the champagne punch you can drink!
Dec. 20, 2006
If I hadn’t had to work yesterday, I wouldn’t have been exhausted at my granddaughter’s Christmas program, even if it did go on and on…and on. Because why settle for one rendition of “Jingle Bells” when there are three? And if you’re paying good money for trombone and cymbal lessons, I suppose you want to hear the school band play 10 or 20 tunes with a general holiday flavor. Anyway, it was worth it to hear the kindergartners get through “Elfie the Elf.” Maria was the elf with her hat on backwards, so she was easy to spot. I have no complaints.
Dec. 21, 2007
Went to the always surprising school Christmas program last night. You may remember last year’s event, when the school band played no less than three versions of “Jingle Bells” and Maria distinguished herself by wearing her elf hat backwards with the bell dangling in front. This year I’m happy to report that the band was restricted to playing the overture and Maria not only sang but also attempted to keep the boy next to her on task despite vigorous resistance. This year’s program had a soccer theme – kind of a stretch, I thought, but having the advantage of minimal costuming, since jerseys and shorts took care of almost the entire cast.
So the evening should have been, and probably would have been, straightforward were it not for my other grandchildren – three under the age of four now, and all with no sense whatever of acceptable audience behavior. Christian ate all the candy meant to sustain them for the night in the first five minutes, while Grace never lost her fascination with flip-up auditorium seating. And you might think a three-month-old child somewhat limited – they sleep, they lie there, they cry. Not so. Cosette sings. Infant singing is a sort of unearthly sound that’s hard to describe, but it’s loud and won’t be deterred by some stupid pacifier.
All in all, an entertaining evening, and no more than I expected.
Dec. 29, 2008
Made it through the annual Christmas programs again. The elementary school put on a play about the true meaning of Christmas, which I’m sure inspired every parent and grandparent to rush home and return all those toys in the closet. It took me a long time to figure out what the girl in the bell costume was supposed to be. Until she started ding-donging, I was pretty sure she was a lampshade, but if you think about it, that makes no sense. Maria was in the choir. She is an excellent choir member.
Being an equal-opportunity grandma, I also went to the preschool Christmas program, where you can always count on seeing three- and four-year-olds not follow the script. There’s always one little girl who knows the words and motions to every song, a bunch of little ones who give it a half-hearted try, and a kid who won’t do a thing. I was pretty sure that kid would be Christian, but I was wrong. He sang and he didn’t fall off the steps.
When Christian first started preschool, my daughter Jill was a little alarmed by what you might call his anti-social behavior (I wouldn’t call it that but no one ever sides with me). Anyway, we were all happy when Christian made a friend. Elliot wears glasses and comes about to Christian’s chin. Elliot was the kid who wouldn’t do anything. Not one word, not one finger twitch. Elliot was a statue. I like Elliot.
Dec. 18, 2009
This year’s preschool Christmas program lived up to every expectation, largely due to the boys in the Teddy Bear class, who are three and four years old and have no attention span worth mentioning. My favorite kid this year was the boy who had his back to us for the entire concert. I suppose if you don’t plan on singing anyway, why look at your parents (and grandparents who came all the way from Burnsville) sitting hopefully in the audience?
Then about midway through “Building up a Temple,” another Teddy Bear, who apparently found just being there exhausting, decided to sit down on the step. This caught on quickly, of course, and pretty soon the boys on either side of him were sitting on the step too…until one of them decided to climb the steps to see how the boy who wouldn’t face the audience was doing. At this point Mrs. Olsen, the Teddy Bear teacher and no dummy, went on stage and restored order.
Meanwhile, the girls kept singing. My granddaughter Grace, who has a very small speaking voice, sings really loud, so we had no trouble at all hearing her. She had every word and gesture down too, and after the program Mrs. Olsen very kindly called her “our star,” which I think is pretty much what Gracie sees when she looks into the future.
After the Teddy Bears sat down, it was time for the Frog class to sing. Most of them are five and have been down this road before, so while the girls still carried the load, the boys endured. There was the kid who kept us up to date with announcements between each song (“This is the last one!”), but at least nobody gave up and sat down. Christian is big now. I waved at him like a lunatic and got half a smile. I still gave him lots of kisses afterward and told him how great he did. He didn’t care.
So that was it, and I don’t think you could spend a more enjoyable hour during the holiday season.
December 22, 2010
I went to Maria and Christian’s school Christmas program last night, which is usually one of the happier things I do during the holidays. This year’s performance had everything you’d expect and then some. You haven’t really heard “Jolly Old St. Nicholas” until you’ve heard it played on the recorder by a bunch of fourth graders. And the school band was in fine form, although the lack of a bass drum player meant one of the female flutists had to take over that instrument for “Here Comes Santa Claus.” The girl’s utter disdain for the bass drum was truly impressive. She could barely get out of her folding chair and drag herself over to it. And then you’d think the mallet weighed 50 pounds. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard “Here Comes Santa Claus” played more mournfully.
The bell ringers went on a little too long (four holiday tunes with no verses omitted), but I am loathe to criticize them lest Maria have bell-ringing in her future.
Christian’s kindergarten class did a commendable job, particularly on “Jingle Bells,” where they got to ring the little bells hanging around their necks at all the jingly spots. As they had to wait for their turn a good long while sitting on stage, the bells became objects of great fascination – first you examine your own bell, then you study your neighbor’s bell, then you hang the bell from your ears.
In the finale, the fourth graders sang. That’s Maria’s class, and while most of the classes looked more resigned than merry, the fourth-grade girls were almost bouncy. They smiled, they knew all the words and they sang loud. I concluded that fourth-grade girls are a good way to wrap up a Christmas program.
Went to the annual Trinity Baptist Preschool Christmas Program yesterday, always a treat. Grace, who jumped up to the Frog class this year, was of course up to the task. Gracie likes people, she likes preschool, the world is good and singing is her thing. In fact, all the Frogs (ages 4-5) did pretty well, or at least tried, unlike some malcontents in the Teddy Bear class (ages 3-4) who flat-out refused.
The Teddy Bears were up first, probably because it’s hard to keep them focused for more than five minutes. Two of the boys wouldn’t sing at all this year. The one in the front row was obviously ticked off from start to finish. The one in back stood silent for the first half of the program, then decided to sit down on the step, and finally just laid face-down and covered his head with his arms.
The Frogs, having attained a certain level of maturity, did better. All of them kind of moved their mouths and some did the motions. The one touch-and-go moment was during “The Five Days of Christmas,” when they took turns going up in groups to hang their ornaments on a little tree. The maneuvering involved in going up and down the steps, getting one’s ornament to stay on the tree, then meeting another group going the other way, was almost too suspenseful to watch. Still they all made it back to their assigned places. Sort of.
Turns out the boy who laid down on the step has a crush on Grace. I found this out from her father, who found out from Mrs. Wilson, the Frog class teacher, that the boy either kissed Grace or tried to (that part is a little vague), which is the kind of thing teachers have to report to parents nowadays. My son-in-law, Lynn, wasn’t too happy about it either. He told Gracie, “Next time you just tell him to shake your hand.” Seriously.
Anyway, it was another thoroughly enjoyable Christmas program. And everyone did really well at eating cookies, drinking juice and running around the gym afterward. No dropouts there.
It’s snowing and blowing again. The weatherfolks say this storm could be as bad or worse than the Halloween snowstorm of 1991, which has become our yardstick for all storms thereafter. No worries about a white Christmas, just whether there’s enough milk, bread and liquor for the duration.
Went to Maria and Grace’s dance recital last Saturday. It was packed. When little kids perform, you can count on family to be there – tired parents, little sisters, big brothers, cheerful grandparents, loyal aunts, bored uncles, clueless cousins – by golly, we show up! And that’s to see your little Ginger Rogers on stage for approximately two minutes of a one-and-a-half-hour show, because there are a lot of classes in that dance school and every one of them gets their moment.
From what I saw, my own granddaughters, who are exceedingly graceful and light on their feet, could have had extra time – solos perhaps – but that’s just my opinion.
I sat next to Christian for most of the performance. He had seen his sisters dance, so his attention wasn’t exactly riveted on the stage. I gave him a stick of gum, which amused him for a while. I looked over once and the gum was hanging from his nose. I looked over again and it was hanging from one eyelid. Finally his mother, sitting behind us, leaned over and told him to put the gum in his mouth and keep it there. Which he largely ignored.
Last night was the second annual manicure/pedicure party in honor of my friend Julie who died in 2009. Julie liked having her nails done, so a bunch of us who loved her started gathering at the nail salon on her birthday to do the same. The organizer, of course, was Barbara, who could have organized the settling of the West and done it with half the covered wagons and happier Indians. We bring our daughters and granddaughters, food and wine, and catch up.
So I’m snowed in for the time being. But I do have soft feet, copper-colored toenails, and enough leftover deviled eggs to last till the snowplow comes through.
Grandma Kissed A Sailor 