Gullible Grandma Gets Taken in by Toddler (it ain't hard)

Self Portrait

Yesterday I was the woman on the right; I felt intelligent, in control. Today, I am reduced to a caricature in fruit.

My three year old granddaughter, Lily, came over this morning to spend the day. She means the world to me. We love spending time together and rarely have a dull moment. After playing school and tea party, we watched a toddler dance DVD and she enthusiastically tried to follow all the moves. Me, I just tried to make a few moves without throwing my back out. Afterwards, it was time for snack. She bellied up to the bar and I watched as she deteriorated before my very eyes. Her eyes got droopy and she started complaining about how Mommy had made her get up too early this morning, and how tired she was. I knew naptime would be welcome and figured she would sleep well today.

She then started complaining about her foot hurting. This soon escalated into full-blown screams of pain. I started to get worried. Had she hurt her foot while she was dancing around? She had also put on her dress-up shoes. Had she twisted her ankle when I wasn't looking? Maybe something was even broken! But I tried not to jump to conclusions.

After carefully checking and re-checking her foot, trying to see if there was swelling or bruising (there wasn't), I tried to divert her attention by getting her interested in some arts and crafts until lunch, but she was having none of it. This isn't typical behavior for her. We usually move from one activity to another and have a lot of fun together. Still crying and even screaming off and on about her foot/ankle/heel (I never did get a straight answer from her) she seemed to be in such agony that I put another DVD in the player, propped the poor baby on the couch with a pillow and an ice pack under her foot and sat down with her to give her moral support. Every 5 or 10 minutes for the next hour, she would cry out in pain, tears and runny nose dripping down her face uncontrollably. I would dab her face and make soothing Grandma-feels-your-pain noises, but everytime I'd attempt to touch her leg or foot, trying to find out if she could even move her "broken" limb, she would scream. 

Thinking lunch might perk her up, I tried to encourage her flagging spirits by enticing her with all the good stuff I was going to make for her, but she barely paid any attention to me, such was her pain and discomfort.

Finally, I called my daughter. After giving her the blow by blow, she decided to come get Lily. I had visions of them spending the afternoon in the emergency room waiting for x-rays. By the time they got to my house, my granddaughter had managed to choke down some food and was much calmer. My daughter and son-in-law came into the room and immediately went to her. Of course they were concerned, but there was also a note of skepticism in their voices - apparently, they had seen this movie before. Within minutes, my daughter had managed to take a close look at Lily's foot and ankle and there was, in fact, a microscopic wound in her heel, had put Lily in her lap, asked her if she could walk, and plopped her onto the floor where Lily proceeded to demonstrate that, yes, she could indeed walk just fine, thank you very much, albeit without putting the injured heel on the ground.

'Nuff said. Score another one for the Lilster. I've always known that she's got my number, but today I was on speed dial.

My heart (the little stinker!)

The Bittersweet Pain of Nostalgia

Grandma and Grandpa in their basement antique shop in Lincoln, NE

Parsing through old photos I've scanned onto my computer, I feel a pang of longing for the past that stabs my heart and kicks me in the gut. I am looking at pictures of my grandparents back in Lincoln, Nebraska, where I lived for a few perfect years when I was young: my grandpa's antique shop in the musty basement of his house, a group shot of my cousins, aunts, uncles, my great Aunt Esther standing in my grandparent's rose garden in the backyard, my youthful 30-something parents, my younger brother and sisters as babies, me and my older brother still cute and unaffected. I see these images and I am suddenly there, a child surrounded by a large, loving extended family.

My father moved us to California when I was eight, to take a teaching job, a million miles away from Grandma and Grandpa. I cried as we headed out of town, feeling as if a limb was being amputated. We would visit 'back home' once in a while, for a family reunion or a special anniversary, but it got harder and harder to make the trip.

Sometimes I think about going back to Lincoln to find my grandparent's old house, a place I remember as Utopian: concrete lions at the base of the front porch stairs, water melons and roses growing in the backyard in the summer, a lovely porch swing I long to go back to and often do, in my mind, when I can stand the bittersweet pain of being there again. I remember summer nights with siblings and cousins, catching fireflies while my parents, aunts, uncles and grandparents sat on the front porch (excuse me while I wipe my eyes). We don't have fireflies in California - an entomological shortcoming in my book, if there ever was one.

Me (on the floor looking bewildered) with my older brother holding our baby sister, and some cousins - probably at Christmas which we always spent with the whole family.

A few years ago, when my husband and I were looking to buy another home, we walked into an old house that smelled of ripe apples and wood. I nearly swooned. I was immediately transported back in time to Grandma's house and filled with such longing I couldn't keep back the tears (our realtor politely ignored my reaction). I fell in love with the house, wanted to walk into it everyday and smell that smell, feel those feelings (I am, without a doubt, a glutton for punishment). I often buy apples and put them in a bowl for the sole purpose of smelling them as they ripen and rot. We didn't end up buying that house, and the house we live in now has many years to go before it has that lovely aged, lived-in scent I love so much. I will probably be long gone by the time it does.

I looked up my grandparent's old address online. The house is still there, but I don't think I'll ever go back to see it. If just thinking about the house creates such emotion in me, I think that actually seeing it again would either be a huge disappointment (reality is a poor replacement for our idealized memories) or I would have to be scraped up off the ground after a complete emotional meltdown.

I once read that when we feel nostalgia, we are actually longing for heaven. I like that....

My brother and I with our grandparents, most likely after church on a Sunday
Circa 1958'ish

Earworms: When Songs Get Stuck in Your Head

After watching Paul Simon's documentary on the making of his album 'Graceland', I have had the song 'You Can Call Me Al', stuck in my head for weeks, months really. The chorus goes around and around in my brain, eventually involuntarily coming out of my mouth in short bursts or I'll find myself humming it. Although the words are simple it's easy to leave some out:

  If you'll be my bodyguard
  I can be your long lost pal
  I can call you Betty
  And Betty when you call me
  You can call me Al

I get almost all the way to the end and then usually mess up on the '...and Betty when you call me' line.  Obviously, if you don't get all the words in there, you end up with too many notes, which means you must start the song again until all the words land in the right spots, or at least until all the notes have words attached to them. Sometimes I will settle for this imperfection. But even settling can take a while since only a small portion of my brain is actually paying attention. Then, when I know I've got the song right, around it goes again, and again, and again, ad nauseum.

I finally bought the stinkin' CD, thinking that if I could listen to the whole song whenever I wanted I might be able to purge it from my mental replay list.

I couldn't resist looking up the phrase, 'songs get stuck in my head' in Google, and, omg, Betty, there's a name for what causes it (at least according to one website): earworms. Not like real worms, but rather, and I quote: parasitic in the sense that they get lodged in your head and cause a sort of "cognitive itch" or "brain itch" -- a need for the brain to fill in the gaps in a song's rhythm.

I feel better.

Summertime

My husband's new hammock, where I should find him more often.

Today in Sacramento we are enjoying a dry 97 degrees. I'm talking 13% humidity... dry! I have experienced East coast humidity and appreciate the difference.

I love summer. No need to find socks that match my shoes (flip-flops are attached to the only soles on my feet), no need to rush from warm covers in the morning to a heavy bathrobe and slippers, dressing for the day involves picking out a pair of shorts and a tee-shirt (to match  my flip-flops, of course), iced green tea instead of hot tea for breakfast, a sense of freedom not found in any other season.

Remembering.... What?

Groovy suede poncho and 501 button fly Levis: circa 1971

I could remember lots of stuff back then. 

Why can't I remember things? I've never had a good memory, so I can't say this is a recent development, although I know it's getting worse. I find it very odd, this forgetfulness. I'm pretty sure it's nothing as serious as Alzheimer's, at least I hope it's not, but it bothers me that it seems to occur more frequently these days. At least I think it does....

Quantifying how much I actually do remember is difficult since I don't know how much I'm forgetting. I mean, how do you know what you're forgetting unless someone else brings it up? And even then, the other person could be lying.

One benefit of a bad memory is that it saves money on books. Sometimes when I'm reading a book I'll feel a vague sense of deja vu. Have I read it before, or just the cover jacket? Or was it that I read one of those annoying 'teasers' they sometimes put at the end of books, giving you just the first chapter or so of the next book from the author. No matter. If I can't remember the story, what difference does it make? I always save books I like because I know will enjoy them just as much the next time I cycle through them.

I can't help but wonder if my poor memory is related to my poor sense of direction. I am really bad. I recently got confused about which direction I should turn after coming out of a store at the mall (a mall I have gone to for 20 years). I walked the entire length before finding a landmark that hit home making me aware of my error. I just gracefully did a u-turn and casually hiked back the other way. I was alone, so who was going to know? Even worse, I got turned around in my own neighborhood once (okay, twice). True, I'd only lived in the area about 4 years at that time. Barely long enough to get the hang of things, don't you think?

My poor memory could also be related to the fact that I spend a lot of time inside my head and not enough time looking around me. No. That sounds good, but I don't think that's the problem (that's a whole other story). It must be some inner ear thing.

That Which We Promise: Renewing Wedding Vows in Edinburgh, Scotland

Months ago, my husband and I decided we wanted to renew our wedding vows this year for our fifteenth wedding anniversary. I thought, Sure, why not. (Romantic, aren't I?) Where will we have the ceremony? When? Who will preside? Who will we invite? Will I wear my wedding dress? (It still fit if I didn't move my arms too much.) Will my husband rent a tux? Wear his suit? Photographer? Reception? How far are we going to take this thing?

Overwhelmed by lack of decisiveness, as is our way, we pretty much let the idea go, but every now and then would revisit the topic, only we would ask the questions in a different order just to keep things interesting. But still, only squishy resolution to come to some sort of decision would result.

Time goes by and it's now just a few weeks away from our anniversary. By this time, we had reduced the whole plan to just going out to dinner somewhere in town. We felt like cowards, losers. We had to have some sort of inspiration, didn't we? We weren't that burned out, were we?

Then, on a Friday evening, both of us exhausted from our week, I said something like, You know, we really should go somewhere out of town for our anniversary. Carmel? (We'd spent our honeymoon there.) Washington? (We'd been wanting to make a trip north.) My husband said, Scotland? And I said, why not?

We managed to make arrangements ahead of time for a vow renewal ceremony to take place at St. Giles' Cathedral in Old Town Edinburgh, after Sunday services (which also happened to be my husband's birthday),  with one of the church Ministers presiding. We invited no one (how are you going to bring a crowd all the way to Scotland?), wore "regular" clothes, brought our little point-and-shoot camera and had someone snap a few photos. The reception was high tea with a couple we know that lives in Edinburgh that we hadn't seen since our last trip in 2009.

But the ceremony! The ceremony was 15 minutes of tears and high emotions that we were both unable to contain and, I think, a bit surprised by. Speaking for myself, I hadn't realized how much I needed and wanted to hear my husband recommit himself to me and our marriage. Although we have had a great marriage, I found myself thinking, He really does want to stay with me! It's not just because he feels he has to. (Sorry, Honey....)

We sort of floated out of the cathedral when it was over, feeling lighter somehow. I keep going back to that day in my mind, remembering one of the best days of my life, my new touchstone.

Our 'little' wedding chapel in Edinburgh: St. Giles' Cathedral

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Genetically Speaking

My two girls, 28 years apart: my daughter, Emily, on the left, her daughter (my sweet Lily) on the right. Guess things really don't change, do they?

If It's Tuesday, It Must Be ...

Lately each day has been such a gift.

Monday I have Lily with me all day. We've missed each other over the weekend and we play and cuddle and the day races by until all of a sudden it's over.

Tuesday Lily is over at Auntie's house so I'm left on my own to take care of doctor's appointments, hair appointments, shopping, errands, or my favorite, staying in my studio to paw through my gemstones and sterling silver goodies so I can get started making a new piece of jewelry to list in my online Etsy shop (CountenanceJewelry.etsy.com).

Wednesday Lily is back with me and we've got gymnastics for 45 minutes in the late morning. Even this short interlude breaks up our day enough so that the time we spend after we get home from this activity seems to fly by. If Lily naps for 2 hours after lunch, I get a big block of time to spend on myself, but lately her naps have gotten shorter which means more is required of me from her.

Thursday is another day of Lily at Auntie's house so I spend more time being my own boss to prioritize my time. Sometimes I feel so foot loose and directionless that I just sit on a stool for a while and stare off into space until an image forms in my mind of what my next move is going to be. Using this method to figure out how to manage my time reveals to me just how ineffective it is, but since I like sitting on a stool letting my mind wander, I still indulge myself sometimes.

Friday is usually another day with Lily, but this week I'm taking a 'vacation' day on Friday so I can go to the Gem Faire being held at the Scottish Rite Center in Sacramento. I'm taking my large travel-size purse that is full of compartments and has a wide strap that I can put around one shoulder to distribute the weight of all those gemstones I'm going to buy. I'll wear comfortable shoes, have at least one snack handy in my purse, my seller's permit tucked away just in case anyone wants to give me a discount, and my shopping list, which I'll probably ignore 90% of the time that I'm there.

I'm really excited to be going. I hope there will be a reasonable amount of good vendors there. The Sac Gem Faire is not one of the more popular venues for jewelry suppliers to attend, but can still be fun and time well worth spending.

I'm toying with the idea of going to the Tucson Gem Show next February. Since my father lives in Tucson I could probably snag a room at his house with my husband, then drive into town and get a taste of what a full-blown gem show is all about. I feel this will be a rite of passage and something I've dreamed of doing for the last 6 years.

Ok now... so how much money am I budgeting for tomorrow? I think I'll head on over to my stool to figure that one out.

Four Generations

My mother was born in 1928. 

She had a daughter (me) in 1954. 

I had a daughter, my only child, in 1980. 

She then had a daughter in 2008.

As the generations progress, 
our hair is getting curlier,

our skin is getting darker,

our eyes are getting browner,

our smiles are getting wider, 
and now we've got dimples too!

The Spaceship I Rode In On

Have you ever had one of those conversations with your significant other that causes you to wonder about your language skills? I mean, let's face it, there are times when a couple's verbal exchange resembles a political debate: double-talk, insinuations, answering questions with questions, things like that.I'm not sure what planets we're from, but it's definitely not the same one.

Recently, my husband and I had to share a very small bathroom in our room at an inn while away on vacation. For the most part we danced around each other pretty seamlessly while there. We were in no hurry one morning and I wanted the whole bathroom all to myself to get showered and ready for the day. Sometimes a girl just needs a little privacy.

So I asked my husband, "Are you finished in the bathroom?"

He responded, "I'm done in the shower."

I said, "So, does that mean you're done in the bathroom?"

He said, "I just told you. I'm finished in the shower."

I said, "Quit saying that. That doesn't answer my question."

He: "Yes it does."

Me: "No, it doesn't. You could be finished in the shower without being done in the bathroom."

He: "Well, you know what I mean."

Me: "No I don't. There is a difference you know."

He: "No there's not."

Me: "Yes. There is."

He: "Ok, I think you should let it go and move on now."

Me: "No, I want you to understand. This is part of why we don't always communicate with each other."

I don't usually try to make my point to this extent (or do I...?), but for some reason I felt that this particular situation was a perfect illustration of our failure to communicate at times and I wanted to drive that point home. I bravely soldiered on.

I said, "You could still need to shave or brush your teeth. I know you're finished in the shower. I'm trying to find out if you're 'done' done. I want the bathroom all to myself."

By now my husband is fully dressed, with car keys in hand ready to go get his morning cup of coffee. He leans over to give me a quick kiss and concedes, "Yes, I'm 'done' done."

Duh.

Score another one for marital bliss.