Tag Archives: Family

Surfing and Cartwheeling

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Do you remember your firsts?

I do. I remember my first ballet class, my first pair of pointe shoes, my first ski trip along with my best ride down Stump Alley at Mammoth, and even my first bra, lolz

Not having grown up on the west coast, I didn’t have a connection to the ocean until high school.

I recall my first time on a surfboard…it did NOT go well, and I almost broke my nose. This was not the sport for me. Decades later, I gave it another try. Once again, it didn’t go well. I ended up rolling and rolling under some giant NOT BEGINNER waves, and the next day I was covered in the ugliest bruises. That was IT for me.

Angel Girl takes gymnastics and was obsessed with cartwheels. Tenacious girl that she is, she tried and practiced and kept at it until the mechanics of a cartwheel finally clicked and she perfected it. “Watch me, Grandma!” “See, I can do it now!”

What an amazing sense of accomplishment and mastery of a difficult skill. “Great job, girl!”

Even though we live so close to the ocean, the original Angel Boy didn’t really like to surf, mainly because without his glasses, he can’t see a thing, and it was a scary endeavor unless he had a buddy with him. He’d boogie board a lot, but never really got into surfing until he started wearing contacts.

Now he has a quiver of boards here and at his house, too.

To encourage AB 2.0, he’s been taken along for (gentle) rides on a surfboard since he was about a year old.

This past weekend, it finally clicked for him, too. He stood up and surfed his first legit wave!

This is a bad photo because I took it from the video, but I can feel T’s sense of pride. It didn’t matter that it was a small wave: HE DID IT, and OMG, he’s a carbon copy of his dad.

Predictably, you couldn’t get him out of the water after that. He’s completely hooked, and now Dad has a lifelong surfing buddy. As an aside, is there anything cuter than a little grom in a wetsuit?

I hope they never forget these significant firsts, and since we have video of all of it, I can imagine they’ll show their own children these amazing accomplishments.

Grandma pride RULES!

Your Little Boy

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“Do you know what YOUR LITTLE BOY did?”

“Grandma, I need to tell you about YOUR LITTLE BOY!”

It never fails to make me laugh when I hear both Angels refer to their dad that way.

It started a long time ago when I explained to them that not only was I their grandma, but that their dad was my little boy and he’ll ALWAYS be my little boy.

Ever since, and especially when they have some juicy gossip OR a complaint, he’s referred to as “your little boy”.

When he rode his skateboard sans helmet which is absolutely DUMB, Angel Boy 2.0 would call me and tattle on him. When he fell off his surfboard, I was told about it. When he ran through a red light, yup, I had a phone call.

“Grandma, you will not BELIEVE what your little boy did!”

They extract a great deal of enjoyment when I scold their dad about his small crimes and misdemeanors; I’m a constant source of entertainment: “DAD, GRANDMA WANTS TO TALK TO YOU ABOUT YOUR BEHAVIOR!”

Mom isn’t exempt either, but MY little boy bears the brunt of the scandalous chat.

This time was a bit different. AB is now in third grade and his sister will start kindergarten at the same school. Usually Dad walked him as it’s only a couple blocks away and Mom stayed with the baby, now not a baby. (This is a cool deja vu moment for both Dad and me, because HIS elementary school was also in walking distance, and it was a great time to chat and walk there every day.)

I got the phone call….“Do you know what your little boy is going to do when school starts?“

I literally had no idea.

“Because I like to get to school early – Grandma, you know I don’t like to be late — and you know how Dad and I race there every day and sometimes I win –and C can’t EVER wake up, YOUR LITTLE BOY is going to run me to school first, come home, and then bring C. Isn’t that funny?”

“Well, T, why don’t you just wait until your sister is ready and Dad will only have to make one trip?”

“OMG Grandma, you KNOW that won’t work! We have to leave at exactly the right time.”

The backstory is that Angel Boy 2.0 has always been an early riser like Dad (and me), but his sister could sleep all night and most of the day. Sometimes, we still check on her to make sure she’s breathing, but boyohboy can that girl SLEEP.

Her pre-school started at 9:15 and it was often a struggle to get her there on time. Kindergarten starts at 7:55 a.m. so she’s going to have to go to bed extra early to train for a new sleep schedule. There will no longer be an option to let her skip a day or two or come in a couple hours late.

The best part of this story is how much Angel Boy loves school. He can’t wait to get there and always wants to stay after to play with friends.

His dad loved to learn, too, and still does.

It’s markedly different than my experience, that’s for sure. I didn’t like school and couldn’t wait to get home. The only happy part of it for me was the night before when I chose whatever pretty dress I would wear the next day. There were always matching socks and ribbons for my hair.

Being a fashionista is a life long pursuit and I can’t wait to see what the kids wear for their first day.

MY LITTLE BOY had his own sense of style…

The original Angel Boy with Stella Rondo

Hearts and Sons

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My son is the classic dictionary definition of an absent minded professor (which he is). His beautiful brain has multiple trains of thought all speeding along at the same time, so sometimes, day-to-day mundane tasks fall by the wayside.

It was early morning and he had returned from a dawn patrol surf sesh. We were having a lively “discussion” about where to put his surfboard…”Mom, Mom, I’m going to leave it right here, don’t worry. I’m going to surf later, too.”

Whenever he says “don’t worry”, there’s an eighty to one hundred percent chance that it’s something I SHOULD worry about. I learned that after forty-three years of being his mom.

I told him I’d prefer it if he took the extra few minutes to put it away in the garage where it belongs.

This discussion took place as we’re standing in the driveway. It could have been today or a couple decades ago; some things never change!

We were at an impasse. Hands on my hips, I stubbornly stuck to my position that the surfboard needed to go back where it belongs or I would end up trying to lift up a longboard that’s twice my size. Something would break; either the board or me.

Finally, I said, “Look how much time you’re wasting. If you had simply put it up instead of trying to convince me to allow you to leave the surfboard in the way, you’d already be in the house eating your breakfast burrito!”

Well, that’s the kind of logic that works with him. He finally put his board away. Like I told him his entire life, he should take his arguing and debating skills and become a lawyer like his grandfather.

As we wrapped up a twenty minute negotiation, I looked down and found this perfectly formed heart leaf. I took a picture, picked it up, brought it in the house, and I’m looking for a suitable frame while my (annoying) child inhales his breakfast.

It’s all about love. It always has been, and always will be. That child IS my heart, whether he’s being annoying or not.

The Games People Play

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Joy was my primary emotion when Angel Boy 2.0 brought out the Scrabble board and wanted to learn how to play.

As soon as he grasped the basic concept, he became a fierce competitor. When his Dad wanted to create teams — my two Angel Boys– son and grandson — against ME, I knew I was doomed to never again win.

This is deja vu, history repeating itself in real time. I have never EVER won a game of Scrabble with my brilliant child. At this point I don’t even try because it’s futile.

This was only the second game we played. AB 2.0 was proud of MAX with no help from Dad, and because it was a double word score, he caught on really fast to the excitement of strategic placement.

When I play games, I do so for the joy of being together; when THEY play, their goal is to win.

We are not the same.

It’s a similar situation with Monopoly. I’m no fun to play with. This is a game where their Mom excels. I want to buy hotels and apartments to provide a home for the unsheltered, while everyone else tries to acquire money and real estate to build an empire.

We are not the same.

March 8 Isn’t Only About International Women’s Day…

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Wishing a very happy International Woman’s Day to all strong, intelligent, talented, and simply wonderful women of this world!

Today is International Women’s Day, but really, EVERY DAY should be a day to celebrate women, to encourage a world where difference is valued and celebrated with all the ways we can forge women’s equality. 

IWD began in New York City on March 8, 1857 when female textile workers marched in protest of unfair working conditions and unequal rights for women. It was one of the first organized strikes by working women, during which they called for a shorter work day and decent wages.

For me, even more important than a single day set aside to commemorate women, March 8 is the day to rejoice in the birth of Angel Boy 2.0 on his eighth solar return.

I don’t know how it happened, but that child I love with all my heart is eight years old today! How is that even possible?

I still think of him as he was learning to walk…

and now running as fast as he can.

He’s an awesome soccer player; obsessed with Minecraft, (no longer Ninjago or even Pokemon), so his presents reflected that: a giant Minecraft Lego set, Minecraft underwear, a Minecraft joke book, and as many Minecraft t-shirts as I could find, all wrapped up in a Minecraft bag with a musical Minecraft birthday card. He doesn’t have any Minecraft video games, I’m happy to report.

Happy eight years around the sun, AB 2.0!

How Do YOU Hygge? | Word of the Day

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Embrace your “hygge” (pronounced hoo-ga).

This word has been showing up everywhere so I needed to discover what’s it all about.

Hygge is a Danish word and concept that means creating a warm atmosphere and the enjoyment of simple pleasures..

The warm glow of candlelight is hygge; a mug of ginger tea is hygge; fresh sheets still warm out of the dryer is hygge.

It means creating a world of restorative self care and well-being, especially being outdoors in nature, to deeply feel the beauty of a sunset, not to merely look, but to see.

For me, spending time with the Angels is the ultimate hygge, especially if we’re at the beach or when we bake or read together, or when I’m lucky enough to spot a dolphin or a whale. Or a coyote.

It also means mindful appreciation of cozy socks when it’s cold.

Right now hygge is watching the torrential rain through the window; grateful for being indoors, warm and dry.

A Watershed Event

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Not too long ago, the Angel Kids’ parents went to a social function. They weren’t too happy about Mom and Dad leaving because they rarely do, but as soon as the door closed, everything was OK ‘cos Grandma was there.

The kids have a solid bedtime routine: bath, night snack, brush teeth, read, and sleep. After their baths and a bowl of yogurt and applesauce, teeth were brushed and we snuggled together for reading time, my favorite part.

We began with a book for Angel Girl about a ballerina who loves to wear sparkly tiaras. I was peppered with questions and comments, “You love to wear a tiara, don’t you, Grandma!” “I have a sparkly tiara, too.” After her book, she turned on her side, clutching her stuffed unicorn, ready to drift off to sleep.

When it was time to read to Angel Boy, Dad had kindly left me with a chapter book they were halfway through, and I planned to read to the lovely child who was curled up against me.

I wasn’t prepared for what came next…and I can genuinely say that it was one of the happiest moments of my entire life…

“Hey, Grandma, how about if I read to YOU this time instead of YOU reading to ME?”

That had NEVER happened before. He’s gifted in math, but reading was sometimes frustrating for him, totally unlike his dad, who was an early and brilliant reader. T tested at grade level in school, but it wasn’t with the joy that reading brings to our lives. I always told him that reading was the gateway to the world. In my opinion, reading is EVERYTHING.

So of course I said that would be the most wonderful idea EVER in the history of wonderful ideas.

He read four chapters of his book while I watched; eagle-eyed, to observe (scrutinize) his reading prowess as a second grader, and his ability to successfully sound out words that weren’t familiar. The best part was that he didn’t want to stop reading; he wanted to keep going, but he was so tired, he agreed to finish the book the next day.

I was absolutely blown away, not only by his skills, but the way he read with humor and expression.

“Did you like that, Grandma? I knew you would because you love reading so much.”

“T, I am so incredibly proud of you! C is too, and we both loved to hear you read. How did it make you feel to read to US?”

“Grandma, I was reading and the words were like, just in my head as I saw them, and I couldn’t believe it, they came out so fast!”

At that moment, I think I almost squeezed the very life out of him, and I was more than grateful to be able to experience his “lightbulb” moment where everything clicked into place.

“T, that is what’s called REAL READING! I told you it would happen soon, where words you see instantly translate from your eyes to your brain — and you totally GOT IT!”

“I wanted to make you happy, Grandma.”

And he did. That was an understatement!

T whispered, “I love you, Grandma.”

“I love you too, so, so much. See you in the morning for buckwheat pancakes!” I whispered back to him.

For me, this definitely qualifies as a memorable, momentous watershed event.

I feel like I’m the luckiest grandma in the whole world.

Treasures or Trash?

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“Grandmama, can I have this?”

We’ve all heard the proverb, “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.” and I’m proud to say my DNA of hoarding and obsession for shiny baubles is alive and well and thriving in this next generation.

When they find something around here that they want/need, these Angel Kids call me Grandmama. I love that extra syllable. I AM a mom and a grandma, so it works.

They like to inspect every room like a couple of CSI forensic detectives, searching for whatever might strike their fancy among my little treasures, along with an extraordinary ability to suss out anything new that’s been added since their last visit, like my penguin box.

I especially like that they ASK and don’t simply TAKE. It really makes all the difference.

“Grandmama, can I have this sparkly box?”
“Yes.”
“I want one too, can I have THIS one?”
“Yes.”
“Grandmama, can I have this Hello Kitty bracelet?”
“Yes.”
“Grandmama, can I have these pearls?”
“Yes.”
(We’re not talking about my real pearls, just a couple strands of fake ones and some pearls used in jewelry making.)

At some point in the day, they opened a closet and discovered my crafty area with shelves of boxes and drawers full of polished rocks and seashells and gems and beach glass and sparkly beads.

“Grandmama, can we have some?”
“Yes.”

Between the two of them, there was a wild feeding frenzy. They sat on the floor, their individual piles of loot growing and growing.

“OMG, LOOK AT THE GEMS!”
“Can I have the blue ones?”
“Can I have the green ones?”

“Look you guys, I’ll find containers for each of you and yes, you can take what you want. All I ask is that you work together and don’t argue about who takes what. Compromise and share. Do we have a deal?”

OK, Grandmama, we can do that. Even the big pearls?

“Yes, even those.”

“DAD, GRANDMAMA SAID WE CAN BRING ALL OF THE TREASURES HOME!”

As happy as that makes those Angel Kids, I wonder if they have any idea at all how happy it makes ME to be able to make THEM deliriously happy.

A total win-win. DNA RULES!

Brutal Honesty

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“Grandma, what’s THIS?”

Angel Girl asks the question as she squeezes the back of my upper arm.

“Is that FAT?”

“Why is your arm so FAT right there?”

“Hey, T, come see Grandma’s FAT!”

That’s a call to action no big brother could resist. Angel Boy runs in, takes a hunk of the back of my upper arm and confirms his sister’s diagnosis.

“That’s a lot of fat, Grandma!”

I hear the unmistakeable sound of the original Angel Boy snickering in the other room. I bet it’s all deja vu for him as he must recall torturing me the same way.

Out of the mouths of babes, right?

I’m shaking my head; the apple definitely doesn’t fall far from the tree, not with these guys.

“Oh jeez, it’s SKIN, girl. Everyone has SKIN.”

She lifts her own perfectly formed and toned upper arm to show me. “I don’t. My arm doesn’t look like that.”

Mom chimes in, “Wait until you’re older. Come here and help me with breakfast. Let Grandma finish dressing!”

Her brother lifts his wiry arm (built just like his dad)… “Not me either, Grandma. See MY arm?”

I query the other grownups, “Where did she learn all this fat shaming? Sheesh, I thought nowadays children learned to be inclusive and accepting of all of our differences. What’s up with this?”

While I’m speaking, Angel Girl is following me around, squeezing my arms and laughing hysterically. I can’t help it, now I’m laughing, too–because, at the end of the day, it’s just funny. She’s always been hyperfocused and hypercritical of my each and every detail –from my hair to my shoes, and this is no different.

“Jeez Louise, girl, goodness gracious sakes alive, you’re killing me.”

She’s not being rude, if that’s your conclusion–she would never intend to hurt my feelings – it’s simply a case of speaking her truth. I’m one thousand percent sure that she would naturally censor herself with her pre-K classmates, but I’m different, and it’s OK to practice life skills on me.

I’m her pet project, the Little Grandma, with apparently endless patience.

Both of the Angel Kids are fascinated by my diminutive size…

“My hands are almost as big as yours, Grandma!” (This is a continual hand-to-hand ritual measurement every time we see each other to gauge how much they’ve grown.)
“Look, I can wear your shoes now!”
“Can I have your Hello Kitty shirt, Grandma! It fits ME!”
“Why are you so small?”
“Stand still! I am LITERALLY almost as tall as you are!”
And that’s true. I’m five feet and that 7.5 year-old truly is nearly my size.

That’s the time I tell them that the best presents come in small packages, but since that’s not their life experience, they shake their heads and laugh.

Thanks to Angel Girl’s eagle eyes, I have to silently agree that I need to focus more work on my triceps.

Brutal honesty. BRUTAL. Brutally honest.

The Joy of Karma

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There is truly no greater joy than to have my sweet yet scarily precocious Angels in their car seats as we drive down to the beach, windows down, all of us belting out Karma by Taylor Swift.

They pay no attention to the fact that I can’t carry a tune; we’re nodding our heads and singing along with Apple music. “Play it again, Grandma!”

“Karma is my boyfriend.”

“I keep my side of the street clean. You wouldn’t know what I mean…”
(Picture us mimic sweeping with our hands.)

“Karma is a cat…Purring in my lap ’cause it loves me.”

“Me and karma are like THAT.”

“Karma takes all my friends to the summit.”

“Karma’s gonna track you down Step by step from town to town.”

Like Taylor changed the lyrics to her bf’s name, I also change the words in this line…

“Karma is the guy on the screen coming straight home to me.”

to

“Karma is my two favorite kids coming straight home to me.”

Time spent with these Angel Kids is a neverending tapestry of shared joyful memories, including singing with tone deaf Grandma.

“Play it again, Grandma!” And I did.