Grieving the Loss of Unknown Children

Yesterday, feeding the noonday bottle to my smallest grandchild, I was reflecting on the fact that she'll soon be one and that bottles will be a thing of the past. Then it hit me that barring any unforeseen change of plans, she's my last grandbaby.

I'm not baby crazy at any time, but when I started keeping my daughters' babies, Ethan had warned me he would expect the same care for his children. I never doubted that the day would come, probably at about the time I was ready for a break from babies. At some level, having grown into the role of caretaker Ma, I was looking forward to it.

Although I've known many of the things I expected will never happen since Ethan died, yesterday it was suddenly all about babies.

Ethan always wanted to be a daddy. Not just a father, but a good daddy. He didn't really even know what that would involve, because he never had a role model, but it was something he longed for and missed. He would have been a good daddy -- E1 adored him, even though she had not had the chance to spend a lot of time with him. When he was straight, even children who didn't know him were drawn to him. He was funny and could be childlike in his focus. They could feel that he was full of love.

"A life-long goal of mine is to be a good parent if I have kids, because that can really affect a kid's life and what thy do in the future. If their parents get divorced or something, and they don't really get to know both of them because of some stupid law or some other dumb reason then that kid just lost a major role model in their life. They may not get certain talks that they need from their parents and may not know what to do when certain things happen in their lives. When someone offers them drugs or wants them to drink some beer or other alcoholic drink, they may not know how to say no and they could end up saying yes just because they don't know what to do. They may end up doing some bad things because they lost a vital role model in their childhood. There's no telling what they could end up doing when they get older. They could turn to drugs or something else. They could become a criminal and end up in jail for most or all of their life. Some people end up like that no matter what happens in their lives. There is a lower chance if they have good parents and they stay together and other things like that. That just shows how much having good role models like your parents can affect your life in the long run and can decide what happens in your life when you get older, whether you're a criminal or live a decent life, and who you hang out with. So that's why being a good parent is one of my major goals, because if you have that much control over someone else's life, I think you should try to do your best to make their life as good as you always wanted your life to be when you were younger and give them the right choices that they should have. Besides, I figure if I can be a good parent, then not too much else matters."

Ethan wrote that paragraph in high school as part of a project all kids did called "Who I Am," which is a collection of assigned essays. I was already losing him by then, and had been since high school began, although he had not turned the corner that eventually took him away from me. His notebook is one-third the size of his sister's, and while she pillaged photo albums and decorated the covers, he barely took the effort to insert a few pictures of himself and one of his sister.

Reading that, I wonder what bad decisions he may have already been regretting. Reading between the lines, I know what he was missing so often was something I simply couldn't be.

There is no mention in the book of his father, who felt child support was optional and disappeared from his life shortly after the divorce when he learned visitation meant he was supposed to spend time with his children, not leave them with his girlfriend and her kids. Although his father made a half-hearted effort to be around Ethan's sister when she got older, he never did the same for the little boy who was barely a toddler when we separated, the little boy who would call begging him to come get him for a visit, the little boy who soon quit calling and grew into a young man who still wanted his daddy to acknowledge him as someone worth spending time with, but never had that wish granted. I accepted my part of the blame for the divorce, and he was never a good father or husband even when we were married, but I struggle to forgive him his abandonment of his son.

Ethan longed for a daddy and dreamed of being one, and it was that pain that had me crying as I stroked the soft cheek of what will probably be "my" last baby. There won't be any blonde-haired, blue-eyed children who call Ethan Daddy, no little Ethans calling me "Ma." That's another dream dying on the vine that I hadn't really faced up to until yesterday.

I am blessed with three wonderful, beautiful and totally amazing granddaughters and to have dreamed of any more seems greedy at some level, yet it was something I had expected.

There was no version of my reality in which Ethan would not at some point be the person he meant to be and find his way out of the life he was living. There was no version in which he didn't see his dreams come true, no version in which he wasn't a daddy.

The Father he could count on decided that Ethan had been through enough and took him home and reality changed. Ethan is finally with a Father who loves him, and the mother who loves him is still struggling with that.

A Bit of History Living Again -- Cuckoo

Earlier this year I became obsessed with getting a cuckoo clock.

It was a combination of things, actually.

When I refinished my kitchen, there was a section in the wall that had previously been behind the refrigerator that just would not do what I needed. It was rough, and there was no amount of paint or anything short of tearing it down and starting over that would fix it. I did not want to be redoing sheet rock, so drew the line there. Something long on the wall, such as a cuckoo clock and weights, would camouflage it.

That wasn't what made me think of the clocks, however. Having two little girls in that magical age when a cuckoo clock would have a special appeal did it. I remember visiting the neighbors who ran the local country store when I was a child on some rare errand. Perhaps someone was sick at their house and I was toted along. I still remember the cuckoo clock hanging high above me and the magic of the little bird appearing. It would be cool to have a cuckoo clock, especially since today's children hardly know what a clock that isn't digital looks like.

Finally, for crying out loud, my last name is German. My mother-in-law immigrated from Germany about 1960 and has the most beautiful accent. Although he doesn't recall the language now, my husband grew up speaking German before he started school and dismissed it as something that made him too different.

I wanted a cuckoo clock.

Naturally, my source for cuckoo clocks had to be Ebay. Back to my old adage that you can find anything on Ebay with patience and the right search criteria.

I did not realize what a daunting number of clocks came under the heading of cuckoo clocks on Ebay. I quickly narrowed down my search to vintage and German. Still, there were a lot of clocks to wade through. There was no way to eliminate "As Is" or "For Parts," unless the seller had categorized it as such. Finally I built a watch list and started bidding, only to be repeatedly outbid at the last minute.

Yes, I wanted a cuckoo clock but I didn't want to pay an arm and a leg for it. I was shooting for the $50 range, and it appeared everyone else was shooting higher. Factoring in shipping, which was high for some of the items, I would enter my maximum bid and try to leave it alone. Often I was high bidder up until the final minutes and then would get a message telling me I had been outbid. It became a frustrating process but I stuck with it.

Finally I won my clock. Shipping was outrageous, but I had only bid about $25 for it. It was small, marked Germany -- not West Germany, which seemed to indicate a pre-1940s manufacture, and supposed to be in working order. It very well packaged, and I happily hung it in the assigned spot in my kitchen, following the original hanging and adjusting instructions, which were included in the package.

A problem quickly became apparent. First of all, the cuckoo popped out and refused to return to his home, and when the weight that regulates the cuckoo was attached, it dropped immediately to the floor. The chain had come loose from the gears inside. I emailed the seller, who said it was simple to reattach, somewhat like threading a bicycle chain. I carefully removed the back of the clock and found it wasn't quite as easy as he'd made me believe. Between missing the gear and getting the small chain on the wrong gear, I finally managed what seemed to be a reattachment.

My efforts, however, were not a complete success. While I was able to get the cuckoo to make his happy sound, he was not synchronized and tended to sing until the weight hit the floor instead of just marking the hour and half hour. I took the weight off on that side and let the clock hang, frustrated at not achieving my goal. The girls were also disappointed as they had been eagerly awaiting the cuckoo for some time. But I didn't know what to do and clock repairmen are few and far between. Another message to the seller and I had partial refund on the cost, since a return would have left me in the hole in shipping.

I did like the clock though. After a bit of tweaking on the pendulum, it kept near perfect time. It just wouldn't cuckoo.

Then one day I noticed someone on Facebook (do you think perhaps I spend too much time on Facebook?) selling a cuckoo clock that had recently been refurbished. I sent her an inquiry about who had repaired her clock. A family member, she said by way of reply. It was his hobby and he'd be glad to work on mine.

In fact he was. I met her in a parking lot with the bundled clock and sent it away. A couple of weeks later we met again in the same lot for a reverse exchange and the repairs cost only slightly more than the refund from the original seller.

Now the clock works perfectly, although it has taken some training on my part to get it there and keep it running right. If you think setting the clock on your microwave after a power outage is a challenge, you've never tackled a cuckoo clock. The timing is controlled by the pendulum. Slide the little maple leaf up and it runs faster; down and it runs slower. For more than a week I was monitoring its chirps and running to slide the leaf one way or the other. Finally, it appears to be off by a minute, but not gaining time so all I need to do is reset it.

Then there is the winding. I wasn't able to get an 8-day clock. Instead this one runs about 30 hours. You pull down the chain and raise the weight to wind it, which is simple and ingenious -- unless you forget, or in the case of my clock, pull it too high. If it is pulled to the top, for some reason the clock stops. You can correct it if you remove the pendulum, let it run really fast a while until the weight drops, and then reset it. If you don't realize it, however, just resetting the clock may not be enough.

We ran into that problem this week and found that the cuckoo didn't recognize the corrected time. No, he thought it was two hours later. Now I've even figured out how to correct that by multiple resets.

No, I didn't get the cuckoo clock of my dreams. I'm sure the one of my childhood memories was larger and grander with a deeper cuckoo, although that could be memory talking. I still browse Ebay occasionally, and may stumble upon the one I see in my mind -- especially since I can consider one in need of repair, not just the picture perfect $500 one that is pictured at the beginning of this blog.

Either way, I've recaptured a bit of the magic for two little girls, so not only was it a learning experience, but far from a failure. E2 will still interrupt what she's doing to tell me the cuckoo is singing. And there is still a race for the clock in an effort to catch him in the act.

Spare the Rod and Spoil the Child?

I don't believe in spanking any more as a general rule, although sometimes I have to fight my inner bully to remember that.

Although it's been a gradual shift for me, a barrage of Facebook images in the last few days made me want to speak out. Just this morning there were two on my news feed that praised the value of spanking at home and in school.

Sorry, I can't agree any more.

I was spanked growing up and no, I don't believe I suffered any deep psychological or physical scarring as a result. In fact, I don't actually remember any spanking, although I do remember waiting on one that was to be delivered after company left. My brother and I had gotten into a knock down, drag out and I wound up bitten. We were both awaiting punishment, but I don't remember the delivery.

When I was raising my children, they were also spanked. In general, I don't remember those spankings either. I do remember slapping my teenage son in the face when he stood and cursed me, and I expect the feelings that triggered that were behind most of the spankings as well. I felt frustrated and that nothing was getting through. I don't think smacking him helped and I really don't think most of the spankings helped either, other than to provide a vent for my frustration.

So despite the challenges of dealing with three preschoolers, I make it my goal not to spank. I'm not 100 percent successful yet, but when I do administer a swat, I feel like I've failed.

It wasn't long ago that I was part of the spanking club. A tantrum, failure to obey timeout rules, doing what I had expressly told them not to do, they could count on a spanking. Sometimes afterward I would wonder if the swat had been too hard and if I wasn't really just a bully disguised as a grandmother. After all, I was using my size and strength to make them do what I wanted, even if they didn't agree or understand.

Then I saw someone else doing the same thing at a restaurant. A tantrum from the child was provoking a tantrum from the father, and his was really more disturbing than the child's. Threats of a "busted ass," weren't quieting the little one down and a swat at the table only changed his rambunctious behavior into loud tears. It wasn't enough to be considered abuse, but it was still ugly.

While it was not something I had ever done, in public any way, it was like watching my own behavior in the mirror, and I vowed to change.

Prayerfully I began to address issues that were mine, not those of little girls who don't know a better way to manage their emotions and behavior. More and more, I'm able to catch myself before screaming back, before swatting a bottom -- before doing things I regret just minutes after doing them.

At 4, E1 is the biggest challenge. Her emotional scale is so easily tipped and on any given day I'm likely to find myself facing rage, tears, an out and out tantrum, or an assault on one of her sisters, or maybe all of the above. Sitting down to a lunch she insists she doesn't want to eat is a good example. What begins as "I don't want this" dissolves into shrieks and tears. More recently, instead of smacking her tiny bottom, which truthfully fixed nothing, I took her away from the table and we took time to breathe and calm down. We negotiated how much she had to eat and went back to the table. She ate without a further blowup.

I know, that sounds so ideal, but it has happened. She actually finished the food she insisted she didn't want to eat, because once she started eating, it was something she liked. Yesterday when she said she didn't want the can of pasta I opened for lunch, there was not even a blowup. I just advised her to eat a few bites and pretty soon the plate was clean.

Next time, we may be facing a replay of the removal from the table, but I think it won't be a constantly repeated exercise. I think by finding another way to deal with what is an emotional situation for her, we both learn. The emphasis is on both of us learning.

When I was a young mother, I was busy with so many things and managing so much other stress, that an uncooperative child was often the thing that pushed me over the top. Whether it was failing to pick up toys when asked to do so, or something really serious like dashing into a parking lot, a spanking was more about my inability to consider another option than it was about what they had done and their failure to mind. I cannot fault other people who face the same difficult situations and react the same way.

The additional level of maturity brought by age and experience and the degree of separation I have from my grandchildren's everyday needs is one of the reasons I'm able to negotiate my own emotional terrain a little more successfully. I don't have to worry about how I'm paying for the diapers on the baby's butt or the roof over their heads, all I have to focus on is their needs 8 hours a day. Surely I can be the mature one that long.

I think most grandparents likely go through that shift in their thinking, which may be one of the reasons people accuse their parents of loving their grandchildren more than their actual children. It's not that I let them get by with more, but that I manage how I react differently.

No, I'm not successful 100 percent of the time. Sometimes I react before taking that extra minute I need to be in control. Sometimes I catch myself just in time and turn what could have been a spanking into a "sit down and talk about what you did wrong." Sometimes I throw away the crayons, despite the fact they're screaming that they really will pick them up and not dump them out again, because I know even with their best intentions, tossing them is the only way I won't pick them up again. And sometimes their behavior is so over the top that a swat is the only way I've found to deal with it -- although I hope that will change over time as well.

So no, I don't want to be in the pro-spanking corner any more. I don't think the decline in our society is because we don't spank, it's because we don't take the time to do anything else either. We're working two or three jobs to make ends meet and buy our kids all the neat things they think they have to have when what they really need is more of us, more time to learn who they are instead of trying to be who their friends think they are, more conversation at the dinner table instead of texting or gaming, and more real learning instead of mindless homework just to pass a test.

It's easy to pass judgement and say if parents would just spank their kids like we were spanked, it would be better. But by and large, spanking was just a small part of the parenting process in which we were raised. Families and society have changed in radical ways and today's parents are still struggling to find the right balance without the easy guidelines that we had from our parents.

Instead of condemning parents who make the difficult choice not to spank, we need to be supportive and encourage them to find other ways to discipline and the time to make sure their children learn the lessons we seem to think were beat into us. We don't need to say a good spanking would fix that, because really, it won't.

Becoming a person who helps them understand life, like our parents and grandparents did in thousands of ways that are less memorable than the symbolic spanking will help change our children. Being yet another bully who forces them to do what we say through threats and violence isn't the answer.

I'm Jealous of the Other Grandma

I'm jealous of the other grandma.

Not every day mind you. Most days I'm quite happy with my role as the everyday, hands-on grandma.

But on a Friday at the end of another long week of mealtime debate, sisterly squabbles, diaper blowouts, and relaying three little girls from my house to other destinations, when the two oldest girls are excited about an overnight with their other grandma, I have to be honest. I'm a little jealous.

I know if she were being honest, she's probably jealous of me sometimes as well. I know if the roles were reversed I would be. It's nothing against her, because she's a wonderful nanny. It's just that she's more the grandma I would have expected to be, the cool nanny, the fun nanny.

Yes, I treasure my time with three little girls and there is a lot to be jealous for in my week. It's not all tantrums and potty trips and meltdowns (usually theirs) and who really slapped who. There's a lot of time just to soak up watching three little girls learn how to be sisters and play together, a lot of warm hugs and sweet sticky kisses, a lot of "I love you"s.

But sometimes there is so much it overwhelms me. Squeezed in among the things we have to do on a day to day basis and the schedule of meals and naps and taking care of my own business, the things that I always imagined doing seldom take place.

But when I stop and take a deep breath, I realize I'm not really jealous of Nanny either. Like me she fills a totally unique spot in the lives of three little girls that we both love. Because we are unique and different women, we balance one another. Between the two of us, we should be able to provide guidance and a good role model whatever kind of young women the girls grow into.

The other grandma that I'm really jealous of exists only in my mind where the perfect grandma lives. She no more lives in Boone, where Nanny spent the evening dealing with a wild boy in addition to two little girls, one of whom didn't sleep well, than she does at my house. My jealousy isn't directed at her, it's all about not being, every day, who I'd like to be and when I let it, those expectations for grandmotherhood can be quite depressing.

That other grandma is full of endless patience. She never loses it and throws away the crayons just because they've been broken into half inch pieces and poured out on the floor for the baby for the umpteenth time. No, she comes up with some clever craft and melts them into window hangers for her grandchildren.

She never says I can't when one of her grandchildren asks for anything. No, she finds some way to do it or convince the child it doesn't need to be done. And I'm sure she would never let the baby cry to be picked up because she had her hands full doing something else.

She prepares a healthy, colorful, tasty meal for every occasion that the children sit down to eat. The children, of course, eat it without getting it all over them or complaining, because the food is that perfect. She never relents and feeds them a lunch of pepperoni slices, cheese, crackers, carrots and baby food for dessert because they're hungry and she is going to cook a real meal for dinner. She never despairs because those crackers are eaten in tiny nibbles like a mouse, leaving them everywhere. She doesn't have to wonder if they are eating enough.

The other grandma entertains the older children with some wonderful craft every day and the children never color on the windows, or use markers on each other, or put glue in their hair.

If she feeds her grandchildren cookies for snack, they're homemade and fresh from the oven, every time. And the children help make them without throwing flour all over the kitchen or fighting over who gets to add the next ingredient.

When potty training, she never has to suppress the urge to treat them like a puppy and, just once, rub their nose in it. She's endlessly patient and knows exactly when a little one needs to make a potty stop. She never scolds a child who has been potty trained off and on for using her panties again. I'm sure she wouldn't let that child take a shower and clean herself up, even if that was finally the concept that made it all click for her.

She never has a dirty house, a harsh word, or a jealous thought about anyone either.

She never finishes a day tired and feeling vaguely guilty that she wasn't all she wanted to be for the three most precious people in her life.

But maybe, just maybe, she doesn't load a baby into a backpack and take three little girls and a kite into a dirty tobacco patch where they don't manage to fly the kite, but between the dirt and the kite's antics they're all entertained and happy for a while in the wind, and tired and dirty later.

Maybe she doesn't have a kennel full of dogs and let the 4-year-old help feed them and clean cages, because that might make a bigger mess than it eliminates. Who am I kidding? There will be food everywhere and at least one argument about who carries which bowls and feeds who.

Maybe she doesn't know to tell them about the different kind of tooth marks they find in an apple, or the tracks on the side of the road. Maybe they wouldn't go for walks in the woods and get scratched and dirty and carry leaves and nuts into her perfect house. Maybe she would avoid having to say no to carrying a preschooler, by not putting herself in that situation.

Maybe there's a lot her perfect world doesn't embrace as well, because it's too messy or just not part of her experience.

So when I find myself being jealous of the other grandma, I'll take a deep breath and remind myself that my granddaughters' other grandma isn't her either. That the other grandma who makes me feel less than what they need exists only in my head and not in theirs.

Whatever our successes of failures, we love the babies in our lives and the grandmas they have are perfect just as they are. Both of us. And even on bad days, when I've lost my cool or felt like a failure, there are moments of sunshine and forgiveness in a little girl's smile.

It's Almost Flu Season, Have You Vaccinated?

As is occasionally the case in my role as Ma, yesterday the day wasn't full of fun and adventure.

It was a day spent building up to one of the most dreaded events in a parent's life -- shots.

Let me say up front that I know there are parents who chose not to vaccinate fearing the side effects of vaccines are damaging to their children, or citing religious reasons. We vaccinate because there is no question that polio, small pox, whooping cough and other diseases can kill, scar or cause long term damage. I had measles when I was a child and lost a whole summer to fever dreams and late night trips to the doctor. Everyone makes their own best informed decision, and as long as those unvaccinated children don't get sick and expose my baby who doesn't have full immunity, then I just hope their parents are making the best choice for them.

That's not what this about.

Most kids dread a vaccine of any kind, not because of any possible side effects, but just for the appearance of the needle itself and the fact that the friendly looking nurse sticks it into their body. I can't blame them for that. I just don't look and try to relax. You can't convince a child to do that.

Parents approach the whole vaccine situation with a mixture of reason, bribery, coaxing, and if necessary, force.

Up until recently, E1 has been the world's best kid about vaccines. She laughed at the idea of a needle. Cried if E3 needed a vaccine and she didn't get one. Doctors and nurses were amazed at her ability to watch with fascination and collect her "bam bam" (her word for bandage). She was frequently praised for her bravery. She occasionally says she's going to be a doctor.

Sometime this fall between her two year checkup and a trip to have blood work taken, something went off track. By the time the nurse tried to prick her finger, she was ready to fling herself out a window to get away. Well, maybe not that bad, but it took Mom and nurse to get it done (I had E2 and E3). It didn't help that she emerged from the lab with a bam bam that was not holding up its end of the bargain and blood dripping down her clothes and into the floor.

A trip with all three to get flu shots was not on my highly anticipated to do list. Especially since they'd just spent a fun-filled week at Disney World with their other grandmother -- sometimes I feel like the evil witch in The Wizard of Oz, paired up against a good witch Glenda. (Just a day now and then mind you, and no reflection on their Nanny, it's just how it is.)

The appointment was at the end of the day during a flu clinic, so we had all day to talk up the visit. E1 promised to be brave. She wasn't afraid at all. Papi was going along, which made the whole trip seem more of an adventure. Waiting our turn was full of games, especially since the older two are fascinated by the masks used to control germs. Even going back to the room was no big deal.

Then the nurse told us to go ahead and get their pants down (why do all the pictures on the Internet show babies getting shots in their arms?) and she'd be right back. E1 lost it. She retreated into a corner holding her pants up and crying as she argued with Papi that she just wasn't going to do it. Reasoning and bribery were out the window and coaxing set in.

I pulled down E2's pants and scooped E3 into the right position with her little jeans around her chubby thighs. I think the image of the needle going in hurt me more than the shot actually hurt her. She gave a surprised cry, I popped the pacifier in her mouth and handed her off to Papi and picked up E2. The nearly hysterical crying continued from E1. The 2-year-old likewise took her turn like a trooper. A little crying and she was done.

Then it was time to take on E1. At 4, she can sometimes be reasoned with. "Look, your sisters have already had theirs and they aren't crying," I said. "It's not that bad."

"No," she insisted. "I don't want it."

"Well, you really have no choice." At this point force becomes the only option. I pull her hands off her pants and loosen them, pulling down as she tries to pull up. The nurse says we'll probably have to lay her down and hold her. I ask E1 if she wants to be put down like a baby or sit up like a big girl. She opts for the big girl option but the nurse still asks me to hold her hands to keep her from scratching. Ouch, the little ones really do put up a fight!

The needle goes into the little thigh and E1 stops struggling, she starts laughing again. "That didn't hurt," she proclaims, watching the bandage go on.

Seriously? So what was all this drama?

I help her on with her pants and we collect our things and leave with me inquiring exactly why she had been crying. "I didn't cry when I got a shot," she said. Well, but before. There was no unraveling that piece of yarn. She had not cried when she got the shot, so everything else was out the window and she not only didn't know why, she more or less decided it had not happened.

A couple of stops where they sat in the car and enjoyed a DVD with Papi and we were headed home.

The little princess, however, had exhausted herself with her crying. She had to have a power nap before we were back in the driveway.

Come to think of it. I could have used one, too.

Seeking Freedom from Too Much

Things can have a terrible power in our lives. Acquiring them, taking care of them, holding on to them, worrying about them can become consuming. It can turn us into people who seem shallow, or it can become an obsession that takes over our lives.

If you've ever tuned into one of the shows about hoarding, it's easy to see how completely things can wreck a person's life. Those people who typically suffer from an obsessive compulsive disorder, or who are compensating for some loss in their lives, may be extreme collectors, compulsive shoppers, or people who hang onto everything -- even items that have no value. Using things to fill their lives drives away family and friends, leaves them in debt, and sometimes forces them from their homes.

The ways that things wreck the lives of healthy people are more subtle. We have to buy the latest fashions, the "in" bags, the latest tech gadgets, or a new car on a regular basis. Keeping up with which of these things we "need," finding the money to buy them, keeping them safe and paying for them can be almost as overwhelming as the things that take over a hoarder's life. The fact that we don't make our homes unlivable (usually) or wind up on the streets doesn't make the things a lot less powerful.

Or we hold on to the treasures or our past -- toys we played with as children, items from the homes of our grandparents or parents, souvenirs from past vacations. We feel like those items keep the past alive or help us hold on to loved ones who live only in our memories. They are things to be looked at and protected, no matter if their intrinsic value is lost in doing so. They are time capsules of the past littering our lives.

While most people see a house fire as a tragedy, I've occasionally reflected that if a person had their pets, and kept their insurance paid, it might be a blessing.

Although I don't want my home to burn, I have imagined the freedom of starting over free from all the things I've accumulated over a lifetime. Like anyone else, I have my treasures, the antique dolls, the knick knacks, the crocheted afghans, even the old shoes and sweaters; and the newer things like my boots (I love boots), my favorite jeans, the air sleep system, the DVDs and the big screen TV.

When it comes down to it, however, if there were no lives lost, I could do without the things I could not replace. What makes old toys and handed down treasures special isn't the items themselves, but the attached memories, and losing those items would not take the memories away. The only treasure I'd really hate to give up would be the photo albums because those literal snapshots of treasured memories would be irreplaceable, although I could go on without them.

Not long ago I had a discussion with someone who held the other point of view. I said if I could sell most of my old treasures, I would do so. He pointed out he felt the money would quickly be gone and he would have neither money or treasure and that he would hold on to the things he had.

I'm not sure which view is more materialistic. Mine which reduces a lot of memories to money to be reused, or his that simply hangs on to the memory. I do know that my view would leave me with less to drag around.

Instead I've tried to strike a balance between the two. While I'm not selling all of my old toys, I've begun to turn them over to a pair of eager preschoolers, not whincing when they pull the paper finish off the sides of a wooden train or drag an old stuffed toy around lovingly. They're having fun and the memories of those new good times are much more valuable than anything I might recall from the past. Instead of sitting the old toys on a shelf to collect dust (which is where they were until recently), I've surrendered them to the tender mercies of the children who are likely to love them to death. If will be a good way to go.

I do not need the things to hold onto the memories, and instead I hope the things can make new memories for me and the little ones into whose hands they fall. It will be a gradual transition and if we stumble across an item that seems to have a high value, we may sell it instead and trade it for new things to enjoy.

My goal is not to leave my children or grandchildren with a lot of things to burden their lives. I'd prefer the freedom of carrying all I need in a backpack or dragging it along in a suitcase to leaving buildings crammed full of stuff for my children and grandchildren to filter through. Instead I hope there will be only things they remember for a reason, and that they will be handed down or worn out before I'm gone.

Walk a Mile in My Shoes

No matter what I tell people I do there's a good chance they'll think it's awesome. Maybe not because of what I do, exactly, but because of how they imagine it. Or because they think working for yourself means you have the easiest job in the world, no matter what you do.

Don't get me wrong, I love what I do, but I'd like to set the record straight.

Working for yourself is no picnic. In fact, my boss is awful. She never gives me a day off, although I may get to start work an hour late on weekends. There are no sick days unless I'm unable to get out of bed and then, well, never mind, there are no sick days. Vacations, well, that's only if there is no work -- can't be assigning your duties to someone else. No holidays. No sympathy. No praise. Just get the job done.

The trade off is my wardrobe is whatever the heck I feel like wearing a lot of the time. I have been known to go out and meet a morning drop off in my pajamas, but only if they are regulars who won't think less of me for it. I do try to put on a clean outfit occasionally, but most mornings my wardrobe has been previously worn because dogs in the morning aren't necessarily really clean. They're so happy to see you and careless about where they put their feet. Makeup is not required, nor a spiffy hairdo, because dogs require no impressing and people who want you to take care of their dogs aren't looking for madam professional. Comfort and ease of cleanup are the rules.

Then there are the people who are just enamored by the fact that you take care of dogs. Wow! That sounds like so much fun. It's like having 20 dogs of your own! All that love and petting. You get to walk them and play with them. Awesome!

And all that is true, but it's like running a daycare with children who don't wear diapers and aren't potty trained. They are jealous for my attention. Some don't play well with others. Some are ok as long as they don't get too excited. Some just want to be held. Some are eager to pick a fight and show who's boss. A walk can be a smooth trip down the road, or it can be a literal trip. Lots of dogs don't know how to get along with other dogs or walk in a straight line.

Then there's the part you don't think about. Once in a while a dog gets a little stressed. When he or she does, the frequent result is diarrhea...in a closed area... Yep, cleanup and a good airing out for the kennel as well as apologies to everyone who had to smell it. And maybe a bath for the dog. And me.

Even when they go where they should, there's a lot of pooh to be picked up and disposed of on a regular basis. My shoes suffer a great deal and Crocs or knockoffs are the best, most washable option.

And that's just my regular job.

There's also the joy of keeping my three granddaughters, which I would not trade for anything. But the experience of being a "when I want them" grandma, versus a "when the parents are working" ma is two different things.

When you think about getting to spend a lot of time with your grandchildren (or even your children), it can be enveloped in a rosy haze of love and sweetness. There's baking and flowers and playing on the swings and reading.

And there may be all of that, but it's after dealing with part A of my day, so I may be tired. And they aren't always in the best of moods. And I do have to say no -- a lot. Because just like the dogs there is jealousy, getting too excited or tired, and poop in inappropriate places. If we all end the day on a positive note with good memories (and I know my memories will last longer than theirs) then it's been a good day.

Sometimes I don't quite achieve that and feel like a miserable failure. But there's always the next day to try and get it right.

So before you envy me my "stay at home grandma, dog lover" jobs, think about walking a mile in my shoes.

I was up at 7 a.m. Sunday cleaning up dog poop? What were you doing?

A Vacation Isn't All It's Cracked Up To Be

When the family of the little people began planning a trip to Disney World way back in the spring, I thought I'd do a getaway, too. I haven't been to the beach in heaven knows how long and thought it would be awesome to go for a day or two; a visit to Asheville to see my in-laws would also be a nice alternative.

Of course, getting away from home hinged on not being busy at my other full time job, and it didn't work out that way. Not only did I have an extra three dogs from the family, I had seven paying guests the first weekend and I think I've got twice that many for this weekend. Going during the week was out unless I wanted to go alone, so I began to work on a homework list.

It was a pretty impressive list.

I remodeled my kitchen and redid the living room in the spring during the weeks after E3 arrived while I was baby free due to Momma on maternity leave but I didn't get around to staining the large book shelf in the kitchen; a smaller built in shelf in the living room needed painting to go from walnut to white to match the new wood trim. I also had replacement windows installed years ago that I had finally figured out how to trim and a stack of molding to do it with. And that was just inside. Outside there were trees to trim, weeds that had grown out of control all summer while I sat inside with a baby, a fence to build for my chickens to have more grazing room, and there are always things to dig and transplant if the weather is right.

Like I said, it was an impressive list.

It still is, although last night I did manage to paint the shelf in the living room and today I managed to reorganize all the DVDs and put them back on the shelf.

Yep, that's it as far as my to-do list.

Instead, although I've bemoaned how little I accomplished, I've had me time. I had my weekly fitness fix on Monday night; went ziplining on Tuesday; attended the Dixie Classic Fair and enjoyed Brandisa, a contemporary gospel concert, with my soul sister on Wednesday; took food to the food pantry and painted the shelf on Thursday; and today I've spent minding the dogs that have flocked into the kennel as owners have raced out of town to enjoy the beautiful weekend.

I realized that even though the little people aren't here, I've become accustomed to a lot of my life on their schedule, which means it's hard to change my way of thinking on a week day at least in a long term way. While I might do one busy day, I'm used to being available for them and making my schedule adjust to theirs and I'm ok with that.

In fact, I'm eager to slide back into our regular routine and get back to life as I normally know it.

But most importantly, I'm ready to see the three Es and their mom and dad again. I'm ready to send three little dogs home to the people they really like. I'm ready to stop running by and picking up the mail, feeding the fish, cat and guinea pig, and cleaning out the litter box.

I'm ready to see big blue eyes and wild curly hair in person, instead of in a gazillion Enchanted Kingdom photographs. I'm ready to hear the happy scream of "Ma!" when they roll up in the driveway, ready to tear the house apart and rampage around the yard; or color quietly and practice their letter and reading skills. I'm ready to feel small hands in mine, help with shoes, wipe butts, change diapers, kiss chubby round cheeks, argue over meals, break up fights, take walks, talk about why the leaves are changing colors, and everything else that makes up our day to day routine.

When my daughter said they had finally escaped Florida, it was the first step on the long journey home. Now I'm waiting for the call, or after midnight text, that says they've finally arrived.

It's been a nice break, but I'm more than ready for it to be over.

Skyping With a Four Year Old, or How the Ceiling Looks in a Disney World Resort

I know 'm a fairly technology savvy person for my age. Part of it was working in journalism where computers were the thing. Part of it is that I'm generally not afraid to try new things, well, unless they involve tight spaces, or perhaps flying, which I've still not had the opportunity to do.

So the fact that although I carry a smart phone, Facebook like a mad person, do half my shopping on Ebay or Amazon, play video games that you have to buy (not Facebook freebies) and up until this week had never used Skype may seem a bit strange.

It's simple. I'm lucky in that the people I care most about are all generally close by. No immediate family flung to the far ends of the nation or serving with the military abroad. Even the family I don't see as much as I should doesn't need a visual to satisfy.

But this week the babies are in a Disneyworld resort and I haven't had hugs and kisses or the pleasure of squeezing little warm bodies since last week. Monday night it was raining in Florida and after days of running wide open they were taking shelter in the room. During that time we'd only had one brief telephone conversation because E1 wanted to call me and tell me "We're on vacation. We'll be back in a few days." So my daughter sent me a message that we could Skype when I got home.

I had other things I needed to do when I got home about 8:30 p.m., like eat dinner, but Skype moved to the top of my list. My previously unactivated account and unused laptop camera were put through their paces. I messaged my daughter. "I'm online."

She sent me her user name and told me to call. "How?"

She asked for my name.

By that time I'd figured it out and suddenly a Picasso-like view of my daughter in the dimly lit room several states away appeared on my screen.

I heard E1 shout "Ma!" and the tablet they were using to contact me changed hands. It went to E1 and our conversation was punctuated by extended looks at the ceiling and head swirling views of the walls, furnishings and other occupants of the room as she took me on a tour wildly swinging the camera angle. I saw everyone except E2 at least briefly. She'd already given up for the day and was asleep.

Most of my actual visit with E1 was only from her eyes up as she had the tablet oriented for what she wanted to see of me and didn't give a thought as to what I was seeing of her. She had enjoyed that day's visit to the Wild Kingdom and her session the night before being made up as a princess. Getting all the princesses to sign autograph books had been well document on FB videos so we could talk like I'd actually been there. When it came to the 4-year-old, however, we had a better conversation on the phone.

The high point of our "visit" was probably E3 who went into a gummy smile, lost her pacifier and did her happy belly flop upon hearing my voice. Ahh, those sweet chipmunk cheeks that are normally such a routine part of my day. Mom said she's cut two more teeth and has four uppers looming, so the gummy grin will quickly be a thing of the past. By the time she's here again she may have four times as many teeth as when she left.

After only 16 minutes we signed off as it was time to move the older one to bed as well. I also had other things pressing and they would be back soon.

While it was wonderful to see them moving and talking again, Skype was a poor substitute for the real thing and I realized all over again how wonderfully blessed I am.

So many families are scattered across the world by college romances that lead to weddings, careers that move families as they advance, the urge of our offspring to live in a different world. There are many families who don't have the simple luxuries of celebrating every birthday and holiday together, of reaching out to help one another when an extra hand is needed, of being close enough to feed each other's cats.

So Skype works when you don't have an alternative. But for me, I'll be glad to give up my week of solitude for high pitched voices, temper tantrums, a crying baby, bottles, diapers, meal time drama and the wide open pace of childhood, and more importantly touching soft curly hair and warm chubby limbs, hugs, kisses, and random "I love you's."

An uneasy transition

I was never one of those mothers who started dreaming of the pitter patter of little feet as soon as I sent my daughter down the aisle. It's as simple as that.

When my daughter called to give me the downright shocking news that she was pregnant -- well I knew she had sex for gosh sakes, but really! -- I was totally unprepared for a new role in life. My poor daughter thought I was less than ecstatic. Frankly, I was in shock. There was no good way to explain it to her.

Seriously, I was working 45 or more hours a week as a journalist on the crime/county government beat in a world where a good pair of legs still counted for something, like it or not. I drove a convertible, kept in shape and had my shoulder-length hair highlighted to cover up the silver strands creeping in. I took care of dogs as a sideline that gave me an excuse to get out and walk. I didn't feel like a grandmother, a granny, a nanny, a mimi, or any of those terms. Adjusting my perspective was going to take time.

Never mind that at my age my mom had been a grandmother to my daughter for about five years, and my arrival turned her mom into a grandmother before she turned 40. Still, pushing 50 with an ever shortening stick I hadn't given any thought to being a grandmother.

Suddenly, like a stork dropping an unexpected baby down the chimney, that had to change. Theoretically I had nine months to get used to the idea.

Then my self-image took another shot a few short weeks later. The collapsing economy meant cutbacks and my 25-year career in a field I loved came to a crashing halt. Eased by unemployment and a series of part-time jobs, I gradually accepted that not only would I become a grandmother, it made sense for me to keep the as yet unborn child because childcare was outrageous.

Now before you embrace this idea as logical and ideal let me tell you I don't like babies. I barely tolerated my own and had it not been for leaving them with a sitter and rushing back to work when they were six weeks old, I'm not sure any of us would have survived. I loved them, but I didn't do well with them until they were older. Give me a mobile child any day, but even then only for a limited amount of time. Perhaps I was missing some maternal instinct. My memories of my children's infancy are cloaked in remembered fits of crying (theirs and mine), sleepless nights, exhaustion, and eventually the ending of the marriage that produced them.

So it was with a fair amount of trepidation that I faced becoming not only a grandmother, but a bit of a nanny as well to my granddaughter when she arrived.

Then there was the issue of what to call me. Heck, I'd never given it any thought, but apparently lots of women have. Her paternal grandmother quickly snatched up Nanny as the name she desired. My daughter suggested Mimi and Papi for her stepdad. I was of the opinion I'd probably answer to whatever reasonable name she called me, but accepted Mimi as what I would be called.

When the big day arrived, or actually the long night followed by the blessed event, the arrival of the anticipated baby was much as I'd expected. There was no magical connection. My strongest connection was still with the new mother holding the baby, who looked much like she'd just come through a bad fight. I was, ready or not, a grandmother.

But I still didn't feel a lot like one. Not even a few weeks later when my daughter returned to work and I was left with the little bundle of joy sleeping on my chest. Or even nine months later, when I learned that number two was on the way and it would be double the fun. Soon there was a toddler and an infant occupying my home like a pair of hostage-taking munchkins. Days revolved around their schedules, their illnesses, their dirty diapers, helping out on doctor's appointments. My daughter wanted to have a third and I still wasn't sure about the first two. No, that's not right. I loved and adored them, but I didn't feel like a grandmother. Not really.

Somewhere along the way, however, E1 started to talk. And ignoring the fact that I'd been called Mimi ever since her birth, she christened me "Ma." Suddenly my whole perspective shifted, not the least in part because that was what I had named my maternal grandmother and I knew how much I loved her and how that affection was returned. I embraced the less than snazzy name whole heartedly.

And I realized that I felt like a grandmother after all. That it didn't mean old lady clothes, bee hive hair, orthopedic shoes, or buying expensive gifts and never saying no. It came from the shout of joy from a little girl's lips when she popped out of her car seat. It came from falling in love.