So I had the oil changed on my car this morning. I usually wait until that little dashboard light sets to nagging me – 15% oil life left…10%…5%. It was in negative numbers before I got to it this time. I have a little Honda that’s very forgiving.
Of course, when I got to Tires Plus, they sold me the $14.99 inspection package (check the filters, top off the liquids, yada, yada), because God knows how long it’s been since any of that was done. And of course, the filters were filthy and my tires have about 40 percent tread left. I had the filters changed.
While I was sitting there filing my nails and waiting for them to finish, it occurred to me that the Hello Kitty phone some grandchild thought they wanted and then abandoned in the back seat might be driving the mechanic crazy. It’s an annoying little toy, very loud and very touchy. Driving over a bump sets it off. Waiting at a stoplight doing nothing sets it off. If it gets jammed next to something like the ice scraper, it never shuts up. This is its full repertoire of phrases:
Hello!
I’m a Hello Kitty!
You’re fun!
How are you?
(garble, garble, garble)!
Bye bye!
For some reason, I have let this nonsense continue for several months, when obviously I could have retrieved it from the floor in back at any time. That’s okay. I was out of there in less than an hour.
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Last week was interesting. Daughter Jill and family stayed with me for four days while the painter and carpenter were busy at their house. The invasion discombobulated me a little. I kept forgetting to take my calcium tablet before bed. Also, I forgot what I had in the refrigerator because I’m not used to seeing that much food in there. Mysterious food. The kind I never buy.
But other than that, things went fairly smoothly. The grandkids were on their best behavior. I’m sure there were threats along the way, but I don’t need to know about them. One evening it was just them and me around the dinner table, when the conversation, as it will, drifted to Christian’s food allergies, a subject on which every female in his family is an expert. It began when he was squeezing ketchup onto his plate and, as I recall, went something like this…
Maria: That’s too much. You aren’t supposed to have that much ketchup.
Christian [still squeezing]: Leave me alone, Maria. I can have ketchup.
Grace: He can have ketchup.
Maria: [To Christian] Stop that. Mom said you aren’t supposed to have that much.
[To me] Mom doesn’t let him have that much ketchup.
Grace: He can have ketchup. Ketchup isn’t in the nut family.
Maria: Ketchup is in the tomato family. He can’t have that much.
Christian: I keep telling Mom I don’t have food allergies, but she doesn’t believe me!
Maria: [To Christian] Ketchup is in the tomato family. Remember when you had that spaghetti sauce? Your eye got like THIS.
[To me] Mom doesn’t let him have that much ketchup.
Christian: Ketchup isn’t in the nut family.
Maria: [Heavy sigh accompanied by eye rolling]
Grace: Chili is in the nut family.
Nov. 21, 2008
Called daughter Jill last night to talk about the upcoming weekend. As usual, it was a multitasking nightmare on her end – i.e., talking to me and making turkey sandwiches while getting the kids to come to the table, stay at the table, and not fight over the condiments. While his sisters were content with turkey, Christian, of course, wouldn’t have it. Said he’d make himself a grape sandwich instead. Jill, who goes with the flow now, said fine but he’d have to wash the grapes first. This momentarily stunned him, as in his four years on earth no one has ever given him permission to wash food before. But he did wash the grapes (in the bathroom sink), cut them up, put them on bread and maybe even ate it, who knows. He’d do it.
Nov. 4, 2009
All the grandkids, ages 2 to 9, went trick-or-treating on Saturday (an Indian, a Superhero, Snow White and a China doll). Everyone remembered their manners and said thank you when they were supposed to, until they got to the house where a man answered the door holding a big bowl of vegetables while his wife stood behind him with a camera. “What would you like?” he asked the kids. “An onion, a carrot or some broccoli?” The three little girls were speechless. Christian looked at the vegetables, turned around and said, “I’m outta here.”
Jan. 20, 2010
If you ever start to think you’re indispensable, get yourself a grandchild. I haven’t seen the kids for a while and was missing them a little, so I called over there yesterday and Jill put Christian on the phone.
“Hi, Christian,” I said. “I miss you!”
“Oh, Grandma,” he said, “I miss you too. Here Maria, talk to Grandma.”
March 26, 2010
My son-in-law Bret couldn’t come over to hunt mice last weekend, so I couldn’t go down the basement to wash clothes. Five-year-old Christian spent the night on Saturday, but he’s a little young to hunt and I wouldn’t want to scar him psychologically. I may have to bite the bullet and go down there soon. Or I may just buy more socks.
You’d think Christian would want to go to a movie or McDonald’s or the Science Museum once in a while, but all he ever wants to do is play. With me. Even though I’m no good at it. Even though I approach play with great reluctance and the sure knowledge that I’m going to be hurt. I will be hurt, because all toys fight. Not just Spider-Man and the robots but the toy animals and the K’Nex and the videotapes and lumps of Play-Doh. Dixie Cups make an excellent army – just line them up and smash them flat. I think what he likes is that I’m always willing to be the roundly defeated loser. You can’t get that with a lot of playmates.
THE VIRGIN FOOT (NOT VIRGIN'S FOOT), PLAIN AND WHITE, THE WAY GOD MADE IT
I finally got a tattoo this week. It didn’t take long, maybe a half-hour, but it hurt like hell, yes it did. Also, it’s a bigger tattoo than I expected to come out with, which is the kind of thing that happens to me. It isn’t that I’m unprepared. I’m a big planner. I plan and plan. Then I leave the plan at home and take off running as fast as I can, until I land in a spot that may or may not look familiar. It sort of works for me.
Uptown Tattoo looks exactly like you’d expect a tattoo place to look – kind of old, dark and funky, with every available surface covered in weird art. Not necessarily tattoo art, just weird art. And of course the artists have a lot of tattoos themselves, so you almost don’t know where to look. There is a stereotype of tattoo artists that didn’t seem to fit. For the most part they seemed smart, friendly and well-spoken. And covered in tattoos.
I like my tattoo a lot. I’d say that I should have done it sooner, but then it wouldn’t be this tattoo but some other tattoo that I probably wouldn’t like as much. It was designed by my friend Sunshine (a talented art director and undoubtedly old soul) and then fiddled with by me. So it is a one-of-a-kind tattoo. It includes five stars, one for each grandchild, with the option of adding more stars if people continue to be as fertile as they have been. I have no regrets.
Sept. 8, 2006
Maria started first grade on Tuesday. It was her first time riding the school bus, which should have been largely uneventful, except that she fell asleep on the way home, and instead of being the first one off the bus she was the last one off. By the time she got there, her mother was barely coherent and her two aunts (the first-day welcoming committee) were ready to call the chief of police. You might think this would be a little traumatic for a 6-year-old, but apparently it wasn’t. She said she had a great day.
Dec. 13, 2006
Hoping to find someone with an extra Baby Alive they’d like to sell. The sad scenario:
• I did not buy Baby Alive at Target when I had a chance, even though I helped another grandma find one on the shelves.
• My 6-year-old granddaughter expects Santa to deliver a pooping doll.
• Target and everyone else is OUT of Baby Alive, although it is available on e-bay for roughly the cost of a new sofa.
[Epilogue: Yes, I bought one on e-bay. Of course I did.]
Jan. 28, 2009
Had Maria over to spend the night last week, and she wrote a story about me. I especially liked the title (“A Woman and Her City”) and the ending (“She loves us anyway.”)
May 15, 2009
I was talking to Maria on Mother’s Day (on Mother’s Day, mind you) and she was telling me about the plans for her 9th birthday, which is two months away, but why wait? She said she is having two parties: a Friends party at the beach, which I am not allowed to attend, and a Family party, which will be held at my house. Excuse me?
“Are you saying I’m an embarrassment to you?” I asked her. She said yes, I was. Well, I can understand that. I tease her a lot, which amuses her when it’s just us but could be tiresome when your friends are around. (“That’s my Grandma. She tells lame jokes.”)
So I asked, “How about if I don’t talk? Can I come to the Friends party if I don’t talk?” She said I’m an embarrassment even when I don’t talk. “Okay,” I said. “Maybe I won’t get you a birthday present this year then.” Right. She would not deign to respond to such a ridiculous threat.
This reminds me of the elderly gentleman who, when asked how winning the lottery had changed his life, said, “Well, the grandkids come around a lot more now.” I’ll bet.
[Epilogue: When the Friends party rolled around, Maria expected me to be there. “Oh, Grandma,” she said, “I was only kidding.”]
Jan. 28, 2011
Went to see Tangled with Maria last weekend. I used a couple of free movie tickets I got for doing a rip-roaring, outstanding job on something at work, I forget what. Then I spent $10 on one small popcorn and one small Sprite. That is correct – ONE popcorn, ONE pop, TEN bucks. Lord help me if I’m starting to sound old, but $10, for cripes sake.
Anyway, we liked Tangled a lot. I asked Maria what her favorite part was, and she said the part where Rapunzel hit the hero over the head with the frying pan. Repeatedly. She’s growing up.
This is my very first grandchild, Maria. Isn’t she beautiful? She’s ten now. Everything I needed to know about being a grandma, I pretty much learned from her. Not in any big “Aha!” moment, but in a lot of little moments until, finally, she owned me.
When she was about two, Maria and her mother came over one day unannounced. I was kneeling on the floor in my room going through some clothes, when I heard her little feet on the stairs. She ran in and hugged me hard around the neck. “Grandma,” she said, “Grandma.” As if I’d just pulled her back from the abyss.
And that is how they tighten the rope around your heart.
Another time, when she was still too little to know better, she introduced me to a woman who happened to be washing her hands in the same public restroom. “This is my grandma,” she told the woman, as if it was something the general public needed to know.
And that is how they pull on the rope and rip out your heart and lock it away in a box somewhere.
Then sometimes (when it was still just the two of us – no Christian, Grace, Cosette or Baby Bret) out of the blue she would say, “You’re my grandma,” and I had to reply, “I am your grandma.”
And that is how they take the box with your heart in it and drop it in the bottom of the Forever Ocean, never to be seen again.
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.
Gathered with the family again to give thanks and eat turkey (except for my son-in-law Lynn, who is a vegetarian), because we are, if nothing else, proud Americans.
No Butterball turkey this year, because Gina started a dairy-free diet last week in hopes of curing Baby Bret’s acid reflux, and Christian is allergic to butter along with everything else, and other people aren’t too sure but that they may be allergic to something too, so as I said, no butter in the turkey or the stuffing or on the green beans either. There was butter in the mashed potatoes, but Jessica stepped right up with her recipe for pureed cauliflower, which she swore tasted just like mashed potatoes, although let’s face it, they weren’t exactly flying out of the bowl.
Ten-year-old Maria was especially thankful that she has surpassed me in height. This is not a huge accomplishment for most ten-year-olds, but we made a big deal about it anyway.
Six-year-old Christian, once he was sure everyone was going to stay put and pay attention, moved us all with a stirring tale about the Indian Squanto, the Pilgrims and the first Thanksgiving.
Three-year-old Cosette wasn’t frightened by her older cousins this year. She has gone over and is one of Them now.
Four-month-old Baby Bret is a big, happy baby, fatter than the last time I saw him and he was plenty fat then. His cheeks are fat, his tummy is fat, and his little legs are fatter than you can imagine. It’s like lugging around a 16-pound, smiling turkey.
But the highlight of the day came when everyone settled in the living room to watch old home movies. Jessica, who was sitting next to five-year-old Grace, turned to her during the showing of one ancient tape and asked, “Does Auntie look different now?” “Yeah,” said Grace, “You didn’t have a moustache then.”
And that’s the kind of thing that makes the holidays special.
Grandma Kissed A Sailor 