Grandchildren are a wonder.  I have a relative who just became a grandmother for the first time…let’s face it…she is in for the wildest, most exciting ride of her life.  Every breath, every runny nose, every word is worth ooohing and aaahing over.  Our three-year-old granddaughter reminds me of how much of a wonder life can be.  The other day I was babysitting and running around the house.  Usually I wear my favorite old one of six pairs of black socks, but this morning I was racing around to get going by 7:00 a.m. and do the hour and a half drive to the kids’ house and rather than search for black, I grabbed the first thing I saw.  The first thing I saw was not black, but who cares?  Well, granddaughter cares.  She looked at me and said with amazement, “Grandma, you have blue socks on!”  

Blue socks!  Yes, she noticed.  Yes, I can’t believe any three year old would notice. Yes, sometimes it is the little things that are the sweetest.  Things like blue socks make you think though…Let’s see, maybe I’ll get deep here…How much do I miss in life without taking the time to appreciate them?  How important is it to notice others and something interesting to comment on…maybe it will make the day of someone who needs a smile?  How simple are the really good things?  AND MOST OF ALL, maybe, just maybe, I need to shake my life up a little so three-year-olds don’t seem amazed by blue socks!  Ya gotta love their whirling brains…I think she will be a fashionista of the future.

Okay, so we were gone for over a month and I needed a grandkid fix.  We pulled our overloaded pickup camper into the yard and started smooching and hugging and answering questions and giggling with the grandkids.  We didn’t even notice the runny noses and bleary eyes.  They were cute…adorable…our grandkids!  

One had started second grade and had a man teacher.  Another was just beginning kindergarten and had suddenly become a little man.  Princess was looking even prettier than ever and noticed I had a new watch right away and little one…well, she was ruling the roost with a growl, a pinch and an overly cute, irresistible smile.  Oh, and they had caught a HUGE SPIDER and it was in the bug cage…A tarantula they said!  We don’t have tarantulas scurrying wild in South Dakota, but, by golly, this one was pretty close…oooyew…yuck.  

They were thrilled to see the dogs and the dogs were thrilled to see them and with all the excitement of our arrival the neighborhood was loud, boisterous, and shaken…just the way I like it.  The dogs bailed out of the camper…the kids bailed into the camper…and life was life at its best.  We spent several days doing the smooching, hugging, answering questions things before we pulled ourselves away and headed back home to cope with unloading our mini-home on wheels.  As we turned the corner and left the little ones behind my husband looked at me…I looked at him…and in unison we said, “We’re gonna get sick, you know.”  Yup, I know.  I did.  Miserable.

Day three post-grandchildren:  Sore throat.  Day four post-grandchildren:  Cough.  Day five post-grandchildren:  Full-blown green goop, bleary eyes, hacking misery…and it was worth it…all from a booger and a camper full of kids.

The room is cold, pizza good and speakers…well, informative.  I shouldn’t need to go to another college orientation day with another child, but here I am.  This is my third child, fourth college and 537th speaker.  Hard to believe I’m still learning.  I know what FAFSA stands for and have read some good info on how to succeed in class, at your job and in life. I manage to identify with most of the instructors although I am now older than a lot of them. 

When my first soon-to-be freed child went off to college I cried a little bit and choked up as I hugged him goodbye.  When the second went off to college I cried…well, no, I just choked up a little bit as I hugged him goodbye.  Now, as I send the third off to college…I choke up…well, no, I just giggle and laugh and scream “WooHoo!” out the window as I pass people.  It is sick but it is easier as you get toward the end of your trips to school and orientation days.  Hey, I’ve done it.  Raised three kids…all have gone on to college and soon my youngest will have a degree.  Life is good.  I’m pondering the thought of agreeing with my husband that we should get a Harley and ride off into the sunset whenever we dern well please.  We don’t have to drop kids off, pick kids up, talk to kids’ teachers…coaches…principals or parole officers.  We’re free of needing to be at two different games in two different towns. 

Excuse me, my phone is ringing.  “Oh, sure…a game on Tuesday night.  At 4:00?  Another at six?  You need him picked up at 3:15.  Okay, we’ll be there.”  Forgot.  We’re starting over.  The grandkids are starting school.  We have one going into second grade.  One starting kindergarten.  Yeah, we’re starting over.  Maybe we do need that motorcyle.  We could run around to everything on that…47 miles to the gallon.  We are 90 miles away…2 gallons each way…yeah, we could almost make up for the payment in the savings….we’ll just have to get a sidecar to haul kids…we drop them off…pick them up…go to games in two towns…yeah, here we are again.  Woohoo!

I can’t believe it.  My son called and my little sweetie really is broken.  A few days ago I wrote about a trip to the park that resulted in a dash to the hospital with my three-year-old granddaughter…picture it…a green, grassy park, trees, birds, squirrels, giggling…and then the moment that stopped my heart…my little punkin fell off of a picnic table.

The doctor said her arm wasn’t broken…he didn’t think.  Now, a week later the radiologist calls to say…Oops, it is broken.  I feel sick.  So, Mommy and Daddy made a trip back to the hospital and now she has her first cast.  It is a really pretty pink.  I’m still feeling sick.  I really did break my granddaughter…I didn’t mean to.  I was sitting right there, but I just couldn’t react fast enough to catch her.

My mother has a gift…kind of a gift at jinxing…she has always been there to warn me about things we shouldn’t do…we shouldn’t allow…so somebody doesn’t get hurt or have anything bad happen.  I used to scoff at her warnings, until I recognized her strange power.  Really, I believed she got just a wee bit crazed and she went just a little wee bit overboard in her admonishments…”Don’t let those kids play on the hay stacks.  Somebody’s going to break an arm.”  It took several generations and a lot of years of warning, but eventually…it happened…somebody broke an arm.  My nephew fell.  ”Don’t let those kids play in the woods.  They’ll get lost.”  Again, a lot of years of warning, but eventually I got a phone call from the neighbors a few hills and a mile or so away…they didn’t know how they got there, but my kids were there…lost.  So where was my psychic mother when all hell broke loose because of a picnic table?  I have never heard her say…”Don’t let those kids sit on a picnic table.  They’ll break something.”  Well, Mother, ya missed that one and I broke a grandkid…your great granddaughter.  I kind of feel let down..and sick…yeah, I feel sick.  Poor baby girl.  I guess I just need to blame somebody so I’ll blame my sometimes psychic, sometimes psycho mother…the mother who passed her sometimes psychic, sometimes psycho ways on to me.  Yeah, she should have warned me about those picnic tables.  
 

There are a lot of things I love about my grandchildren.  To be honest…everything.  Even when they are sassy I still think they are gifted…at being sassy.  That has to mean they are creative.  It takes a great deal of brains to think of ways to mouth back.  It stimulates their vocabulary and teaches them how to come up with an answer quickly.  They learn to assess how we handle the situation and to read our facial expression.  Right?  

Maybe I’m a little deranged, but I think I am a lot like most other grandparents…maybe its the aging that makes us blind… cataracts or high blood pressure causes us to change our views on the “correct” way to handle children.  Regular intake of fiber and baby aspirin has caused our common sense to go awry.  Still, they’re so darn cute when they are being stubborn.  My granddaughter is the sweetest little thing…worries about everyone else…never fails to ask how I am feeling and is shy and pretty and as someone once described her “…a gentle soul.”  That is until she doesn’t want to help with picking up the toys she has just played with.  The other day she had gladly dug out seventy-some crayons while searching for the perfect color to scribble over a fairy on a tulip.  We were getting ready to go so I cheerily sang, “Clean up, clean up, everybody, clean up.”  A little ditty my daughter-in-law made up that works like a charm on my other grandchildren…Little sister at age 21 months sang, “Cean up, cean up, body, cean up!”  She then proceeded to cean up the crayons.  

The three- year-old climbed on the couch and started watching cartoons.  ”Sweetie, it is time to clean up the crayons.  We have to leave.”

“No, Gamma.  I too ‘cared.”  Scared?  Of what?  Missing an episode of “Max and Ruby?”  I sensed a problem.

“You helped make the mess, so you have to help pick it up.  That is the rule.”  

“No, Gamma.  I too little.”  Little?  She is three, her sister isn’t even two yet and she is managing to lift crayons and drop them in a box.  

I shut off the cartoons.  A little like the theory of relativity…a reaction…a big, opposite reaction.  ”Gamma!  I was watching Max and Ruby.  I want to watch cartoons!”  This is where I have to be the mean Grandma.  I have to win…the little one is watching.  ”We have to go and you have to help pick up the crayons.  Now, help your sister please.”  She grabbed Puppy and stuck a lip out, “No, I no feel good.”  

Hmmm…there’s that creativity crud coming back to haunt me.  Okay, this is where I have to offer a choice.  ”You either pick up the crayons or Puppy has to go in the other room.”  She clutches Puppy and starts to break my heart with a whimper.  ”No, Gamma.  I too little.”  I have to be tough.  I pick up Puppy, place him in the bathroom and shut the door.  A fresh round of sobbing and screams of “I don’t want to cean up.”

Little sister is watching.  She is taking lessons here.  I have to win or I am in big trouble.  I get tougher.  I give the choice of helping or sitting in my bedroom alone until she decides to help.  Nope, she is not helping.  We head to the bedroom kicking and screaming.  After reassuring and wandering in and out every few seconds and comforting her worried little sister, I finally have a little girl who is helping pick up crayons.  These are not thirty pound crayons or crayons that are hard to grip due to special rays protecting them…no, they are just crayons.  Phew!  She is gifted.  I’m exhausted and feel like the meanest grandma in the world…but the crayons are in the box and she helped.  I’m so proud…she is the stubbornest little sweetheart…I know she got some of those genes from me…They’ve been handed down from generation to generation…oh, yeah, I’m a grandma alright…a deranged grandma…I love everything about my grandchildren.  Now quit being critical and pass the fiber.  

I’ve never thought of a picnic table as a dangerous thing, but they are.  At least the one in the park was.  Grandpa and I took the two little girls for an afternoon of fun.  We did have fun…at least up to the picnic table accident.  We had a picnic earlier in the afternoon.  We chased birds and played on the swings and waded in the creek and just had a wonderful few hours.  Before heading back to their house, we stopped at a shady picnic table to watch the kids from the summer rec program play football and limbo and dance.  We joined in dancing and had cookies and juice and cracked peanuts for the ‘quirrels.  My youngest granddaughter tried to catch a few more birdies and we were just getting ready to leave when it happened.  Our three-year-old sweetheart fell off the picnic table and whacked her head on the cement underneath and landed on her arm.  

It happened in slow motion, but I couldn’t reach fast enough to save her.  Grandpa sat helplessly on the other side of the table holding her sister with a panicked look on his face.  My face matched his.  I tried to keep her still until I could assess the situation, but she was instantly screaming and moving around and holding her arm.  Okay, I’ve raised three kids.  I handled broken bones and hospital stays and surgeries and falls from stunts and well, I’ve raised three kids…so why did I fell like instantly screaming and thrashing around, too?  Well, grandkids are just different.  You hurt twice as bad because they are twice removed genetically I guess.  Or, they are just twice as cute.  Or, you just have twice as much time to love them or, well, it just hurts twice as bad.  

I made the phone call to Mommy and told her to meet us at the hospital.  That’s a toughie, too.  I broke her kid!  I was in charge!  I’m a Grandma for criminitly!  I’m supposed to be the protector of all!  She was cool about it…I freaked out.  I tried to act all mature and calm while inside I was screaming, “I BROKE MY GRANDDAUGHTER!”  

The doctor doesn’t think the arm is broke…We still are waiting to see if it gets better by tomorrow.  If it hasn’t she’ll go back for more x-rays.  She had a slight concussion.  I was sooooo worried.  I felt my heart breaking.  I would have gladly taken a nose dive off that table seat and ripped my arm from the socket if I could have made it better for my little sweetie.  My son said, “Mom, you didn’t worry about me like that.  Remember that time I got hit in the head during the baseball game and needed stitches and you told the ump I couldn’t go to the hospital because you didn’t have any subs.  And remember when I jumped out of that swing and you wouldn’t take me to…”  Blah, blah, blah.  Yes, Son, I remember.  This is different.  I’m a grandma now…I’m supposed to be superhuman and clairvoyant…yes, I’m a grandma, a grandma who broke a kid.  

I’m a serious sports nut.  Serious.  Nut.  I’m also a serious grandma.  Serious.  Nut.  So what a day I had when I combined the two.  It all started when my grandsons said, “We’re bored.”  The girls and I were looking through some purses and baubles a friend had given them for dress up and we were all out in the yard.  I suggested, “Play some ball.”  Of course, using the bored term seems to produce whines.  ”But it’s hot and we don’t have a ball.”  Ah, challenge.  I march right in and grab a soccer ball, a basketball, Frisbee and a small Nerf football.  

After a little moaning and groaning they select the football and start kicking it around.  I go back to ooohing over purse contents when I hear the ever present, “Grandma, watch!”  My oldest grandson, seven, kicks the ball.  It was a nice kick.  High…long…I could feel a slight pumping of my blood.  My youngest grandson, age five, charges after the ball and tries to kick it back…Hmmm…he didn’t get it back to his brother, but that’s no problem.  They kick it around for a while and I am soon wearing a straw hat, sparkly brooch and a scarf that made me look absolutely loverly.  I glanced up…Oooh, nice kick…and the return…still a little shaky.  ”Grandma, I can’t kick it very good.”  The five-year-old whines. “Well, try throwing it.”  I offer.

I smile as his busy little body charges after the ball.  He picks it up, adjusts it in his hands and then…HE BARRELS A PERFECT SPIRAL FIFTY FEET TO HIS BROTHER!  His brother then LEAPS INTO THE AIR AND GRABS THE BALL!  Oh, my gosh!  I start screaming…whooping…jumping around.  The boys think I’ve set my hiney in a pile of ants.  ”What’s wrong, Grandma?”  I get my breath back.  ”That was amazing!  What a throw!  What a catch!”  We high five and I keep squealing.  The five-year-old grabs the ball again.  His brother jogs down across yard…There is no pumping the ball or taking a few steps to get the power…no, he just BARRELS ANOTHER PERFECT SPIRAL…THIS TIME INTO HIS BROTHER’S CHEST!  Okay, I’m starting to get high now.  I love watching great athletic acts and this had to one of my all time favorites.  Five-year-old…PERFECT SPIRAL…Seven-year-old…AMAZING CATCH…once in a while he would have a hard time catching it because it came in so hard and fast…and hit him in the hands and chest so hard he couldn’t catch it…but…the next one he would scoop up…sometimes on a run.  Okay, I’m still in mourning over Brett Favre retiring, but this was good.  This was a moment like the long bombs of Elway and Favre and Montana…bombs to make an old lady’s heart sing…catches Jerry Rice would have been proud of…catches for my highlight reel.  Hmmm, let’s see.  Yeah, a senior wide receiver and a sophomore quarterback…how many years until high school…maybe I should start calling scouts now.

My eldest granddaughter, age three, has established herself as a true girlie girl.  She walks like a  girl.  Bats her lashes like a girl.  Squeals and giggles like a girl and has mood swings complete with head tosses, glares and stomping from the room…like a girl.  Now I’m not trying to sound sexist, but, hey, I’ve raised two boys and a girl to adulthood and I’ve earned the right to say, “They’re different!  Girls are girls and boys are boys and it’s not good or bad…it’s just different!”

My lovely little sweetie likes to say, “Call me…hmmm, Pincess…Yesth, call me Pincess.”  The other night she and her little sister were busy splashing in the tub and serving tea to each other when I said, “It must be time to get out of the bathtub.  You’re getting cold and your fingers are getting pruney.”  She looked aghast.  Her hands clasped her cheeks and said, “Who?  Me?  The mermaid?”   Yup, she’s a girlie girl.

We have a picture of her in her mother’s high heels turning toward the camera with that attitude that sends shivers down her father’s spine…the one proclaiming , “Just try and tell ME no, Daddy.”  Yet, she’s also the one who lovingly puts babies in the crib with a pat and a kiss and coos, “Night, Night, Sweetie.”  She worries about everyone and especially her little sister.  A friend of mine spent a few hours with her and hit the perfect description when she said, “She is just a gentle soul.”  And she is, a gentle soul.  So where did “Yee Hah!” and “Fire in the hole!” come from?  

 Yesterday while the two little girls and I were playing, she came tearing through the living room on her stick horse yelling, “Yee Hah!  Woo Hoo!”  She slid the trusty steed to a whoa and said, “This is my fire horse, Grandma.  Yee Hah!  Fire in the hole.  We’re the Fire Girls.”  Then, she galloped away like a wild banshee whooping and galloping and yelling, “Fire in the hole!”  Her little sister and I looked at each other and then joined in yelling, “We’re the Fire Girls!” and chasing after her in our invisible fire trucks.  We spent a good share of the day saving people and buildings from fires…in the holes…spraying hoses and sleeping in our fire houses with stuffed animals and baby dolls.  Every once in a while, my fire girl girlie girl would change her clothes and finally decided the best outfit for riding stick horses was a green Easter dress complete with lace and fancy bows and gauzy flowing material.  Oh, and a beautiful bright red, plastic fireman’s hat.  A unique look to be sure, but one a fire girl girlie girl can pull off.  Maybe this is how Heidi Klum got started…Oh, and when we finished our heroics, my granddaughter pulled her stick horse to a stop and proclaimed, “Fire Girls saved the day!” with her hand held high in a fist…a proud moment for this Fire Grandma.  

At this point in my grandparent role, I am down to one in diapers.  One tiny little body which produces amazing amounts of waste.  She really is cute.  But poopy…and wet…a lot.  I have to brag a little though.  I have a diaper changing production area that really is quite impressive.  There it is in all its glory in my spare bedroom near the piles of toys and sleeping playpen.  I have a towel folded on the bed so I can lay the little poopmeister down and protect the coverlet.  Within handy reach are diapers, rash goo, powder, wipes, toys to keep her occupied and a garbage can equipped with a grocery bag for immediate removal of stenchy packages.  I have a good stash of replacement bags handy…believe me, those bags are used.  It is a great system.  I don’t have to bend too much and I can dispense tummy kisses and foot songs and giggle tickles at a moment’s whim.  Dang, I’m good.  I’m organized.  I’m ready to roll.

And I did roll last year.  I had two in diapers at the time and broke my leg.  With my M.S. I have wimpy arms and no balance so I ended up in my wheelchair for three months.  I could have had grandchild withdrawal if it wasn’t for my husband and daughter and parent’s and in-laws and friends working as a team.  Husband came up with the idea of bells on the toddler’s shoes so I would know when they were behind me and where they were.  When changing a diaper at the handy dandy diaper station, I could track down Number 2 Poo-Producer by following the bells.  

My favorite assistant was my father.  He was my number one helper.  He did everything from dressing to feeding the kids.  He played with them and watched them and helped out with all the other tasks I couldn’t do…like walk the dogs and fill the bird bath and bird feeder so the kids could ooh and aaah over the brrrdies and play with not too rambunctious dogs.  BUT…that wasn’t his number one task…no, Dad was my diaper garbage carryout-er.  For some reason, both girls had a lot of production going on.  Every time Great Grandpa came in…he went out with a tied grocery sack and a grimace on his face.  By the end of the kids’ visit, he’d carried out enough garbage to build a new dam in the Grand Canyon.  They could call it…the Poo-ver Dam.  Anyway, he’d had his fill of the fill.  

Dad never complained.  He boldly went where few men have gone and came out smelling like a rose…well, maybe just smelling.  Anyway, we’re down to just one in diapers now.  Things have slowed down for the moment.  I will be ready for more though.  I’ve got my diaper changing production area set up at all times.  That’s what we grandparents do…we look forward to some strange things.

I’ve played Barbies, rode four-wheelers, drank tea and coffee and soup and mud chocolate. I’ve dressed up, dressed down, wore headbands and beads and scarves. I’ve changed poopy diapers and wet socks and muddy shoes and lifted on and off and in and out and kissed booboos and cheeks. Yup, the two littlest grandkids were here this weekend…girls, 3 years and 21 months. How exciting it is to spend time being a child again. I like to think of myself as the crazy grandma…probably because that’s what their parents keep telling me.

We play with the old-fashioned Barbies…the one’s who had big boobs, tiny waists and slim hips. I guess the manufacturers decided that wasn’t realistic enough for kids these days, but hey, I’m pretty sure that’s what I looked like when I was a young chick…yeah, I’m sure…at least in my warped mind.

The Barbies belonged to my daughter and her friends once. They cut the hair off of a couple and my granddaughter said, “They ugwe, Grandma.” The short hair was ugwe…at least on these two Barbies, the girls hadn’t exactly worked to make them look nice, they just whacked the hair as short as they could. The swirls and stitching could even be seen. Now I have short hair…I didn’t want her to think of short hair that way, so I came up with the best I could…”This is Chemo Barbie…Dr. Barbie took care of her, but the medicine made her lose her hair and this one, well, this is Brain Surgery Barbie and Dr. Barbie shaved her head to operate. Then, Chemo Barbie said, “Let’s dance, Barbies! I want to go to Ken’s and have a party.” Brain Surgery Barbie jumped in, “Yes, Dr. Barbie, can you come? I am so glad I am feeling so much better. I want to dance, too. Ken Is so cute. Let’s go.” Dr. Barbie is a workaholic. She said, “No, I can’t go. I’m a doctor and I have to wait in case I get important doctor calls. I am a doctor, you know.” She brings that doctor thing up a lot. I think she has some self-esteem issues. Of course, Mommy Barbie, Beachie Barbie and Daughter Barbie wanted to go. They put on their party dresses and headed down to Ken’s which is in the top drawer of the rolling cart the Barbies live in. There, they danced up a storm and had a tea party…Mo Money Barbie went shopping for new shoes and Butch Barbie, well, she slipped away and headed to a club downtown.

It was a good Saturday. Tomorrow we’re having pancakes for breakfast and taking the dogs to swim in the pond. Maybe we’ll get out the play kitchen and whip up some hors d’oeuvres for the Barbies pool party. Not sure what meat to use…oh, wait, I forgot about Vegetarian Barbie…and we have to keep it lite, these shapely girls are ALWAYS on a diet.