Bedsores and Broomsticks

Hi everyone in Bloggerland. Sorry to have abandoned you for the past few months. Like Rosalind Russell said in "Auntie Mame," I can't possibly be a wife, I'm too busy being a mother," so it goes with me. I can't possibly be a grandmother, I am far too busy being a mother. I have bedsores on my bottom from sitting in the driver's seat of my car schlepping this kid or that kid to something--softball games, softball practice, baton, or soccer games in far away places such as Birmingham. Just this past Saturday I reluctantly crawled out of bed at 5:45am, washed my face and brushed my teeth, I think, then made my way to my suv. When my four grandchildren came to live with me, the first thing I needed to do was to buy an suv so that I could cart them, all of their sports equipment, and friends, all over creation. So, my sleepy-eyed 16 year-old grandson placed himself in the passenger side of the car and immediately nodded off while I sped ahead to the school's field house in order to pick up his new soccer uniform along with one of his soccer buddies. A group of boys and girls huddled outside of the field house waiting on the coach to show up. They, of course, were riding the school bus to Birmingham for the games unlike Jake, my 16 year old, who convinced me that he really wanted me to see him play. Just between us, the real reason that he wanted me to go to Birmingham was so that he didn't have to "ride the smelly bus" (his words). Riding in Oma's car also had other advantages like being able to quickly pull through McDonalds and jump back on the highway. I must say that watching him play made my heart quicken just a bit. He is so tall and handsome. I ruminated that this is how potters must feel after they have crafted an elegant plate or bowl from an unformed block of clay. However, Jake remarked to me the other day that I talk about him as though he were one of my portfolio investments (now don't get excited, the "portfolio" is massive in his mind, but in reality, as my grandfather often said, "if chicken were 3 cents a pound I couldn't kiss a hummingbird's behind)." I told him that he was my investment. He is the future. I suffered through raising his mother (my stock market crash) so that I could invest heavily in him and his future. Just like many grandparents, I often wonder if we couldn't skip the kids and go directly to grandkids. Oh the promise of cloning. Anyway, Jake took my words with a grain of salt. As for the soccer game, a grand time in Birmingham was had by all, especially me. We drove home, the boys slathered themselves with sunburn ointment, and crashed. I, of course, got out my broomstick and began to fly around the house with my hair on fire wondering why the girls left their hoodies on the floor in the foyer, sticky pecans with yellow cake crumbs on the kitchen counter, and the ever-present-mountain of white towels on the bathroom floor. I checked to see if my backside's integumentary system was intact, then shuffled off to bed with dreams of seniors-only cruises drifting in and out of my subconscious.

What grandparents won't do for their grandchildren

Well here's the deal. Over the past several years I have taken my four youngest granddaughters to the American Girl doll store in Atlanta in January for their birthdays. In the same car mind you. I did this because it is something I would have liked to do if they would have had American Girl stores when I was little. Two of the birthday girls were actually born in January, while the other two claim October and April for their birthdays. The cousins usually have a great time and I end up renting two suites at the Mariott right behind the store so that we can just stroll over there when we like. It is a fun weekend with madcap shopping for dolls and accessories, then eating at the American Girl cafe with dolls in highchairs at the table with us. In the evening the girls stay up to all hours playing with their dolls and things, then we head back to Alabama the next day. Great fun! This year, however, I decided to treat them to snow skiing. Mind you, none of us except for my grandson Jake has ever snow skied. Well, I did actually twice. Once at Sundance, Utah and once at Mittenwald in Bavaria. These events were 20 years ago, so they don't count. On Friday, January 21 (Karen's b'day is the 20th and Nicole's is the 22nd), we loaded up and headed for Mentone, Alabama. Mentone is located in the N.E. corner of the state and borders Tenn and Georgia. The ski run is short, but plenty of snow. We stayed in a chalet that smelled of many generations of mold families. The kids didn't care and were excited about skiing the next day. We must have looked like the Klampetts from the TV series as none of us had proper ski attire except for Jake. We didn't care, we just trooped over to the ski lodge (a shack with a fire pit in the center), paid an ungodly sum for our skis and lift tickets, put on our stuff, and went to ski school. There must have been 20 nubies like us. The first one to graduate was Nicole. She hit the pony lift and was off like a pro. Unfortunately, she sprained her ankle after an hour or two and had to go to the ER. I managed a couple of runs down the slope in the pizza pie position (beginners learn this as a stopping method). At least I didn't fall, but I must have looked ridiculous. Taylor (the 14 year old) did fantastic, while the two little ones, Karen and Madalyn, wanted me to pull them up the slope and then let them ski down. Now I will tell you, this is where you find all of the muscles that you lost over the last 40 years. Foregoing anymore skiing, I ended up helping them onto the pony lift, running in my ski boots up the hill and snatching them off the lift before they got to the top, then turning them in the right direction so that they could ski down the hill. After a day like that, I took an Ibuprofen, ate nothing, and flopped into my lumpy mattress in chalet heaven. I was counting my muscles the next morning as I tried to pull out of my twilight sleep, staggared to the shower, packed the car, drove home, and wondered why I thought this was a good idea. Then I uploaded the pics that I took from the ski trip. Kids smiling as they tried to ski, happy faces standing on the deck of the chalet, and little ones and big ones, flying down the slope without a care in the world. Then I knew why it was a good idea.

Ruminations and Retirement

Just happen to be ruminating about my retirement plans. I've been in retirement mode for some 30 years now, plowing money into a portfolio, buying and selling property for a profit, working at a state-level job with those wonderful state pension plans, etc. Feeling sorry for myself these days because who knew that when I was approaching retirement, the economy would go belly up and also that I would inherit four kids to support as well as my adult daughter (though I must also say that she works full time as a hairdresser and is doing much better than even my predictions) who is struggling to build up a clientele, I started to think about my parents and grandparents and asked myself how they made it through the hard times. My parents were depression era kids and so growing up I heard "turn off the lights," "eat everything on your plate, kids in China are starving," and "no you can't do this or that, we only have enough money to go to the drive-in theater with homemade popcorn." I can't even remember how many times I heard my mother tell me the story of her father, my grandfather, a likable fellow named Angus, who quit school in the third grade and by the age of 10 was working in a lumber camp in the north woods of Michigan. Seems that during the Great Depression, he supported my mother and grandmother by going to a warehouse in Flint, Michigan, and buying what he called "little stuff," to trade or sell. The "stuff" that he purchased were things like chore boys for the kitchen, little sewing kits, small household items, etc. Then he went to the dump and picked through the glass bottles. He brought the bottles home, scalded them in a galvanized wash tub, and then pasted labels on them. One set of bottles he filled with homemade vanilla, which my grandmother made in a laundry tub and the other set was filled with white liniment for whatever ailed one. My grandmother made the white liniment as well. I'm sure it cured most ailments because it smelled powerful. My grandfather would load up the car and drive throughout the Michigan countryside trading for meat and vegetables or selling what he could for cash. He stayed out for about a week at a time, plowing through farm country. He was always a talker so I am sure that he loved every bit of the challenge.  My mother remembered that when he came home on Friday nights, there were crates of chickens tied to the running boards of the car, while the trunk and backseat were loaded to the rooftop with potatoes, onions, apples, and other assorted vegetables as well as good ole fresh farm eggs. They didn't have much of anything during the Depression, but they ate well and even shared their bounty with neighbors. It is with these stories in my memory bank that I ask myself, "do I have what it takes to make it through the tough times?"

First Post - How it all began

Ya know, I struggled financially as a young person like many of you. When my first child was really really young, my biggest thrill in the world was the day that I bought a pair of cheap tangerine colored (I can't believe I would pick anything like that, but oh well) 63" curtains for my apartment with a brass colored rod. I thought they looked beautiful with my beige, second-hand, plastic sofa that graced my first apartment. I was only 19 when my first child was born so money was practically non-existent. Struggle, struggle, and four years went by. I now had my first home (bought without any help from parents at the age of 21) and a second child. Divorce from husband #1 loomed ahead. After my divorce, I married my former junior high and high school boyfriend. Wow! I thought, now I can get some traction and move forward in life. Bought my second home at age 26 and had my third and last child. I went to nursing school and worked for four years part time and raised my children. Did all the usual--drove three kids to music lessons, kung fu lessons, dance lessons, etc. Kept head above water, but that was about it. Three kids and no money. Somehow I made it until the kids were middle teens and then, you guessed it, my high school boy friend, now husband, decided that he needed a sports car and a teenage girlfriend. Fast forward twenty years. Kids are grown and doing well. The third, a girl went off the rail after the divorce and could not pull herself together for a number of years. While all three kids had their ups and downs, they are all working and struggling like the rest of us to get ahead. There aren't enough blogs to cover all of the experiences we have been through, but I intend to insert tidbits of the ups and downs in upcoming blogs as I blog about what it is like to raise grandchildren and try to prepare for retirement at the same time. One caveat: I am currently a university professor who also happens to be a parent and grandparent. I have taken off the somber robes of the academy and am just wearing my jeans and pullover to write this blog. I hope that it is humorous, readable, and engaging. If anyone anywhere learns anything from it, it's unintentional on my part. I just want to share with you what it is like to raise grandchildren as it can at times and at the same time be both a blessing and a curse. Most of all, it is great fun and a real privilege to play such an important role in the life of a child. See you tomorrow or whenever.

Sometimes life surprises you

I'm back. I thought I should take the time to introduce my family. Jamee is my eldest. She teaches English at a very large high school in Florida. As a former eighth grade teacher myself, Jamee and I share many interests and have lots of to laugh about and moan and groan about. Jamee is trying to blast her two children, Cait and Patrick out of her house (Cat is 22 and Patrick is 19). For some reason, they prefer to live at home where the rent is free. They don't seem to mind the screaming from their mom about how messy they are. I think that they believe that a little screaming is better than paying rent, growing up, and/or, struggling to pay bills. I don't get it, because I and my sixties' something friends always loved the struggle to prove to our parents that we could do it. Oh well, like Scarlet O'Hara always said "tomorrow is another day." Andy is the middle child. He was the most difficult infant on the face of the planet. Screamed day and night from the age of two or three days old until he was just over a year. He could not keep formula down, spit up constantly, had what can only be described as terminal diarrhea, and would not allow anyone to hold him or comfort him. Many trips to many doctors and never did get a firm diagnoses. While Andy has had numerous medical problems, he managed to get married to a great gal and is now the father of a seven year old adorable daughter who recently as a first grader (last year) finished the entire Harry Potter series and last week finished reading the last Percy Jackson book in that series. He works for one of our state governments and while he will never be rich in terms of money, he has job security and benefits, which today counts for a lot. My third child, a girl, is a hairdresser. You might recall that she had a difficult time adjusting to life after my divorce from her father. She is the one with four children. She, Susan, lives with me and is a hairdresser. She loves glam and would prefer to remain sixteen. She is bubbly and loads of fun to be around when she's not making me mad, which she does when she wants me to raise her kids so that she can be sixteen again. Cat fights at my house are the norm. One of her daughters, my granddaughter, Taylor, is my revenge. Susan finds it hard to deal with both of us. She is squeezed in the middle. My granddaughter and I often join up in a conspiracy to make her life miserable by reminding her of what she needs to do. Susan really does have great organizational skills and will, I think, manage her own salon one day. I am always surprised when one of my kids does or says something that I know they got from me. It seems to validate my existence as a mother. I guess they learned more from me than I realize. In my professional life as a university professor, I enjoy telephone calls from students at other universities who are reading one of my books and would like additional information about this or that. I also enjoy the many encounters I have with colleagues at national and international conferences and at annual meetings of organizations of which I am either president or past president. I also like the professional engagement that I enjoy with colleagues all over the world who write for my book series. I am posting this tidbit about my professional life not to impress anyone, but to remind all parents out in cyberland that while many of us enjoy great notoriety in our professional lives, our children for the most part whether they are four or forty are greatly underwhelmed by our accomplishments. To them, we are simply mom or dad. Sad but true, on most days I just take off my mortarboard and put on my apron so that I can fix dinner to serve to the four hungry grandchildren who live with me and their mother and share this extraordinary journey through life.