“You said you would and you always keep your promises, right, Grandma?”
“I know I did, and isn’t that exactly what I’m doing? Aren’t we on our way to the special Pokemon card store? Am I keeping my promise?”
He often says that to me, referencing my statements about keeping promises to him or his sister. Or to anyone, really.
“You promised!”
I think it’s important to be honest and if I promise to do something or take them somewhere, I’ll keep my word. If I’m not sure, I say, “I’ll try but I can’t promise.” That way, they’re prepared to accept a different outcome. I don’t want to let them down.
The key to my success is not to promise anything I can’t deliver. With the kids, it’s simple–promises to go to the park or a special store or bake whatever they request (kugel or cinnamon rolls) or play Candyland.
Why is keeping promises important?
Keeping a promise lays the foundation for trust and respect. Trust is vital. When our behavior is consistent, it allows others to build faith and trust in us. Nurturing this behavior in children early in life begins a pattern that leads to reliability and personal integrity. It’s all about responsibility, commitment, and accountability.
Have I ever broken a promise to the kids? So far, the answer is no. Because it means so much to me to be a person they can always trust, who will always be there for them no matter what. As they get older, hopefully I’ll never let them down. They can count on me.
It was a serious deja vu moment for us; me and Angel Boy 2.0 playing endless games of Candyland in the exact same location that MY mom used to play endless games of Candyland with the original Angel Boy.
They played so often — marathon sessions — that the first game pieces wore out and we had to buy a new one. I’m not sure what the actual appeal is of Candyland, as it’s such a simple concept with no reading involved, but it’s incredibly mindful it its simplicity. Maybe that’s the key to brilliance.
After a very early breakfast of fresh pineapple and buckwheat pancakes, we went downstairs to play on the table where we kept the board set up in anticipation of laughter and great conversation.
In the afternoon, we hung out at Dad’s former elementary school playground and looked in all the classrooms that he attended during his six years there. It was a surreal and very happy rush of memories for us, watching his own child on the very same monkey bars he used to climb.
Later, at the end of the day, freshly bathed and having eaten a night snack of applesauce and yogurt, it was back downstairs for the final game before bed.
These are the building blocks of joyful shared experiences that create a lifelong tapestry of love that spans generations.
This is the kind of legacy I’m grateful to be able to share with these precious Angel Kids.
I haven’t done this in a while; here’s a compilation of random high energy Angel chat…read all the way through to learn about Squishies.
“Grandma, watch me brush my hair! Grandma, watch me, no, right now! Looklooklook!”
“Grandma did you put the picture I drew for you on the refrigerator?”
“Mom, I totally freaked Grandma out!”
“Grandma Princess Rosebud, I totally freaked you out, right?”
OMG she really did (and yes, they really call me Grandma Princess Rosebud). We were at the park and seemingly for no reason at all, she took off running and was headed OUT of the playground gate faster than I have EVER seen a four-year-old run. What I didn’t know was that she had spotted Dad and was breaking all land speed records to jump in his arms.
“You almost gave me a heart attack.”
“T, remember how I totally freaked Grandma out?”
As a reminder, this is a verbally precocious four-year-old and she was absolutely astonished at my “freaked out” reaction.
All I know for certain is that I guard those kids’ lives with a fierce laser-focused intensity, and I had no idea why she was running OUT and away, as that had never happened before. The kids stay close to me and I have my eyes on both of them at at all times. Their safety is my number one priority.
“Grandma, how long do I have to hold your hand to cross the street?”
“Until you’re ten, ‘cos that’s when Daddy stopped holding my hand, but if I ever say it’s super important to hold my hand, please agree to do it because it’s my job to keep you both safe, right?”
“Oh, okay.” (Insert teenagerish eye roll.)
“Grandma, look at this Pokemon card. Is it real or fake?” How about this one? How come you always can pick out the fakes?” “I played chess with my friend.” “Why don’t you play chess Grandma?”
“Grandma, do you know what? You haven’t been very annoying for a few days.” “I just thought I’d tell you that.”
“Well, my little friend, thank you for sharing because now I will work extra hard to be annoying!”
“Grandma, did you send more puzzles? Really hard ones? How many pieces?” “T, I sent you two Pokemon puzzles, one with 100 pieces and a really hard one with 300 pieces. Do you think you can handle it?”
“Yes, I can handle it, Grandma!”
“DAD, GRANDMA SENT ME A POKEMON PUZZLE WITH 300 PIECES!”
“How about ME, Grandma?” “Your two puzzles each have 48 pieces, my smart little angel.” “But that’s not hard enough!” “When you’ve completed those a few times, we’ll see about moving up to the next level, OK?”
“Grandma, did you send us more Squishmallows?”
“Yes, I absolutely did. Don’t I always?”
Are you dialed in to the Squishmallow craze? You probably are if you’re a mom or grandma. It started a couple years ago when the kids received one of these very soft, very squishy stuffies and the addictive desire for more multiplied. It seems to have become a worldwide phenomenon. I admit I love them too and can’t stop collecting the new releases. If I had to count, I’ve probably bought the kids each about thirty-five, so that equals a grand total of SEVENTY Squishmallows. (Since they MUST have the same ones. I always buy TWO.)
I know, I know, I know it might seem excessive, but that’s what grandmas DO!
I just found these ADORABLE giant Halloween Squishmallows and yes, these will be presented soon…
Some stay here to be loved while others are held on the flight home. I send a new one pretty much every month which is the reason for the question.
They come in smaller sizes too, and brilliantly branched out into other merch — I’ve even gotten Angel Girl Squishmallow socks.
Pineapples, tigers, and dinosaurs, but I really love the enchanting unicorns, don’t you?
“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.
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.
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.
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.)
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!
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.
It’s a mantra of sorts. Do you know what I’m talking about?
Picture Angel Girl wearing my Hello Kitty apron on the other side of the kitchen table, mirroring my movements and my mantra, “push, fold, turn…“
I toss a handful of bench flour on the silicone mat so the dough won’t stick, and hand her a portion of the cinnamon roll dough to start kneading.
“Like this, watch me. With this part of your hand, push…fold…turn.”
“Like this, Grandma?”
“That’s perfect. Let’s say it together.”
We work and speak in harmony…”Push, fold, turn. Push, fold, turn.”
“You can tell it’s ready because it feels smooth. How does your dough feel?”
“Super smooth, Grandma!”
“Awesome! Now we’ll let our dough rise and finish creating our yummy cinnamon rolls.”
“I can’t wait!”
“Neither can I, but we have to follow all the steps to make your Great Grandma Charlotte’s recipe exactly like she taught me.”
After the dough doubled in sized, both the Angels helped to roll it out, sprinkle with sugar and cinnamon, and they allowed me to complete the process.
One more proofing (no one was patient) and the sweet bread was finally ready to bake.
Dad and Mom came home JUST as they came out of the oven and we all gorged ourselves on more cinnamon rolls than we probably should have.
In case you’re wondering, we don’t ice our cinnamon rolls. We like them just like this.
Dad complimented me, “These are really the best you ever made!”
Do you know what the secret ingredient was?
I do.
It was the sweet, loving assistance of two curly haired angel kids.
Enchanted Seashells | Princess Rosebud 