Category Archives: Being a Mom and Grandma

Skateboard Trauma Revisited

Posted on by
Reply

Facetiming with the Angels…

“Grandma, Daddy was on his skateboard and didn’t wear his helmet AGAIN!”

“Yeah, Grandma, here’s Daddy, you need to have a talk with your little boy about that!”

(FYI, that’s how they refer to their dad…as MY little boy, It’s really cute.)

This is not the first time I’ve lectured him about this subject.

“Darn it J, you know better, why are you doing that? Stop laughing, it’s not at all funny. Your children tell me EVERYTHING, so WEAR YOUR HELMET! You are a ROLE MODEL! Do you want them to do it because Daddy does? Come ON, you are so smart, be smart with this too.”

“Grandma, did you throw out all of Daddy’s skateboards when he was little?“

And there it is, one of my Angel Boy’s worst traumas. How did they know about that?

Even Mom chimed in; “Yeah, what was that all about? You never throw anything away!”

It’s true. I don’t. I saved every report card and every paper he wrote and every single piece of art he created. Crazy me, I saved the shoes he wore all over Europe when he did his year abroad. I don’t dispose of anything!

Except for those darn skateboards!

To give a little background, this incident happened about fifteen years ago, maybe a bit longer. When he was in high school, he (and his friends) helped build a fairly large skate ramp in our backyard. All during high school and up to when he was in junior in college, it was well used and maintained. I supplied everyone with smoothies and cookies while I kept a watchful eye from the kitchen window.

After AB graduated from college, he went to graduate school on the east coast. His visited home less frequently and the ramp deteriorated from sun and rain.

It was requested of him that he help to remove it as it was now an eyesore and falling apart, that it was a rite of passage and he SHOULD help.

I can’t remember if he helped a lot or put in slightly more than zero effort which was what he usually did when he wasn’t too interested in a project.

His many skateboards were sitting around, also unused, gathering dust.

Here’s where things get a little fuzzy. I literally don’t throw ANYTHING away. I’m an admitted hoarder. I don’t recall the specifics of how and when these skateboards disappeared, but they definitely DID.

I spent the last fifteen years apologizing to my angel boy for throwing out his beloved skateboards, which I know memorialized a meaningful time in his life.

I’ve offered to buy him a new skateboard or several — to make up for my horrible parenting.

I never want to cause him pain, but it’s obvious that he’s still bothered by all of it.

So, this last time, most recently, when the conversation opened up, in front of everyone, I formally apologized AGAIN and asked how or what I could do to make amends.

I’m genuinely sorry that I tossed out (or gave away, I can’t remember) a happy piece of his childhood. It’s really so unlike me and I didn’t do it with malice or anger, but the fact remains that those boards are gone forever.

Anyway, he accepted my apology (again) and said he doesn’t want a new skateboard but I think I’m going to go to his favorite sk8 shop and get him one anyway, or get him a gift certificate so he can choose all the parts that he wants: deck, wheels, bushings, trucks…yes, I was the mom of a skater. It’s language I can speak.

Note to self: NEVER toss anything else out.

EVER.

Meine Wanderungen (My Wandering in Germany)

Posted on by
1

Before there were the Angels 2.0, there was the brilliant original version. As I’ve often said, I wasn’t a helicopter mom, I was a drone mom, hovering ever so near…

During his junior year at university, my son signed up for a three-month program in Germany to perfect his language skills.

We discussed it and agreed the better idea would be to take the full year abroad to completely immerse himself in the language and culture. (And that’s totally NOT what a drone mom would do, by the way…)

He stayed in a dorm and went to the UCSD program partner at University of Goettingen.

I visited him for about a week in February of that year. We spent a lot of time walking and and took a couple train rides to the Harz region, including Goslar, a historic town in Lower Saxony, Germany,  known for its medieval old town and half-timbered houses. We took the Harzer Schmalspurbahnen, Germany’s famous narrow-gauge steam railway. (That’s another story.)

I brought back some of what that area is known for, a bewitching elixer called Harzgeist. It’s similar to Jagermeister, but more herby and spicy and incredibly delicious. I wish I had some now!

One day, my son said it would be fun to take a hike to visit a nearby castle. He assured me that it was about four hours round-trip, and I believed him because we could see the castle off in the distance.

Somehow we ended up walking through what looked to be a dense forest of mature pine trees. Were we lost? I’m still not sure. When we finally found our way back to the road, I looked up and saw, off in the distance, a sky full of ominous looking clouds.

“Hey, those look like snow clouds to me. How far are we from the castle?”

I asked the question because we had been walking non stop for a couple hours and we seemed to be no closer to the castle then when we first started out.

“It’s not far, let’s keep going.”

“Are you sure?”

With a sense of unease and foreboding, I had no choice but to follow his lead. Not only did I not know where I was, I couldn’t speak German at all, and my son was fluent.

A few minutes later, I insisted we stop and eat the lunch I had packed. I spotted a bench and we sat down.

I looked up and said, “I told you so” as the first giant snowflakes came down. It didn’t take long before the wind picked up and the fluffy snowflakes turned from a gentle dusting to a full on, blinding blizzard.

In just a few minutes, we were covered in snow. The bench was covered in snow, inches of the white stuff. I refused to walk any further to this non-existent mirage of a castle, and we headed back to Goettingen. We could barely see the road and I hesitatingly trusted my son that he knew where we were going.

I took a picture of us so we’d never forget, and every once in a while I’ll remind him of the time he should have listened to me when I told him there was an approaching storm.

By the way, that castle (can’t remember the name) was actually more than TWENTY MILES away, and there’s no way in the world we could have day hiked there. Later, my son laughingly told me he biked there and it was awesome…uh, thanks a LOT, Angel Boy!

the little moments

Posted on by
3

I captured the final glimpse of the sunset with my son still out there surfing. Can life get any better? I think not. #grateful

And, one day
We shall look back and see
It was always those little moments
That mattered the most

(A little poem written by Athey Thompson)

Twinning Toilets

Posted on by
15

One more story to share…

When I was little and I’m sure it’s because my mom was a nurse, but I experienced a significantly higher level of attention to hygiene in our day to day life than some. Our joke was that I had as much Lysol in my veins as red blood cells.

For example, WAY before there were seat covers, whenever we happened to visit a public restroom, my mom taught me how to place three long pieces of toilet paper to cover the seat before I sat down.

She said it was a sanitary barrier against germs. Germs were our nemesis–we must protect ourselves!

Even today, when I’m in a public restroom, whether there are no seat covers or the container is empty, I’ll still channel my mom and use her method to save myself from touching a seat countless others have used. #EWWWW

A while back, Angel Girl and I were at my local park and she needed to use the restroom. There was an empty container where the seat covers should have been, so it was the perfect opportunity to pass on the knowledge from her namesake, exactly the way I was taught,

Later that day while I was making dinner, Angel Girl was in the bathroom and she pulled three long strips of toilet paper and covered the toilet seat before using.

When mom asked her what she was doing, she said “That’s what Grandma does.”

Like a duckling, that angel imprints on all my behaviors, haha.

I heard the chat and rushed in to explain to this brilliant brilliant little human that this method was something we only needed to do for public toilets, the ones that are used by lots of other people, and we didn’t need to do that when we were here at home or at their house.

I’m absolutely sure that the toilet seats in MY home are pristine and reasonably sure that the toilet seats in THEIR home were clean (fingers crossed.)

A little research blew my mind. There seems to be no real scientific or medical reason for covering toilet seats. It was once believed that you could catch a gastrointestinal bug or sexually transmitted disease from a public toilet, but research has proved otherwise; that it’s a practically pointless exercise in sanitation.

Another alternative would be to use an alcohol or bleach wipe, but I don’t always have them with me.

Does anyone else but me (and Angel Girl) still do this? Do you hover or cover?

‘Cos I don’t really care, I still think it’s gross to have any direct contact on a toilet seat where a thousand strangers have been, so I’ll continue to cover.

Almost Everything But a Washcloth Full of Holes

Posted on by
5

I’m known as the “fixer” because I have a certain amount of success in gluing together broken bits of china, repairing toys, and mending torn clothing…just call me the all around problem solver.

The original Angel Boy recently came to me with a few hand sewing tasks; a ripped seam in his windbreaker, tighten the upper arms of his gardening sleeves where the elastic stretched out so they won’t fall down, (which is super annoying), and sew or iron patches on AB2’s jeans, where he must slide on one knee A LOT,

After I completed my work under the watchful eye of my faithful sidekick, Angel Girl, she rummaged around in her room for something for me to repair (she doesn’t like to be left out of anything) and ran back with a dress that had short-ish butterfly sleeves that didn’t meet her high fashion standards.

“I don’t like this part, Grandma, so you can fix it.”

I took a look at it and figured it wouldn’t be a too difficult job to remove the flutter sleeves and resew the seams, which I did.

It made her very happy.

Later, while mom was giving her a bath, I could hear them chatting about her day. All of a sudden, she said, “I’ve got to give this to Grandma.”

She jumped out of the tub and came running into my room dripping wet, holding a raggedy torn and tattered washcloth full of holes.

“Here you go, Grandma, fix this.”

It must have been washed dozens of times and there really wasn’t any life left and sadly, that worn out fabric was far beyond my capabilities to magically repair, but I love the faith and confidence that angel has in me as the “fixer”, the one she can count on to make things right and restore everything back to the way they should be.

Yup, I’m a fixer, but not always.

Unicorn Wishes 🦄

Posted on by
2

I have all things unicorn on the brain since Angel Girl asked demanded I bake a unicorn cake for her birthday.

This came across my feed and it seemed so perfect for the full moon and multiple retrograde energies.

“Here, you can borrow my belief in you, until you can find yours again.”

I think it’s another way of talking about holding sacred space for someone, to be the constant, the starship, the lighthouse, the beacon of hope and unconditional love.

(And on that other subject, so far I’ve collected all things unicorn — dresses and socks, Squishmallows, a jewelry box, books, and a backpack, along with unicorn themed party plates and napkins –her every wish fulfilled.)

🦄

Photo found on Pinterest.

Matilija Poppy

Posted on by
Reply

My son has the greenest thumb EVER. I lovelove the Matilija poppy but have never been able to keep a single plant alive, and this beauty is more than six feet tall in its first year. He told me that everyone who walks by stops to take pics and a selfie in front of this incredible specimen.

This morning a fried egg appeared in the backyard,
a startling yellow ball floating
on a white round of wide petals.
Officially: Matilija Poppy.
It hovers,
this hint of perfection,
above mostly unadorned foliage. — Kari Wergeland’

Romneya coulteri: A shrubby perennial that grows to eight feet, found on dry slopes and sandy washes in coastal sage scrub and chaparral, generally away from the coast (mountain foothills and Santa Ana Mountains). 

Like many others in this family this species is a fire follower. While it’s on the California Native Plant Society List 4.2, a watch list for species with limited distribution in California, it’s thriving in Washington state.

I guess I’ll keep trying until I achieve success.

Word of the Day: Latibulate

Posted on by
Reply

Latibulate is a word we definitely need to bring back into daily circulation!

It’s the the action of hiding oneself in a corner: verb, 17th century English.

To be in our latibule (noun) means a cozy, safe place, special to you, hidden away from everyone, in an attempt to escape reality; also to lie dormant.

A place to meditate? A she-shed? A man cave? A blanket fort?

I always thought it’d be so cool to have one of those hidden rooms, to be accessed only by those who knew which secret panel to press in a bookcase.

Or if you’re mom to a toddler, it could even be the bathroom, where we can hide for a few minutes of privacy and silence. Maybe. Maybe not.

“Mom/Grandma, are you in there? Whatcha doing? Can I come in? The door won’t open!”

Angel Boy 2.0 no longer joins me in the bathroom. That was a tradition we agreed to stop when he was four and he kept his word. Now that he’s seven, he likes his own private time and we all respect that, too.

Angel Girl, not yet four, is more fluid in her boundaries. She’s in that in between stage; not quite a big girl but no longer a baby. Sometimes she likes company and a chat, sometimes she likes to brush her teeth with me, mirroring all of my actions. Yes, it’s as adorable as you could picture it.

Especially now, we all need a place to latibulate away from civilization, far away from the madding crowd.

“Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learned to stray;
Along the cool sequestered vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.”
– Thomas Gray

Another Exquisite Disaster

Posted on by
5

We had been playing house with her dolls and I styled their hair with braids or headbands and even a sparkly tiara, when Angel Girl said,

“Grandma, take your hair down.”

“Why?”

Those giant eyes scrutinized me with piercing discernment.

(This not-quite-four-year-old is actually quite judgy and has no problem letting me know if I’m wearing the right clothes or if my shoes are tied properly. Definitely some of my DNA, haha.)

“I don’t like it up in a scrunchie, I want to brush your hair.”

Uh oh, I thought to myself. I remember another little girl who used to love to brush my hair and it always turned out to be an exquisite disaster.

When hair is as curly as mine, it’s next to impossible to brush. The only time I can attempt it is when it’s freshly washed and I comb in product.

But will I say no? Not on your life.

“OK, I replied, “but PLEASE be as gentle as I am with your hair and T’s hair. You know it hurts to pull.”

Eye roll. “OK, Grandma. Sit down and turn around.”

Yes, ma’am! These are definitely two bossy boots angel kids.

For the next few minutes, while the angel stands behind me, all is silent as her brush unsuccessfully attempts to glide its way through my hair. She was intensely concentrating on arranging my hair into a semblance of “style.”

I feel her little hands twisting and pulling and puffing up certain areas. I’m afraid to look.

“What are you doing back there? Can I look?”

“Not yet. Grandma, hand me your scrunchie.”

“Here you go.”

Somehow the scrunchie is now imbedded in all of that twisting and spiraling and brushed out tangled up curly bird’s nest of her creative endeavors.

I know it’s going to be a long hard road to untangle the knots, but when she finally tells me she’s done and I can look, the pride (and love) in her eyes was totally worth every bit of it.

“Am I beautiful now?”

“Yes, you ARE beautiful now, Grandma.”

In her eyes, I am, and that’s all that matters.

Later, after the kids were tucked away in bed, I slathered conditioner on my hair, took my wide tooth comb and spent a good half hour or so untangling the knots, and fell asleep with a smile on my face.

These are the rare moments that weave a tapestry of joyful memories. However, I wouldn’t dare share a photo of my medusa-like hair catastrophe!

“I’m going to invite you to my birthday party.”

Posted on by
5

We’re drawing pictures at the dining room table. I’m not a very good artist and can really only draw butterflies and whales while my companion was creating something that could only be described as nothing I could identify (of course I’d never reveal that.)

She’s an extremely chatty and precociously verbal 3.5 year old, a nonstop talker from the moment she wakes up until the moment she closes her eyes, exactly like her big brother.

Honestly, they are both the most interesting people I know—of any age. I love to spend hours upon hours conversing with them about whatever is in their hearts and minds.

“Here you go. I drew this for you, Grandma!”

“Oh my, that is SO beautiful. Thank you!”

“Grandma, do you know what? I’m going to invite you to my birthday party.”

The way she said it was like a queen bestowing an honor upon one of her subjects. This upcoming birthday is the subject of many conversations. Turning four is a BIG deal.

“That’s awesome, Angel Girl! I accept your invitation. I will love to come to your party. Who else will you invite?”

“Some of my friends from preschool and my brother and that’s it.”

A couple minutes later…

“Can you make a unicorn cake, Grandma?”

“Hmmm, let me think. Yes, I believe I can, Are you sure that you’ll want a unicorn cake for your birthday?”

“Yes. I’m sure.”

“Well, you’re planning well in advance as your birthday isn’t for a few months. Do you think you might change your mind?”

“No, I won’t. I want a pink and purple unicorn cake.”

“You got it, a pink and purple unicorn, no problem. BUT if you change your mind, that’s OK, too.”

Why do I have a sneaking suspicion that my party invitation might somehow be connected to my ability to bake? Am I being cynical?

Upon reflection, if I could accomplish a decent job on her brother’s Pokemon Ball cake for his 7th birthday (and I did) I think I can attempt a unicorn cake for Angel Girl’s 4th year around the sun. It’s really just a horse shaped cake with an upside down ice cream cone in the center of its head, but don’t tell HER,

There’s nothing better than to be able to grant those kinds of wishes.