Tag Archives: grandchildren

Angel Chat: High Energy and Squishmallows

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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?

Skateboard Trauma Revisited

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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.

Twinning Toilets

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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

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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.

Another Exquisite Disaster

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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.”

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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.

The Velveteen Rabbit

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I read The Velveteen Rabbit to both Angels and I’m not sure they loved it as much as I did, but it did give us an opportunity to have a chat about my favorite part.

T ran to his bedroom to find his dad’s teddy which now belongs to the kids, so I think they understood the story’s valuable message.

“Like this, Grandma?” “Where Daddy’s puppy chewed on Teddy’s ear?”

“Exactly!” “Teddy’s been loved a lot, hasn’t he?”

T brought Teddy to Dad so he could give him an extra hug. “Hug him, Daddy. He misses you.”

I wish I had a photo of that precious moment, but it’s captured in my heart forever.

“You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby.
But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

Margery Williams Bianco – The Velveteen Rabbit, 1923.

Self Portrait

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The Angels love to look through the photos on my phone, especially all the ones I’ve taken of them, of course.

When we clicked on this rose, I told them it was a selfie of ME cos I’m Princess Rosebud. They thought that was funny but being their dad’s kids, they just HAD to disagree…

“Grandma, you are so annoying! You aren’t a REAL princess!”

“Yes, I am.” I replied. “And you are Princess Charlotte and Prince Theodore.”

“Dad, Grandma’s being annoying again!”

OMG did they just tattle about me to my original Angel Boy? That’s too funny.

From the other room, I hear him say, “Mom, stop being annoying.”

I guess that’s going to be my legacy…however, we’re all royalty around here, so I thought I’d share this little joke to start the week.

This particular rose smells as good as she looks. Spicy and sweet, just like me.

I think a backstory needed to explain the origin of being called “annoying”, thanks to my new friend, wonderfully talented author Debbie Russell. I should have explained it in more detail and to be fair to the Angels.

I first began to reference myself that way when I bothered them as they were busy doing things (just to be funny) like standing in front of the TV during a show they were watching and I’d say, “Aren’t I the most annoying Grandma?” and they’d say “Yes, you are! Stop it!” And I’d stop, of course. Also for example, when I’d read a book to them, a book I’d literally read a thousand times before, to make it more interesting for ME, I’d change the names or spice up the story a bit differently, mainly to see if they were paying attention (which they were) and then they’d say, “Read the exact words, Grandma!” which I thought was pretty cute. And then I’d say, “Do you find it annoying when I do that?” The answer was always yes.

The Angels weren’t being disrespectful. Grandma was!

Gift With Purchase

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How does a three year old know me so well?

Her mom purchased a bottle of perfume and it came with a fancy little cosmetic bag full of samples.

Apparently, as the story was told to me, Angel Girl told Mom she had to “save the bag for Grandma” ‘cos “she loves stuff like that.”

She was a thousand percent correct. I LOVE gifts with purchase because it’s like discovering a surprise treasure chest.

How did she know?

I mean, we share the Chanel connection and the ballerina connection, but gift with purchase?

How could this obviously intuitive child see so deeply inside of me?

That’s too much. My heart can’t take it. The joy.

Every single time I use that little bag, I’ll think about my Angel, and smile.

Yup. She gets me.

Left Behind

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I don’t know if it was Freud or someone else who said that there was an underlying subliminal reason why someone leaves things behind at your home, but in the case of my Angels, I love it when they do.

I find and gather up the artifacts to either mail or bring with me on my next visit. They’re like little treasures that attach themselves to memories of a special time.

Thank goodness I didn’t step barefoot on a fierce Ninjago Lego minifigure. I had found another one and mailed it along with random socks and a forgotten light up ball that had rolled under the sofa, but this little guy was exhumed when I changed the sheets and I recalled the morning Angel Boy crawled into bed with me at about 6am.

“Grandma, are you awake? Daddy said I could come down. He’s going surfing.”
“Look at my Legos.This is one of the Ninjagos, LOOK!” “He’s one of my favorites.” “Grandma, can you make me a Ninjago cake?” “You can do it, I know you can.”

“I don’t know, T. I can do a kitty or an owl or a bunny, but a Ninjago cake seems pretty difficult for me.”

“Did you wash my favorite (Ninjago) shirt for me?”

“It’s a bit early for me to handwash your favorite shirt, T. How about breakfast first?”

“Grandma, do you always do the same things every single time you wake up?”

“What’s that, T? What do I do?”

“You put on your glasses, take off your retainers, take a vitamin, and do your inhaler. And then you make coffee.”

“You know what, Angel? That’s exactly what I do, in exactly that order. You are incredibly observant to remember each and every detail. I do those same things every single day at your house and my house. Do you think about that?”

“Yes, I do. I’m hungry. Can I have some apple pie?”

The answer to that was yes. The children know me too well. I approve of apple pie for early breakfast. I wrapped a piece for dad to eat before his dawn patrol surf sesh, too.

Those Angels leave a trail of love behind, that’s the best part.