BLissed-Out Grandma

Let's forget the rules and have some fun

2012-05-25T16:37:00.001-05:00

When I'm playing a game, I get very competitive. Or maybe I should say achievement-oriented. My motivation is seldom to beat another player; many times there is no other player. I want to excel at the game itself--win points, advance to a higher level, set a new personal best, grab whatever rewards the game designers have built in to keep me playing.

My grandchildren are teaching me that sometimes the point of a game is just to enjoy playing. It's a simple concept that I keep having to relearn.

I noticed it the first time we played "Busytown," a board game based on Richard Scarry illustrations. The children had chosen it as a Christmas gift for Pa because we had no preschooler board games and this looked like one we all could enjoy.

The first time we played, I spent a lot of time getting them focused, explaining rules, helping them use the spinner, etc. Later I mentioned to their mom that they hadn't seemed interested in doing the "search for clues" part of the game. "Not surprising," she said cheerfully. "They can get overwhelmed. If they're not interested in something we just skip that part for a while." In other words, let them explore the game at their own pace. Keep it fun and they'll be back for more. That was good advice. An especially nice thing about this game is that all the players are a team and everybody wins together. So if one kid prefers not to look too hard for clues and another would rather not spin for regular turns, we can each contribute what we like or what we're good at and still make a game of it.

(When I was 14 or so, my sister and I had a sleepover with some family friends. Their parents played Canasta with us. When I made a mistake in melding, the dad said no, I couldn't pick my cards back up. I had to leave them on the table and other players could use them. It was a harsh lesson in "rules are rules," but probably a timely one. Augie and Vi know that rules are absolute when it comes to crossing the street, but they can wait a while to learn that about board games.)

A while back we let the kids start playing a few games on our iPads. There's a little game called Snood that involves aiming at targets that get increasingly tricky. Eventually, if you've taken too many shots without reaching your goal, all the brightly colored little faces turn to skulls. For a long time Augie thought that meant he'd won. Now they're both getting quite good at it and they've even learned to bank shots off the sides--good use of geometry, no?

Something similar happened with Angry Birds. Both kids quickly learned to maneuver the virtual slingshot to vary the angle of attack--geometry and strategy in action. And both learned the special powers of the different birds that volunteer as slingshot fodder. Touch one while it's in flight and it speeds up, touch another and it splits into three identical birds. Two birds explode on contact with their targets, but to ViMae's delight you can blow them up with a touch of your finger. I used to say, "But you didn't knock anything down." Finally I've learned to laugh and enjoy her way of having fun.

It occurs to me that this lesson might have come in handy while I was working. Loosen the rules and make new discoveries. Find a way to get the job done but still enjoy the process. Construct projects in such a way that the whole team wins through cooperation. With any luck, Augie and Vi can use these ideas in their own lifetimes, and well before they become grandparents!

Sweet new-fashioned girl

2012-05-21T16:19:00.001-05:00

Once upon a time, when I'd see a little girl wearing a dress like this and there seemed to be no special occasion, I would assume her to be a very quiet and ladylike child. Timid and bookish, perhaps.

Then ViMae came along and set me straight. Ladylike when she chooses, this girl also runs and tumbles and climbs and digs in the dirt with the best of them. She is usually just a step behind her big brother Augie. And while he's in t-shirt and sweat pants, she's in a dress with a swirly skirt. Usually pink, often ankle-length. And sparkly shoes. She is a girly princess and an active child.

I was aiming for an over-the-top princess dress when I picked up this smocked corduroy dress at Once Upon a Child and glammed it up with jewels and lace. I made a shimmery, sheer overskirt, but instead of attaching it I put a ribbon on it and left it separate so she can wear it any time. It twirls very nicely, as you can see.

The dress also works perfectly well at the park, when paired with tastefully matching pink pants. Good thing it's washable!

Recently, I bought Vi a handful of mix-and-match clothes on sale at Gymboree. On this day, she wore coordinating pieces together. But she has her own sense of style. Picking out her clothes each day, she loves to find combinations other than the original ones. She nearly always has a rationale for her choices: the greens match, or the flowers go together. Which, of course, is exactly what we say about the pieces that came together in the outfit.

One lovely morning she was in a dress that was part of the new duds, and I wanted another photo. Pa suggested she pose for me in the garden, near the bleeding hearts. So this is what she did.

This past weekend, Vi went to her daddy's grad school commencement in the afternoon and Rock the Barn, the preschool's big fund-raising party, in the evening. Two days before, I asked what she was going to wear and she answered, appropriately, "I want to wear something beautiful." Grandma Anita provided the perfect answer, making Vi this new princess dress as an early birthday gift.

It seems to me that we who worked so hard to expand the range of choices and opportunities for women can take pride in the fact that new generations are exercising those choices with ease. And style.

I wish we'd had Legos when I was growing up!

2012-05-12T22:59:00.002-05:00

Augie earned his new Lego fire chief's car this week, by completing more columns of shapes. He never loses his enthusiasm for adding new vehicles to the fire-fight.

Imaginative fire-fighting units respond to the alarm!

He is now better equipped than many small cities:
* a fire station with two garages and a tower (with tiny sleeping quarters, a lounge, and a command center)
* a ladder unit and a rescue vehicle that came with the fire station
* four specialized vehicles including an off-road one especially for forest fires
* 7 tiny firefighters, each equipped with a different combination of facial features and equipment
* great hopes for a helicopter, airplane, and gigantic fire-fighting boat

Ready to don their helmets

Augie has named each of his firefighters and assigned them roles based on their equipment. The first were Joey, Freddy, and Toby. Then came Extinguicell, Transessor, Transeco, Distinguicell, Transolo, and Chief Seressor.

Say what? The first time he said "Extinguicell," I thought, "He's looking at the guy's fire extinguisher, but in five minutes he won't remember the name he made up." I should know better. Augie doesn't forget. What's more, he treats all the names exactly the same. I like that. It makes me believe that when he meets kids named Abdi and Pang and Anousone he'll take their names in stride. (Actually, he and Vi already have classmates with what we used to consider unusual names, and they do take them in stride.)


In the command center

I've learned some things about Legos. If you like assembling things, you love them because they're so precise. But the play value doesn't end there. You can change them around, borrow from this piece and add to that one. You can supplement your "grownup" small-size Legos with the bigger Duplos you've been playing with since you were two. You can take apart your enormous Duplo zoo, perhaps leaving behind all the animals but reusing the building blocks and little people.

Best of all, you can create endless stories with everything you create. Theoretically, boys don't do this as much as girls do. But Augie spends hours setting up and narrating fire scenarios, directing the firefighters (and the occasional grandma) to this floor of the hotel to lead out all the cooks or another floor to lead out the guests ("And tell them not to spend time looking for pets or purses or stuff!"). We usher imaginary fire victims onto waiting buses and drive them to the hospital or a shelter. Augie likes to take the ones who are okay directly to the fire station so they can begin training to be firefighters.

Equipped and ready to roll

Legos can also help you learn negotiating skills, campaigning with your grandparents for fire-related sets, with your parents for Star Wars, and with whomever will listen for Alien Invaders. And you can learn life skills. Augie scans the package inserts to see what other sets are available. We've talked about how retailers promote toys and sometimes make them look better than they really are, and how we need to be aware of that.

One recent day, Peter remarked, "You sure do like Legos. But how come you keep wanting more?"

Replied Augie, "They advertised me up."

That may be, but we're the ones who keep buying. Not just because Augie asks, but because they are so amazingly fun for both him and us. Seriously. I have my eye on a ginormous R2-D2 that comes out this week. They didn't even have to advertise me up; I saw it on a friend's Facebook page.

(ViMae's experiences with Legos, including the new "Friends" series for girls, will get a separate post.)

Wishing on the stars

2012-05-05T15:49:00.001-05:00

I’ve told a lot of stories about Augie, many of them bragging/reporting on how smart he is. Not yet in kindergarten, he’s reading like a third-grader. He got in trouble last week for reading a chapter book in bed for two hours past his bedtime.

So it was puzzling when he could not or would not write his name, or anything else. He played connect-the-dots with his finger on the iPad screen, but it seemed almost painful for him to grasp a pencil or a marker and control its movement. Turns out, it was.

Peter created a sheet of letters for him to trace, offering a Lego reward if he earned a series of stars for pages completed. Augie hated every minute of it. His preschool teacher told his parents that some kids really struggle with fine-motor skills and he may simply not be ready and able to use a writing instrument. We backed off the practice pages and said he could start again whenever he wanted to.

About a week later, he told Pa he never wanted to practice letters, but he wouldn’t mind writing numbers. Next day he had a new worksheet with five columns of inch-high numbers to trace. He could do one column a day, more if he liked, and he’d get a star for each page he completed. He and Peter bargained over how many stars it would take to earn a particular Lego firetruck: Peter started at 50 and Augie started at 1 and they ended up at 9. He did the work, and before long, he had a new unit for his fire brigade.

After that, we moved on to shapes. Stars, clovers, squares, circles with smiley faces, all good practice for grasping the pen and controlling those resistant writing muscles. Another fire vehicle, a new set of shapes, a new goal. Now he hurries to get his sheet and choose a marker, works quickly but with focused attention, and comes running for feedback on his work. He’s proud of how well he’s doing, and when he writes his name on the sheet (another requirement for a star) the letters show much more control. He’s only a few days away from the next goal, a Lego fire chief’s car.

Last night we were at a family-friendly restaurant celebrating Daddy’s new master’s degree. Augie took Peter and me to see the working fountain; he’s fascinated by plumbing, and a bit intrigued by the coins in the water. I pulled a couple of pennies from my purse and the kids each made a wish.

Augie returned to the table clearly triumphant. “I wished that instead of earning stars to get my new fire chief’s car, I’ll get it for making a wish!” I was laughing and thinking, “Augie, you get points for working all the angles.” Peter just said agreeably, “I bet you’ll get it in the next week or so.”

And he will. But not without earning the stars. This will be another teachable moment: Sometimes you get your wish not by receiving the thing you wished for, but by getting the opportunity to obtain it for yourself. Then it’s a double win.

Dragons without Dungeons

2012-04-28T18:01:00.000-05:00

I’d like to blame it all on Mary. She’s the wise and gracious blogger who signs herself “Grandmother” at Journeys into Elderhood. A couple of weeks ago she wrote here about a surprising discovery: Never a computer gamer, she now found herself spending hours on something called Dragonvale.

I took one look at her screenshots and I was hooked. Now I have screenshots of my own.

Mary was surprised that a computer game could absorb so much time and attention. I, on the other hand, am familiar with falling down a rabbit-hole, being bedazzled by eye candy and strategically placed sound effects, loving the challenge of solving new kinds of puzzles, and feeling driven to master them. Eventually I emerge and wonder where time has gone. I blame only myself. But I'm not really complaining. It's fun, and a person could have worse pastimes, right?

Poison dragon

Mary plays Dragonvale as a way to connect with her grandson, who lives halfway around the world. I decided to introduce it to Augie and Vi. They’re a little young for it, but they love zoos and they often play at being zookeepers and building habitats with their Legos. Dragonvale is an iPad version of a big dragon zoo, or theme park.

We agreed to make decisions together as we lay out habitats, populate them with different types of dragons, and add amenities for visitors. It didn't take long for the kids to get into the game. They love buying new features, deciding where to place a restaurant or a flower bed, deciding whether to upgrade our stone path to brick. Equally fun is curating the dragon collection, choosing which fanciful types to feature.

A player can purchase "eggs" for real money, but we aren't doing that. Instead, we use "breeding caves," choosing dragon types that seem likely to produce the hybrid we seek. The process often takes a day or two in real time. We are learning patience.

To offset the built-in waits, the game provides timely visual rewards--symbolic little starbursts for example, when we collect money or harvest the food we have learned to plant continuously. And we love the tiny princesses and wizards who hurry this way and that along our paths, not to mention the imaginative dragons.

Flower dragon

By agreement, I always do a few things to move the game forward when the kids aren't here. We don't open the iPad until 11 a.m., and they never push to see it earlier, but each morning Augie asks, "What's new, Grandma? Any new dragon babies, or eggs? Any complications?"

Wait until they find out on Monday that we just qualified for a third island, which will provide space for many new kinds of dragons. And that I bought the Colosseum so we can earn gems. And maybe, if all goes well, that I will have bred a Bloom Dragon before it becomes unavailable on Monday (it's seasonal and very hard to breed).

Plant dragon

None of this makes sense to you (except to Mary). But I'm writing about it because it has captured my imagination and soaked up my time, and that's why my last post was, um, a long time ago. Oh yes, and because the kids love it.

Augie decided Friday that when he's 8, he will have his own iPad and we'll each play our own game and then compare notes. Which, in fact, is exactly what Mary and her grandson are doing. Sounds like a plan.

Remembering the Millionaire

2012-04-03T18:57:00.001-05:00

Remember John Beresford Tipton? Michael Anthony? In the late 1950s, television's The Millionaire featured stories about ordinary folks who received a cashier's check for one million dollars. The check, issued by the wealthy Tipton, was delivered by his earnest assistant, Michael Anthony. Each recipient signed an agreement never to disclose the donor's identity except to his or her spouse.

Some of these stories had happy endings. The money helped people improve their lot, realize a dream, or get treatment for an illness. But what I remember is that most of their lives got worse. Turning up with sudden unexplained wealth made others suspicious, jealous, or even vengeful. As the Michael Anthony character explained each week, Tipton made a hobby of observing human behavior. I came to believe that he was more curious than generous, and that perhaps he expected the worst.

My mother always pointed out that money cannot buy happiness, and eventually I came to understand that happiness comes chiefly from one's way of looking at life. But I also know that sometimes a little money can make life easier, or more fun.

Peter and I play the lottery. Two actually. We buy a single ticket twice a week for the Power Ball and Mega Millions. When we started 20 years ago, we promised ourselves that ours would be a success story. We know what real happiness is. We make good decisions about money. We wouldn't let a jackpot ruin our lives. I still think that's true, despite whatever complications might come along. I doubt, for example, that he'd turn in the winning ticket and disappear with all the cash.

When we started out, I really just wanted to win the minimum jackpot, which was then $5 million before taxes, so I could retire early and we'd have some retirement security. Now the minimum Power Ball jackpot is $20 million, and besides, I'm already retired. This requires thinking a bit more creatively.

I used to say I'd buy an extra set of season tickets to the ballet--two seats for my friend Carol and me and the two in front of us to keep the view clear. Peter has simple wants: he'd have his sweatpants custom-tailored.

We figured we'd keep our comfortable little house, but joked that we'd buy out the next-door neighbors and use their (nearly identical) house for storage. And of course we'd hire some help...someone to clean, someone to help with yard and garden work, and a driver so we'd never again have to get into a stone-cold car. Peter doesn't like travel, but we did think we might keep a warm-weather condo somewhere, maybe New Orleans. Once Abby married and had children, we added new goals: we'd help Abby and Eric pay off their mortgage and set up college funds for the kids.

You can see a theme here. Basically, we've always thought in terms of keeping our lives just the same, but with a few new conveniences.

All the talk about last week's record $540 million Mega Millions jackpot got us thinking again. If we won, even the most conservative investment could provide a very nice living for the rest of our lives, and Abby's, and the grandkids.' With that much money, Abby suggested, she might want a new house with a big kitchen where she could do her cooking and baking in comfort. Peter and I could plan for a time when we might not be able to negotiate the stairs in this house, finding just the right (and slightly posh) one-story place.

Then, too, if we won big money we could support our favorite charities more dramatically. We've put nearly 25 years into saving, restoring, operating, and raising funds for the old State Fair Carousel, now known as Cafesjian's Carousel. We have a hundred volunteers every season, but we don't know how we'll replace our own commitment to the leadership of the organization (not at all a glamorous preoccupation, just a very demanding one with some intangible rewards). So if we won big we'd probably make it a priority to endow an executive director position.

I'd also give something to Macalester College, where I worked for 28 years. A room in the new fine arts facility, for example, or an endowed professorship. I admire anonymous donors, but in this case I wouldn't be one; I'd want my name--or Peter's and mine--memorialized on the campus where I worked for such a long time.

When we started playing the lottery, we chose a set of numbers based, like so many other folks, on our birth dates. For the power ball we chose a number associated with the carousel. Because we play the same numbers every week, we didn't dare NOT buy a ticket. We told friends, only half-joking, that if we didn't have a ticket and our numbers won, we'd have to kill ourselves. If we're every having to choose between lottery tickets and food or medicine, of course, all bets are off. Literally. But in the meantime it's fun to play, and fun to imagine.

The Water Waster One Thousand

2012-03-17T16:40:00.001-05:00

We are green people. Not green as in St. Patrick's Day, but as in reduce, reuse, recycle. We stopped using chemicals on the lawn years ago. We drive so few miles you wouldn't believe how little gas we use in a year. When we needed new toilets, we did careful research and happily bought the low-flow kind, a choice we've never regretted.

Not so with the "water-efficient" front-loading washing machine we bought two years ago.

Who designed these things? I suppose they meant well, but seriously, low-water-use front-loaders require multiple cycles to get clothes clean and soap-free, and longer dryer cycles to get things dry. Not very energy- or water-efficient. On top of that, the ultra-fast spin cycle presses wrinkles into the clothes--wrinkles that don't relax in the dryer.

Peter hated our machine the first time he used it. He told Abby that whenever her washer gave up the ghost, she could have our front-loader. When that happened, he said, he'd go out and by a "Water Waster One Thousand." Whatever it took to get the laundry done both quickly and well.

We got the call a week ago; her machine had died in the middle of a load. Within hours our machine was in her basement finishing up that load.

I went online to research water-efficient top-loaders. Consumer Reports gave several of them high ratings (as it had the front-loaders two years ago). But the consumer comments presented a very different picture. Average satisfaction was two stars out of five, and quite a few people were pretty heated in their criticisms.

They cited the same complaints we had: wrinkles, clothes not getting clean or rinsed thoroughly, extra cycles costing time, money, and resources.

On top of that, it seems that the new "green" top-loaders don't have agitators. Instead they use a new type of action that rolls the clothes every few minutes and bounces them hard against the bottom of the machine in minimal water. Users reported that their clothes and linens were developing holes and wearing out faster than ever before. Water levels are determined by the machine based on the weight of the load, and you can't override the setting.

When we went to two different appliance stores and told them what we wanted, they gave us the "well, some people just don't want to adjust to new things" line. Fortunately, our egos don't depend on the approval of sales people.

It took us no time at all to pick out a new top-loading washer from the back of the store--that's where they keep the ones with agitators and manual water-level settings. These tend to cost more, and in fact we bought one of the better models--all stainless steel, a great warranty, made right here in the Midwestern US of A.

Peter used it for the first time this afternoon. He just came up from the basement smiling. "I can watch the clothes swishing around in plenty of water, knowing they are getting clean," he said.

"I am a happy man."

Anxiety on the 9

2012-03-10T23:22:00.001-06:00

I hate birthdays with a '9' in them. That last number in the string marks the end of one decade of life. Maybe more significant, we end our membership in a group with whom we've identified for years, and find ourselves thrust into the next-older class.

Turning 19, I knew I would soon lose my identity as a "teenager." I didn't mind, though, because entering my 20s was exciting and full of promise.

Turning 29, on the other hand, was painful. I had loved being 20-something. I was single, working hard, feeling smart, expanding my horizons. I'd enjoyed living in Milwaukee, my college town, and I'd made friends and work contacts there. After taking a few months to travel in Europe I moved to St. Paul where I'd be three hours from my family instead of 10. St. Paul people were more reserved than those in Milwaukee; networks were harder to tap into, friendships slower to develop. As I turned 29 I found myself in a town full of great things to do, but I had few friends to enjoy them with. I was stuck in a job I hated, disappointed in a recent romance, and just not quite living up to the image I'd imagined for myself. Ready or not, time for youth and hipness was winding to a close. Looming ahead was time to grow up and be mature.

By the time I turned 30, I had a much better job and a very satisfying volunteer role in an organization of women in my field, which in turn brought many new friendships. I took myself a little more seriously, and I suppose I became more mature. At any rate I got used to the new reality of being in my 30s.

Sometime during that era, I watched a male colleague turn 39. He used his office blackboard to make lists of goals unfulfilled and talked nonstop about his dread of this birthday (something I had kept to myself, by the way). I expected even more drama when he turned 40, but there was almost none. That's when I realized that the 9s really are the ones to watch out for.

My birthdays have pretty much followed that pattern ever since. Anxiety on the 9, acceptance on the 0--with the possible exception of 60. I wasn't ready to be 60, so I was very quiet about my birthday that year. Now here I am at another 9, thinking I should have appreciated being only 60. It's not that I haven't fulfilled my goals. It's not even that 70 is impossibly old. It's just that I'm not used to the idea of me being 70. That's what the coming year is about...getting used to my new age-identity.

I was born at 2:10 a.m. on March 11. Ironically, this year March 11 is the day we go back on Daylight Savings Time. Theoretically at 2 a.m. everyone changes their clocks to 3 a.m., thus eliminating the hour I was born. I'm not worried, though.

I am entering the last year of being "in my 60s" and, in fact, I'm beginning my 70th year. As hard as that is to comprehend, I'm celebrating. For a week. Bring it on.

On becoming five

2012-03-03T14:07:00.001-06:00

I first met him five years ago, on February 26. He looked at me as if I were the only person in the room. In fact, he did that to everyone, and it made me love him even more.

Birthday Boy and Lego fire truck

His name is Augie, and he was my first grandchild, the one who taught me how to live in the moment, immersed in love. He's been coming to our house for daycare since he was three months old, and the desire to join him and "Pa" started my transition to part-time work, and finally to retirement.

As Augie turns five, he is smart, funny, loving, curious, imaginative, and passionate about wild animals, words, drumming, and Legos. He reads signs, books, newspaper headlines, ads, and birthday cards. Sometimes at preschool a parent comes in to read a birthday child's favorite story. Last Monday Augie's daddy was there, but it was Augie who read the story. Wednesday when his class made lemonade, Augie recited the lemons-and-sugar poem he'd created a couple of weeks ago. Having once made it up, he's got it in his memory, probably forever, along with song lyrics and facts about birds of Minnesota, dinosaurs of the Jurassic Age, and animals of the African savanna.

Not surprisingly, when a child is so curious, self-starting, and focused, he can also be strong-willed. His fifth birthday has been used as a teachable moment to work on "listening" when parents, grandparents, or teachers tell him to do something, and being more responsible (come when called, be more careful not to spill orange juice and cereal, use words instead of force to resolve conflicts with little sister). Each of the past few weeks, he's a little more mature than the week before, and a little more repentant when the temptation to, say, unroll all the toilet paper is too strong to resist.

Peter and I often talk about the need to help a child function smoothly in the world without breaking that child's spirit. Like their parents, we want to help our grandchildren play within the rules but be able to question assumptions, think creatively, stand up for themselves. Peter helped Augie's mom become a spectacular example of that. It's not an easy process, but it's so worthwhile.

One of the privileges of being five is that Augie's party included not just extended family but also several friends and their parents, and it was held at an indoor playground instead of at home. He was a gracious host, greeting each guest, leading people from the playground to the party room, asking whether people were ready for cake, and thanking each family for his gifts. It was interesting to watch him take charge, deciding to sit front-row-center "so nobody wonders where the Birthday Boy is," and momentarily attempting to assign seating (a challenge for any party-giver!).

As usual, Peter and I spread our birthday celebration over a week. Peter made Augie's favorite breakfast (scrambled eggs with cheese plus sausage and English muffins) both pre- and post-birthday. We stuck candles in blueberry muffins and sang Happy Birthday--Vi as a cow (moo-moo-moo-moo-moo-moo), Pa as a chickadee (chick-a-dee-dee-dee-dee), me as an English-speaking human. Augie and Vi both got new Lego sets, and we've spent many hours playing with them.

It's taken me a long time to finish this post, and not just because I was under the weather. I love this boy, and I cherish each day with him. Being five means that in the fall, he'll be off to full-day kindergarten instead of here. Last week he began talking about helping Grandma in the garden next fall. Pa reminded him that he'll be in school every day. For a moment, Augie lost his smile and reached for both our hands. I quickly promised that we will arrange times for him to come and help me in the garden. I suspect that by September he'll have new things on his mind, but for now, we both need to feel reassured that we'll continue to have golden time together.

I am sick and tired...

2012-02-25T16:04:00.000-06:00

...of being sick and tired. I'm in my second week of being at least a little sick, and my second consecutive Saturday of being really miserable. With apologies to my blog friends who have real, serious issues (cancer, head trauma from a fall, debilitating chronic conditions, or illness and loss in their families), I just have to rant a little.

In early February, the grandkids started getting sick. Augie had a sinus infection, Vi an ear infection and a nasty double-action stomach bug, and they took turns having double pink eye. These maladies usually began at night, maximizing loss of sleep for the kids and their parents.

Peter and I had it easier: we monitored symptoms, dispensed meds, dialed down the activities when appropriate, and made sure everyone washed their hands. Repeatedly. Apparently that wasn't enough.

About two weeks ago I got a sore throat, which over time did a great imitation of swollen glands, ear ache, even sinus pain. On Thursday I thought it had finally gone. Friday it was back with a vengeance.

Meanwhile, remember that double-action stomach bug? Yeah, that hit me last weekend in addition to the throat thing. Hooray, it only lasted 24 hours. Boo, it was followed by two days of fatigue. Double boo, it, or a variation, is back again today.

I have three very pleasant, positive stories I want to tell you in this space. I even accidentally posted an incomplete draft of one yesterday. But none of those stories is ready, and I can't manage to make it so. They'll have to wait a bit.

Don't feel sorry for me...I've done enough of that. I just needed to explain my absence, and maybe whine a little. I feel better already.

Poetic wisdom

2012-02-17T15:47:00.001-06:00

For Abby's birthday last week, I invited the kids to make cards. They were on it immediately. ViMae drew a picture of Dorothy in the tornado, while Augie decided to compose a poem. It went something like this:

I love my Mom, she's fun and great,
Nobody knows the things we can debate,
But soon I'll teach them,
And then we'll have no trouble on our date.

He sang it for us a couple of times, always pausing a few beats on the short line to keep his poem perfectly rhythmic. He was very proud of it, and for a time he ran around calling himself the world's most famous poet. I know that his mom loved his work.

Yesterday Peter and I took the kids out for lunch. Augie asked for the lemon slice that had come with Peter's fish. When he was younger, he'd eat a whole slice, peel and all. This time he just tasted it carefully and then asked for a sip of lemonade. Whereupon he declared brightly:

Lemons are sour,
Sugar is sweet.
Mix them together,
You've got a tasty treat.

I'm going to encourage him to keep rhyming, as he calls it. If he develops the habit now, it could serve him well as a means of expression, whether it's heartfelt poetry, song-writing, or simple verses just for fun.

A Valentine Wish For You

2012-02-13T15:14:00.000-06:00

Valentine's Day seems a perfect occasion to celebrate all the love in my life and to wish for family and friends - including blog friends -
whatever will make your heart happy. You already know what makes my heart most happy!

Hoarfrost

2012-02-09T23:38:00.000-06:00

Last Saturday we awoke to hoarfrost. I learned that it forms when the air is very moist or foggy and the temperature then drops below freezing. When the moisture in the air touches something - anything - it freezes in place.

The azalea buds, which form in the fall, have been growing, encouraged by our warm days. I hope the cold snap keeps them from opening prematurely.

The barberry shrubs are a favorite photo subject after it snows. It was more difficult to capture the frost, and I was using the newer camera, which I haven't yet mastered. Time to reread a few sections of the manual!

Even the wind chime had its share of hoarfrost. Was it just me, or did the tiny ice formations seemed especially dagger-like and ferocious this time?

The prodigious blogger Connie, aka Far Side of Fifty, had posted especially striking pictures of frost and fog in northern Minnesota just the day before I took these.

Here lies Mali. She was a good cat.

2012-02-04T14:14:00.001-06:00

Mali and Vi, 2/3/12

In an episode of The Berenstain Bears, a pet dies and the cubs make a sign for its grave. Augie and ViMae decided that when our aging cat died, they would make a similar sign for her.

Today is that day.

We got Mali in August 1994, the weekend we delivered Abby to college. We named her for her birthplace, a farm in Malcom, Iowa. Our other three cats were getting old and slow. Mali was feisty and fearless. She managed to get Macaroon to join in some of her games, and she learned that Lucy and Chatsy had no sense of humor. She was an awesome tree climber, back when we let her out, and she chased off neighbor cats twice her size. When we stopped letting her roam, she loved just sitting nearby while I worked in the garden.

For the last few years, Mali was our only cat, and she grew into the role nicely. She stayed under the bed when the children were babies, but in the last couple of years, as they became more like the adults she'd always known, she had made friends with them, too.

Mali in 2005

A year ago, Peter woke me early one morning to say she'd had a stroke and seemed to be on her way out. A couple of hours later she was back to normal, but she began to lose weight and to take on some nasty old-cat habits like ignoring the litter box.

Cats, when they are dying, will often try to get away to die alone. Instead, Mali followed us around all week, crawling into our arms at every opportunity. We knew her time had come, and we had been discussing it with the children.

This morning Peter found her dead. He cleaned her up a bit and uncovered the hole he and Augie had dug in the garden. The kids came over after swimming lessons for the "funeral."

Augie, ViMae, Mali 2/3/12

They didn't want to touch her, but they looked at her lifeless body for a long while and talked about what a good cat she'd been. Then we tucked her into an old pillow case and laid her in the hole. I thanked her for giving us such good memories. Vi got sad and went to her mom's arms. Augie was proud and very serious as he and Pa filled the hole with the dirt Pa had stored in the garage. Then Augie picked up the sign he'd made this morning and laid it atop the dirt. Augie hates practicing letters, but today he wrote his first two full sentences: "Here lies Mali. She was a good cat."

The sign in place, we all came inside and had juice and snacks. That, after all, is what you do at a funeral. We also made plans for getting a couple of kittens this coming summer, after we've replaced the upstairs carpet and gotten rid of as much old cat scent as possible.

As Augie pointed out, it's okay. We will have lots of fun with our new kittens.

A new kind of retirement program

2012-02-01T23:46:00.004-06:00

ViMae and Augie love zoos...the kind they visit and the kind they build with Legos. This afternoon she was telling us about some ways that zookeepers care for the animals.

Pa: Are you going to be a zookeeper?

Vi: No, ballerina.

Pa: Is Augie going to be a zookeeper?

Vi: No.

Pa: Who will take care of the zoo animals, then?

Vi: Just the ones who are already zookeepers.

Grandma: What will happen when all those people get too old to work?

Vi: They will go to work at different zoos where the animals are too old.

Eat dessert first...

2012-01-22T15:56:00.000-06:00

Life is uncertain; eat dessert first.

A week ago, I updated my Blogger profile to declare this my motto for 2012. I'd had something more serious in mind, but I couldn't quite settle on the wording. I realized there was some ambiguity in my goals, and I decided I was okay with that. Hence this flippant motto. Or is it?

I don't want a lot of goals right now. Caring for my grandkids - growing with them - is my top priority, as it is for my hubby. Our days of full-time daycare will end when the kids start school (Augie begins all-day kindergarten in fall 2012 and ViMae in 2013). With this limited window of opportunity, we intend to continue to throw ourselves into the task.

To us, that means responding to the kids - to their interests and passions, to their developmental phases, to their behaviors that call for praise or encouragement or, um, coaching. We take the initiative to expose them to lots of things, but we're always watching for what seems to capture the attention of one or both, and before you know it we're buying books or finding YouTube videos or researching field trips.

They liked the birds at the feeders, so we got bird books (and an iPad app) and learned a lot about birds ourselves. They enjoyed Lego Duplos, so we amassed the world's largest collection of zoo pieces. They love books; our living room overflows with them. Augie drummed on every surface in our house, testing the sound qualities; we got him a drum kit and then expanded it with "wooden blocks like Karen Carpenter's" and "a floor tom like Gene Krupa's" and "a ride cymbal like Levon Helm's." (YouTube really is a fabulous resource.) They like building forts out of cardboard in the living room, staging impromptu marching-band performances through the house, and dancing in front of the mirror, and they insist that we participate.

So here's the thing. My goal is to contribute everything I can to their happiness and development. That means being playful, curious, flexible, loving, and healthy. I was going to make it my stated goal to exercise more in order to build up my stamina to keep up with the kids. But that felt pedestrian and uninspiring.

I've had a lifetime of serious goals. Self-improvement goals, measurable work goals, always goals. For most of my life I felt obligated to do my work first, before I could play. I didn't always DO that, but the obligation weighed on me, so even when I did play, I often felt guilty. Over the past year, a full year of retirement, I've let go of that sense of obligation. I work hard while the kids are with us, and then I mostly do what I want. My motto for 2011 was "Follow your passion, feed your bliss." I threw myself into life with them and allowed myself the time to revel in it.

I've become newly aware that time is fleeting and we are not guaranteed either time or good health. "Life is uncertain."

So, even as I do what I can to preserve Peter's and my health and to build my strength and stamina, I'm going to "eat dessert first" - figuratively. I'm going to do those things that seem most important, or most rewarding, or most meaningful to others. Sometimes those things will be the most fun - like dessert. Sometimes they may not be quite so appealing, but I hope they will be memorable, and that as a whole they will make a wonderful and lasting course, following the entrees and sides dishes that have made up my life to date.

In other words, and I know I'm pushing the metaphor beyond all appropriate limits, this time in my life is the chocolate-souffle-apple-crisp-creme-brulee topping off years of chicken breasts and broccoli. Yum.

My iFamily had an iChristmas!

2012-01-11T17:02:00.000-06:00

iPad2, photographed using my iPhone

Yes, it's late to be posting about holiday gifts. But I've been busy. And distracted. Specifically, I've been setting up and playing with my new iPad2 and new iPhone. And setting up two older iPads for other family members who happily got them as hand-me-downs. As if that weren't enough, I've been installing and playing with my new versions of Photoshop (for photo editing) and Dreamweaver (for creating web pages).

It's exhausting, I tell you.

Okay, it's mostly fun. Yes, I'm the person who thought the iPad was a ridiculous idea, who was heard to say, "Who needs a lesser version of a laptop?"

That was before I knew about apps, and before I realized that an iPad can slip into my large purse, whereas my laptop needed its own case and about broke my shoulder. The iPad 2 is lighter and faster, and it has built-in cameras for Skyping or FaceTiming.


iPhone, taken using iPad

Which brings me to my new iPhone. Again, I never thought I'd want one, but now that I have it I love it. In the past, I didn't use my mobile phone much, and frankly I've barely learned how to make or accept a call because the rest of it is so much fun. I've loaded lots of apps, and I've tried out the camera, which is far superior to that in the iPad. I will love carrying this around, using some of the same apps I use on iPad and finding lots of new ways to use it, too.

iPod, taken using iPhone

I also have an iPod Touch, the first of the iDevices I acquired. Frankly, I used it as an mp3 player and never explored all the ways it could serve me using the internet. One reason: it didn't have a phone. If you have to carry a phone, you're perhaps not going to bother also carrying an iPod. Now that I can load applications to one, two, or all three of these gadgets, I might find that I use the iPod more as well. But mostly it has taken the place of our old 100-disc CD changer, which bit the dust sometime during the last year. Since Peter loaded all the music to electronic files, we don't need to replace the bulky changer. Ain't life grand?

One of these days I might talk about a few of my favorite applications. But before I do, let me ask: Do you have an iDevice or something similar? If so, what are your favorite apps?

--Nancy

Roosting under the tree

2012-01-02T15:33:00.000-06:00

A couple of days ago, the kids were looking at our Christmas tree, spotting ornaments that have become familiar to them and ornaments that bear their own faces from years past.

That got Augie looking deep into the tree, admiring the way he could see lights far inside. And that led to the four of us plus Mali the cat lying under the tree for a view from underneath. Augie kept saying, "Color and light." It looked like this:

When their dad arrived to pick them up from our play date, we looked like this (and then he got under there, too):

We had talked about the fact that we usually stand the tree in a snowbank in the back yard and let birds roost in it while they wait to use the feeders. So Augie decided we were roosting under the tree.

Augie wondered why we had so many lights..."numberless," he called them. Yes, he knew that "numberless" means "too many to count." But then Pa said he knew exactly how many there were. Eight strings of 50 each makes 400. So they agreed that only the ornaments were numberless.

We'll have our tree for another week. Then, if we get more snow or figure out another way to stand the tree in the yard, it will serve as a roosting place for a few months. And then it will be spring!

Dancing our way through Christmas

2011-12-27T17:11:00.000-06:00

Our grandkids love to dance. ViMae will tell you she wants to be a ballerina, and she can show you her best moves and her several tutus. She wanted to take classes, but around here you have to be four to enroll. So in the meantime, she twirls and spins and practices raising her leg to there. Augie joins in by grabbing her arm and swinging her around until one or both fall down. Then they laugh and do it again.

This fall Peter and I took them both to some free noontime presentations by the St. Paul City Ballet. The sessions graduated from barre exercises to snippets of a ballet-in-progress, and finally fully costumed excerpts from the company's holiday production. The Enchanted Toy Shop borrows some music from The Nutcracker; Augie recognized it as being from Disney's Fantasia. They love the Nutcracker Suite portion of Fantasia, and Augie can hear two notes of music and tell you exactly what it corresponds to--for example, the dancing mushrooms, the turnips, or his favorite, "the flowers that fall down over a waterfall."

We explained that the music was first written for a ballet, and the kids said they'd like to see it. Cue another great opportunity. A local dance school was presenting a 20-minute version of Act 2 of The Nutcracker at Rosedale Mall on Wednesday evenings before Christmas. We met the kids and their parents for dinner and then found the performance just as it began. The kids made a beeline for chairs up front and watched every step. This was no virtuoso performance, but it was up close and lively, and the kids thoroughly enjoyed it.

A few days later, we watched parts of two new DVDs--Act 2 of the Nutcracker followed by the corresponding segment of Fantasia. They loved both, and they danced around the den the whole time we were watching.

On Christmas morning at their house, The Nutcracker was playing as they opened gifts, and again they danced. Look at that picture of Augie, wearing his elf hat and red pajamas, dancing like the "action elf" he claims to be.

It will be some time before they are old enough to sit through a full-length performance, but a Christmas Nutcracker is definitely in their futures.

We wish you a...

2011-12-24T13:45:00.000-06:00

...Merry Christmas! And if Christmas isn't your holiday, have a wonderful weekend!

We'll be with the grandkids and their parents, seeing Christmas through the excitement of children. And that is the best gift we could ask for.

I began Christmas Eve day as I always do: listening to the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols from King's College in Cambridge, England. Every year it opens with the pure soprano voice of a young boy singing "Once in Royal David's City," and every year I get chills the instant I hear it. Somewhere deep inside me lives the girl who loved midnight Mass and whose greatest musical performance thrill was playing the organ for the parish men's choir for two years. (Remember, beating Bob Dylan in a talent contest wasn't especially significant until several years later when he became uber-famous.)

The Festival is broadcast around the world by American Public Media and the BBC; you can learn more about it on the APM web site and listen to it until December 31 on the BBC site.

May you, too, encounter something during this holiday that stirs fond memories and deep satisfaction within. And just for good measure, a couple of bonus pix:

Best Flash Mob Ever - Hallelujah Chorus

2011-12-17T17:01:00.001-06:00

I've never seen a flash mob in person. I didn't know much about them--mostly associated them with mischief. Well, this one is the opposite of mischief. It gives a whole new meaning to the concept of Shock and Awe. Enjoy.

(If the embedded version doesn't work for you, try this link.

P.S. According to Blogger, this is my 250th post.

Wedding promises

2011-12-10T15:07:00.001-06:00

A week ago today my youngest brother, David, married Monica, whom he'd been dating four years or so. About 40 close friends and family gathered at a friend's home on a Saturday afternoon for a ceremony that was intimate, loving, and intensely meaningful.

Their vows, and the officiant's charge to the bride and groom, were clearly based on mutually frank discussion. The officiant counseled patience, helpfulness, taking time for oneself, and other virtues. And to David she said, "Ask Monica for the help you need."

I'm sure every guest was listening from the perspective of their own partnership. For example, if David finds it hard to clarify his needs, he is clearly not alone among my siblings. When the subject comes up, our spouses and significant others have been known to roll their eyes, exchange knowing glances, and mutter about not being mind readers. It occurred to me that 26 years ago I had included in my own vows a line about asking for help, and it's still something I have to work on. Not that I don't seek help. Rather, I might assume that what I need is obvious, so when I finally ask for it I issue what sounds like a scolding, not a request. When I invite advice, I may reject it in a way that isn't very gracious. Sometimes I comment about something when I'm not even asking for help, but Peter thinks I am. Oh, the opportunities for misunderstanding are plentiful.

For Dave and Monica, questions of seeking and giving help have a special significance right now. In early November, he was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer. For this 55-year-old lifelong non-smoking distance runner, the news was both shocking and puzzling. He wasn't aware of any symptoms until late September, when he had some shortness of breath, which led to the discovery of a blood clot, which led to the discovery of the tumor in his lung.

Dave immediately went into action. He and Monica, who had been talking about marriage, decided to do it immediately so they can take this journey together. They are choosing to focus on all things positive, to take hope from stories of people who have beaten the predictions and the odds, to draw strength from positive thoughts and actions. He has begun chemotherapy in the hope of shrinking tumors in his lung and bones. If all goes well he'll have radiation later targeting the ones in his brain. Dave and Monica are exploring healthy diets and ways to sustain energy and handle stress, they are supporting one another, and they know they have a strong support system of friends and family.

The wedding was a happy occasion. As guests ate brie and wedding cake after the ceremony last Saturday, snow began to fall, gently at first and then more insistently, in huge wet flakes. A couple of dozen folks joined the wedding couple to continue the celebration at a neighborhood restaurant, the front windows of which framed a glowing, magical wintery scene.

David and Monica, may you give and receive all the help you need, and may the love and joy and magic of your wedding day sustain you forever.

The importance of blueberries

2011-11-30T23:30:00.000-06:00

Yesterday the children and I were reading, for the hundredth time, Little Cottontail. It's the story of a bunny who wants to be all grown up, but his mother says he must first learn many lessons. Among them: how to wash himself, how to find food winter and summer, and how to avoid being caught by a fox.

We have often talked about that fox. Ask what he would do if he catches Little Cottontail, and ViMae says, "Chomp." We talk about children learning to watch for cars, to be careful when climbing, to listen when grownups warn them that something is dangerous.

We also talk about balance in nature. If the fox gets Little Cottontail, that's good for the fox, bad for the rabbit. If the rabbit eats the farmer's lettuce and carrots, good for the rabbit and bad for the farmer. ViMae once picked up a forkful of omelet and declared, "Good for me, bad for the egg."

Yesterday when we read that Little Cottontail's mother taught him to raid the farmer's vegetables and fruits, I made a comment, something like, "The farmer won't like it if the rabbits eat all his lettuce. We won't like it either, because we get our vegetables and fruit from the farmer."

Augie suddenly buried his head against me and wailed something about rabbits eating his blueberries. I thought he was joking, but then I realized he was crying real tears. I finally got it out of him: "I don't want the bunnies to eat all my blueberries." And then he was sobbing again.

I explained that the bunnies would never eat all the blueberries. I said bunnies don't even like blueberries. I said farmers have fences and other things to protect their crops. This boy who cheers for the bunny hero in a dozen different stories would pause for a moment and then cry again. "What if the bunnies eat all my blueberries!"

Here's the thing I didn't tell him. Blueberries are out of season, and they are getting very, very expensive. I still buy them because this boy loves them so, and because I have loved them ever since I was a child picking quarts of them alongside my family in the woods around our cabin. More recently I learned that blueberries are high in antioxidants, and they've even been called "brain food." That's an investment I'm willing to make.

In the summer when they are plentiful, we eat them by the handful with every meal. As they get more expensive we share a few with our oatmeal in the morning. But in the coldest months, when blueberries get to be $5 for a few ounces, I usually don't buy them.

Until now, that is. I may cut back on something else, but I'm pretty sure I'm going to be buying blueberries on a regular basis.

Thankful Thursday

2011-11-24T11:18:00.001-06:00

Abby posted these on her private site. I'm re-gifting them. We'll be having dinner with these delightful children and other family in a few hours. Happy Thanksgiving!

P.S. I just realized that Miss Buckle, a photographer who lives in Norway and has a fabulous eye, has a weekly feature called Thankful Thursday. So I'm linking up with her today. Her images on this particular day are in-your-face portraits of classmates. She's also great with scenery and with sweet glimpses of her beautiful blonde sons.

More stuff I wish I didn't know: That beautiful warm sun is not my friend

2011-11-19T16:52:00.000-06:00

Don't get me wrong; I love the sun. A shining sun sustains my mood. A sun that stays behind the clouds saps my energy. In the winter, when it hangs so low in the sky that it can't warm anything, I suffer from Seasonal Affect Disorder, the initials of which are no coincidence. But that's a topic for another post.

Sun on my skin warns me and, I'm told, produces vitamin D.

It also produces skin cancer.

I've been lucky so far. Over the past 15 years, I've had six or eight basal-cell carcinomas (very slow-growing, do not spread to other areas), one squamous-cell carcinoma (faster, deeper, can spread to internal organs) and dozens of pre-cancerous bits that my sharp-eyed dermatologist has deftly removed. In most cases, treatment has been little more than an annoyance.

A month ago - just a few days after I fell - I went for my twice-yearly checkup. I pointed to a tiny new red spot just below my nose, which I thought resulted from my fall. It was next to some scar tissue from an earlier fall, which occasionally peels, I said. Hold it, he said.

Scar tissue doesn't peel. What I had was a little triangle, less than a centimeter in any direction, likely a basal cell carcinoma. It was in a dangerous spot (near the nose), I'd had it for years, and the new spot was an expansion of that. Without even waiting for a biopsy, he prescribed flourouracil, a chemotherapy cream that creates a nasty but efficient chemical peel of the cancerous tissue. It also irritates the heck out of regular tissue. I applied it daily for four weeks across half my upper lip, producing a painful, bright-red swath until a couple of days ago, when my treatment was up and I could begin to heal.

I was already feeling a bit old and vulnerable after falling, and this didn't help.

On the other hand, it may have saved me from something more serious. And it reminded me to wear sunscreen. Lots of it, even though I hate the feel and it blocks my pores.

And now I'm reminding you. Wear sunscreen, avoid getting burned, learn what to watch for. They tell you the ABCs of melanoma - assymetrical, brown or black, changing. It's good to know those, because melanoma kills. But especially if you have a light complexion, blue or green eyes, and a history of sunburns, you should know that non-melanoma skin cancers may be white or pink, are often pearly but can take many forms, sometimes show up where there was an injury or an insect bite. Wikipedia and other sites have good info, sometimes with fairly grisly photos. Don't let yourself show up there.

It's been snowing all day and the sun is nowhere in sight. When it returns, I will receive it with joy - and sunscreen. Yes, even in winter.