The Heart of a Grandma

My day was to be spent with my granddaughters, and when my son, Josh, called and heard my plans, he replied, “You’re going to go get the girls even though you already have Megan? I know you like the kids, Mom, but I can’t imagine that’s what you’d choose to do. Don’t you ever just want to relax and have fun?”

I smiled in spite of the fact that I was setting aside what felt like a million things to do so I could help with the kids today. “I LOVE them,” I said. He couldn‘t imagine how very much. “I love being with them; we have fun, and they make me laugh.”

How does a grandma explain what it feels like to hold a grandchild in her arms for a hug, or tickle them silly, or let them catch up to you in a game of tag, just to see the look of triumph in their eyes? There were so many moments shared with them that I wouldn’t trade for all the time, or money, in the world.

Josh and I had just hung up when Megan came into the room, wrapped her arms around my leg, and looked oh-so-lovingly into my eyes. “Hold me,” was all she said, and I swooped that curly headed angel up into my arms. Seconds ticked away, but I let them, as I smothered her cheeks with kisses, and inhaled her child sweetness. I finally set her down, and suggested we go get the girls. That was met with a squeal of delight, as she ran to the door.

It was a huge struggle to get her car seat hooked into the car. Several minutes passed as I tried to get my hand, holding the seat belt, through the small, dark, long, tunnel hidden in the middle of her car seat. What kind of tiny-handed women do the car seat makers think are having all those healthy, strapping young children? “Darn it!” I exclaimed, when the thing locked up, AGAIN, just inches from my destination.

My little darling looked at me, her eyebrows furrowed, and said, “Don’t say that, Grandma! Say _ _ _ _.”

I couldn’t believe my ears, and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry! As hard as it is to admit it, it’s so darned cute when little ones say bad words! It shouldn’t be. But it is. “Meggie, that’s not nice, baby, don’t say that word, okay?”
She looked at me so quizzically, that I wondered if she thought I’d said the bad word, not her. I finally got the seat hooked, and the child into it, at which time she forgot all about the bad word and started rambling on, and on, about how much she loved Britty and Lindsay, and every other person she had ever known. That continued until we drove up into my daughter’s driveway, where I was met with delighted shouts of “Grandma!”

My two beauties ran toward me arms stretched out ready to share long, warm, hugs. To them I am a celebrity, their favorite. No one looks at me quite the way my grandchildren do. And certainly no one makes seeing me the celebration that they do either.

So to all the Josh’s of the world, I can only say, that until you are a grandma, there is no way you could possibly understand how it feels to love someone like this. There’s a freedom in being a grandma that I never got to have as a mother. Thus my grandchildren can be indulged, spoiled just a bit, loved on, played with, and taken back home when I get tired. My grandchildren love me, no matter what, and the feeling is mutual. Nothing feels as good as one of them in my arms whether they are being carried, tickled, fed, read to, or falling asleep. They are part of me, and when they leave my side, they take part of my heart with them.
                 By Barb Cage 9/09, 667 words

A Day in the Life of a Dog Sitter

My husband, Randy, and my son, Josh, had left town for a guy weekend. My job was to care for Rookie, Josh‘s dog. It was hot out, so I wanted to stop at the store to pick up a big water bottle, that’s attached to a bowl, so he’d always have fresh water. Once there, I realized I didn’t have my glasses with me, and though I tried really, really hard, I couldn’t see the hole where the water would flow into the bowl. If I was going to need to poke my own hole in the apparatus, I needed to know about it, so I proceeded to track down an employee who could actually SEE! Though the one I found could see, he couldn’t understand English. Yes, I was at WalMart. Though we tried to communicate, it was no use, and I went to find someone who could make sure my purchase actually worked. He assured me it did, no drilling, poking, or stabbing would be necessary. I was finally on my way. Rookie would be so happy!

I got out Josh’s key and headed to the front door. After several minutes, I had finally unlocked the four locks on the two front doors, only to find that he’d left the chain hooked on the inside. I slid it over and over again to no avail. I wiggled my arm down to its skinniest part and pulled the door hard against it. That did it. I managed to release the chain and open the door in spite of my smashed, mangled muscles.

I went back to the car and retrieved the water bottle, filled it with ice, yes, ice, and water, and headed to the arcadia door. The door was closed and locked, duh, and was behind blinds which, of course, were also closed. While trying to balance the bowl on my hip, I squeezed between the blinds to open the door. All the sudden the tank started to tip off the bowl. OMG! The water started sloshing out, and only by some miracle, I managed to get it, all in one piece, to the ground. My hands now free, I tried to open the blinds, which were crooked and stuck, probably from me thrashing about in them while trying to save the floor from the impending flood.

I mopped up the water, let Rookie in, and once again picked up the water jug. Right as I got inside the slightly open doorway, Rookie charged past me on his way back outside, causing the water to slosh all over, again. He pranced around me, sniffing, and hitting me with his tail, as I tried to maneuver his gift to the ground. He was obviously as excited as I was. Three gallons of ice water, clean and cool in his new blue dish, all sparkling looking. Aahhhhh…. He sort of studied it, but his tongue never even came out of his mouth. I splashed at it, showing him that it‘s water! Without a second glance, the dog sauntered over to his old metal bowl and lapped eagerly. Ungrateful mutt. And that was that. I’d wasted enough of my time. I would get the bag of dog food out of the car, and be on my way.

I locked the front doors, and went out the garage door. Oops, forgot my car key. I turned to go back inside, and found that the door had locked behind me! My keys to my car, my home, Josh’s house, and my cell phone were all in the house. For a split second, and I do mean a split one, I thought I was trapped inside the garage! However, I quickly remembered that garages do open from the inside. (Thank goodness.)

I headed to the neighbor’s house and called my daughter who agreed to come and get me. She arrived in good time, shaking her head and laughing as she pulled up. I started to get into her car, and she says, “Don’t you have a purse?” What a dumb question, of course, I do. “Yeah, duh! but my car is locked.” I turned to my car to prove my point, grabbed the door handle, pulled on it, how ridiculous to think I could get to my purse, and the stupid door flew wide open!

She laughed harder and shook her head some more. My grandchildren also laughed…at me. But I didn’t care, I was a free woman! And better yet, laying on top of my purse was the key to Josh’s house. I don’t know how it got there, but one thing was for sure; I was going into that house, get my stuff, and get the heck out of there! And the next time the guys want to get away, I’m going with them.

Life is precious...handle with care.

So much has happened lately, that my heart is aching for the hurting of the world, particularly our own. Our own family, our own friends, our own town. Today is the fourth anniversary of my dear friend’s son’s death. We went out to lunch yesterday, to be together, to visit, to talk about today. But yesterday was significant enough. Yesterday was the fourth anniversary of Matt’s last day here. How does a parent deal with this sort of anniversary? Or with the anniversary of today? Then the anniversary of his funeral? Then the upcoming holidays? She worries that she isn’t strong enough to bear it. But bear it she does, because she has no other choice. I know that she gets her comfort, and the strength she does have, from God first, then family and friends. She has suffered, in most of our opinions, the worst thing that can happen to anyone.

Yet, recent news revealed a mom had shot, and killed, her two boys. An apparently hurting, or likely mentally or emotionally ill, mom, stole the futures of the two people she probably loved most in the world. In one moment of her life, she made the most horrific decision anyone could make. Why do some people see death as their only escape? Why didn’t she do something that got her away from the stress of life long enough to calm down? Why didn’t she just leave for awhile? Why do some people feel they must immediately react to every feeling, emotion, and mood? Total futures, and many lives, can be ruined forever from one rash decision.

In my own extended circle, I’ve recently heard of two people that tried to commit suicide, and I know of two others who considered it. Why are people so sad? So overwhelmed? How do people learn to cope? There should be nothing so horrible that the only answer is death, when life is so precious.

While I was at the cemetery yesterday, I noticed a small grave. The dirt was relatively new, with just a tiny plaque that had a little girl’s name and 2007-2008 on it. It was a name I was familiar with, a story I knew part of. A beautiful toddler struck with a horrible disease that took her from her family so quickly, but not until they’d suffered months of agony during her downward spiral. I, and I’m sure many others, had prayed for a miracle that never came. Yet, I still believe, and I hope in a loving God. No I don’t understand, and I can’t imagine that I will ever understand, but I still place my faith in Him.

I’ve also been praying for Brett, a family member of one of my favorite in-laws. He‘s only twenty years old, and has been fighting for his life this week. Something major is wrong with his heart. I believe hundreds of people are praying for him, and I believe that God is listening; and so does someone else...our granddaughter, Megan.

She was packing up to go home on Sunday, when she stopped and asked me to pray with her. I thought she would pray for something for herself, or her parents. She has faced some of her own giants and will be the first to tell anyone that Jesus answers her prayers. I took her little hand in mine, and we bowed our heads. In her precious little five-year-old voice, she surprised me by saying, “Jesus, please fix Brett’s heart. Please make him all better so he can go home soon.“ Meg has never met Brett, she only heard of him this past weekend. But she knows Jesus, and for her, as it should be for all of us, that’s enough.

Going to the mailbox is no longer fun!

Sometimes I hate to even go to my mailbox because too often it is full of things I don’t want; coupons that I never remember to have with me when I can finally use them, offers of credit cards I don’t need or want, fliers from stores, promises from businesses, and bills. I honestly don’t mind bills that I believe are really mine, if I really owe them.

However ,on regular basis, we get bills from collection agencies that really belong to some guy named John *%#@* who uses our address and phone number. We even got one of our charge cards taken away from us a few years ago because HE went bankrupt. After that we had a long break, about a seven year period I'd guess, which we never heard about him. But once that time passed, we started getting mail, and phone calls, from collection agencies once again. We even moved during that time, and somehow they, or he, traced us to our new home! I’ve told these bill collectors that we don‘t know John *%#@*, have never known him, and that he is sort of stealing our identity. Then I try to turn the tables on them and ask how we can find him! They apologize and say that they can’t share anything with me, that any information they have is confidential! They end the conversation promising that they will take our address and phone number off his accounts, and their list, and that I should call the police.

I was telling my husband about the whole thing, and he agrees with them. I should call the police so they can go to John *%#@*‘s house and talk to him, maybe even arrest him! That might be a great idea in a perfect world, but in this imperfect world, he supposedly lives HERE! And if the police try to call him, they will call US!

So I am left with no answers, only more questions. How did John *%#@* ever hook up with our information? Does he know us and we just don’t know him? Did an unscrupulous relative (yes, we do have those) give our information to him? Did he find us on the internet, or in the phone book? Who knows? And how will we ever know? And should we care about it?

Maybe we should! What if he shows up at our door, suitcase in hand, and has the proof that he does, indeed, live here! We could call the police then too, but they’d have to let him in because all his I.D. cards would prove he lives HERE, with US! (John *%#@*, if you are reading this, please do not do that!)

It’s all a mystery, and though he is stealing our address and phone number, I guess John *%#@* isn’t really stealing our identity. Yet? Right? So you see what I go through? That is just one of the problems that comes through our mailbox. We all might as well suck it up and realize that the mail box is no longer a fun place to go. Gone are the days of ‘birthday’ cards, ‘miss you’ cards, or ‘have a happy day’ cards. All those are sent through the internet now. Money isn’t going to float out of your mailbox, no fragrant envelopes will freshen the inside, and no fun packages will pop out. Identity theft, (along with address and phone number theft,) is on the rise; and so it seems, for us at least, is getting a mailbox full of collection notices for John *%#@*!

family party

Tonight I had a family party, and though it was supposed to start at 6:30, it was after 7:00 and only a handful of people had shown up. Mom and Tiffy were helping with the fruit tray, I was putting chips in bowls, dips out, and trying to finish up the salad. Kari had brought stuff to make margaritas and in the midst of all the craziness couldn't find the blender or an ice chest for the bag of ice. The TV was already blaring with a football game, and kids were pesting. I'd already had a long day, hadn’t even gotten a chance to take a shower, hadn’t gotten to exercise, and was pretty peeved that practically everyone was late. So without a word, I walked out front for a moment of peace.

I looked down the road, and no one was even coming yet. I’d worked my butt off all day, and it obviously didn’t mean anything to anyone, and I wished I hadn’t even attempted to have the stupid party. Then while I was indulging in my own pity party, my phone rang. It was Josh, and he wanted me to call Patti to see why she hadn’t called him back to tell him whether or not she was bringing RockBand. So having nothing better to do (ha!) and time to spare (lol!) I called Patti, only to find out that they were going to be even later because they had all HAD to take showers. Whoa….the hostess, ME, couldn’t make the time to take a shower, but the guests obviously had that indulgence. I hung up and headed back inside, promising myself that this was the last party I was ever throwing. And who cared if I ever saw any of them again?

Hm, it seems that I would...

Finally, a couple of them showed up, and my icy heart started to melt as I gathered them in my arms for hugs. Within about a half an hour, the house was full of people I loved. Ranging from two to seventy-eight years-old, every single person that I could see was one of the most important people in my life! These were MY PEOPLE!

The next few hours were filled with kids doing gymnastics in the middle of the room (what good is it to do perfect splits and cartwheels if no one is around to see how great you do them?) Little boys flew cardboard airplanes above our heads, and put jumping rubber spiders on our backs. People talked over each other, and around each other, and you had to keep moving just to get to visit with everyone. Food was gobbled down, and drinks were plenty. (Too plenty for some of them!) Conversations flowed from room to room, and outside, where the lake glistened, and the moon lit up the night. And it was good!

Favorite highlights were that Missy, our beautiful niece, new darker hair which made her blue eyes look absolutely gorgeous, had come all the way from Hawaii! And our newest family addition, Jaiden, who looks so much like his daddy did at that age, passed out hugs and kisses like they were Halloween candy. As for the others, I got to hear stories about boo-boos, grade school bullies, college classes, jobs, vacations, jet-lag, internet romances, and new houses! We took plenty of photos, taking turns getting in and out of them so everyone’s camera was used. (Yes, it would seem that we each had to have our OWN group photo!) I wonder who is missing in the best one? That‘s something we’ll likely only find out if we scour each other’s Face Book and My Space pages. (There is no question that we will all do that which will lead to a trading frenzy!) Yeah, all in all, it was one of the best evenings I’ve had in a long time!

So it appears that I lied. Not only will I have another party, but I will have another, and another regardless of the fact that I know without a doubt that practically everyone will still be late, and I'll be the only one who won't have time to shower!

Sleep deprived

It’s 6:30 A.M., and I have just been routed out of a pleasant sleep by some eager weed-eating fool! I didn’t go to bed until after one o’clock, tossed and turned, yet here it is a mere five hours later, and I am forced awake by the loud whirr of a weed eater. Yes, I understand that it will be over one hundred degrees today, and the earlier it is the cooler it is, and I suppose if they are going to start disturbing people so early, a Friday morning is admittedly better than a Saturday morning when more of us get to sleep in, but darn it! Its intermittent buzz is loud and aggravating enough that even if it stopped immediately, I couldn’t fall back to sleep.


As bad as it is though, I’d rather be awakened by a weed eater than by a barking dog. I love dogs in general, it’s their owners that let them bark incessantly that I have a problem with. Barking is my absolute least favorite sound in the world because it has been the most common wake-up-before-I’m-ready, sound throughout my life . I‘m sure it has to due with my belief that the dog owners are some how snoozing away, while I am wide awake, and an angry, disgruntled mess.

Besides weed eaters, and dogs, that can ruin a perfectly good sleep anywhere, when we spend the night at our home in the pines, I have mornings when geese, ducks, or birds are my unwanted alarm clock. I can’t do a thing about geese and ducks, but I did outsmart the swallows that built their nest on an eave above our deck. Unfortunately, it seems that in the swallow species, the parents wake up the kids before dawn! Every morning, while it was still dark outside, mommy, or daddy, swallow perched right under our bedroom window, and sang and chattered an hour before sunrise. UGH! Even though I am quite aware that it’s against the law to disturb an active swallow’s nest, I felt like knocking the little mud creation down hoping they would relocate to someone’s else’s deck. Yet, I was also very excited with the prospect of watching the babies learn to fly. I stewed over a solution for days, pretty much at precisely four a.m. every morning, until finally, I got the brilliant idea (I do get those occasionally) to put my puppy on the roof. He is a wonderful, fake, little puppy (no doubt the absolute best dog in the world) who breathes softly, his little tummy rising and falling, and the noise he makes is just loud enough to fake out mommy, or daddy, bird. Puppy’s new job is to rest from sunset to sunrise on the exact spot where the parent swallow HAD perched to sing. And, yeah me, I never was awakened by it again! Now we are co-existing in peace and quiet, the sounds of the wind whistling through the pines, a perfect lullaby that allows me to sleep uninterrupted until my bodily clock awakens me! (And if I’ve had too much tea before bed, that is often earlier than all the other irritants put together!)

My life's trophies aren't silver and gold...

My goal was to purge the garage, to get rid of 'stuff.' I moved the car to the driveway so I'd have plenty of room. I wanted to make quick work of this unpleasant chore. The sooner I was done, the better. However, after setting aside my husband's Lone Ranger and Tonto figurines from his childhood, and re-wrapping my grandma's pitcher, I came across a box that stopped me cold...well, actually warm. My heart was sent back over thirty years when I came across the box containing trophies that belonged to our grown children. Well, trophy tops, because during my last cleaning binge, all I'd accomplished was to unscrew the tops off of the bases, and save them. But what good were a bunch of trophy tops? I needed the space, so I decided that I'd take their pictures, for memory sake, and then toss them out. So as though my kids were right there, instead of tiny metal people, I photographed them together, then separate by sports, then by each child. When I was done, I scooped them up and headed to the trash. Which is when the little BMX guy fell on to the garage floor. I froze.

I gently laid the other trophy tops on the floor and picked up the little guy. The memories that flooded my heart were so stong I felt as though I could almost reach out and hug my flesh and blood little bike racer, all sweaty and smelling all boy. Dust covered his clothes, and I could barely see those blue eyes twinkling through the dirt on his face. I could, once again, feel the pride and excitement emanating from him, feel it swirl around me. This little, metal, silver boy, helmet on his head, perched on a plain, old cheap bike, had me back at the BMX track, for the very first time, watching my son speed past the other little boys. My son, on his old Schwinn, banana seat, big handlebars, and all, had beat out all the others. Neither their experience, nor their shiny, light-weight, expensive bikes had made any difference. My son had not only captured the audience's hearts, but this precious little trophy, too.

As I ran my finger over this piece of metal, my heart began to ache. I wondered where that had come from. Was it the lost innocence that protects our children from the realities of life? Was it that his life was no longer filled with hours of freedom and fun? Or was it because my dear friend had lost her son in a tragic car accident four years ago, and I was hurting on her behalf? If my heart ached, for whatever reason, about the loss of my son's childhood, how must she feel when memories overtake her? I still have my children. I can call them and hear their voices, get in the car and go visit them, and am so fortunate to be able to share hugs, laughter, and memories with them. My memories are still accumulating, and as precious as the ones of their childhood are, the ones we continue to share are priceless.

I took a deep breath, and wiped the tears off my cheeks before picking through the pile of trophy tops pulling out one of my other favorites. This one was a swimmer, belonging to my youngest son. At age two, he was already fascinated by his siblings' trophies, so I had decided that when his swimming lessons were over, I'd go buy him one. However, the lessons hadn't taught him how to swim, so we'd reverted back to letting him wear his floaties. Because of that, he'd thought he could swim and would jump into the pool any time he got the chance. He had no idea he'd sink, because any time the pool gate was open, his floaties were on. Except once. We'd had a swimming party, and someone had left the gate unlocked, and he'd somehow gotten it open, and was under water when I found him. After coughing, and both of us crying, he was okay, but teaching him how to swim become my top priority. I worked with him every day, and in two weeks he was swimming across the pool and jumping off the diving board. He got his much coveted trophy, this little, metal swimmer, which represents life and triumph, hard work, and memories. The trash was the furthest place in my mind that it should go!

Our daughter's trophy tops were for cheerleading, baton, and modeling. She'd worked so hard for them, and when she finally started winning them, they'd meant more to us than real gold! She'd had a physical problem that had caused her to be marked down at many of her first competitions, but once she finally learned how to compensate for that, she began winning more and more, and we were thrilled. Because of her determination to just keep making adjustments, and never giving up, the little, gold, baton twirler is one of my most precious possessions. Just holding her takes me back to those competitions, and the thrill of victory after many agonizing defeats. Memories of parades long forgtten, cold mornings on football fields wet with dew, and her smile as she marched, cheered, and performed are special times that I will treasure forever.

I couldn't part with the trophy tops. They will stay in the box in the garage where I can pull them out and trace the little silver and gold faces as I remember some of the accomplishments of my children. The memories will reside next to first belly laughs, first steps, and first words. Those memories are joined by first days of school, first times they drove, first dates, weddings, and births of my grandchildren. Memories of my six grandchildren have been piling up so fast that sometimes the lines blur, and I don't recall which one did what, or when, but each memory is covered by so much love it really doesn't matter. My chidren and my grandchildren are MY trophies. They aren't silver and gold, they are flesh and blood, laughter and tears, accomplishments and defeats...laced with disappointments, awe, anger, pride, frustration, worries, joy, and most of all, LOVE.