Out of the mouths of, well, not babes exactly, but out of the mouth of my Angel Boy second grader.
A long time ago, even before there was an Angel Girl, AB and I would hug when we first saw each other and then at various times throughout the day and before bed.
I always asked first, “can I have a hug?” or “would you like a hug” because of course it’s all about body autonomy and if he didn’t feel like being touched, it’s his right to say no. That’s a good lesson for all of us, right?
Then he started to say, “I need a Grandma hug” and my arms would open wide.
When Angel Girl came into the world, she would stretch out HER arms and say, “Hug” and who could ever say no to that? Definitely not me.
Now they both jump into my arms and just about knock me over. I tell them I have two arms so there’s plenty of love for both of them. Yes, there’s a bit of sibling rivalry because AB had me all to himself for almost four years and sharing his grandma has caused some angst. Actually, learning to share anything is an ongoing lesson for him…
Recently, Angel Boy has become a bit more thoughtful about what it means to be his grandma.
He told his sister, “With Grandma, the hug store is always open. Right, Grandma?”
I hugged them both and said, “That’s a really cool way to describe it and you’re one thousand percent correct. Best of all, it doesn’t cost a single penny. My hug store is always open, night or day, 365 days a year.”
After that beautiful moment, I told him we needed to write a story about The Hug Store, and that’s exactly what we’re doing.
There’s an endless ocean of love with these two angel kids. ❤️
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?
With August’s second full blue moon emerging in a few days and Mercury in retrograde until September 15, the Universe has essentially strapped us into a cosmic rollercoaster and I’m feeling it.
This is so ME.
I have a history of driving to meet someone, park, and simply sit in my car for a few tortuous minutes until I turn around and drive home.
I try to talk myself into staying, but the walk from my car to the destination can be paralyzing, so it’s easier on my brain and psyche to go home.
It’s an overwhelming feeling. I came. I saw. I had anxiety, so I left.
Yup. I need that mug. Also the one that says “Not today, Satan.”
(Not sure where the photo came from, credit to the creator.)
“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.
Before I even begin my strange tale, I want to be sensitive to negative colloquialisms such as “‘Burying the hatchet’.
The use of this term trivializes the ancient peace-making ceremony in which two fighting nations symbolically buried or cached their weapons of war.
Offensive language like this is a result of centuries of violence and continues to perpetuate stereotypes that have real-life impacts on Native communities.
Indigenous Peoples and their cultural traditions are real and deserve respect. They are not historical artifacts, caricatures, or mascots. (radicalcopyeditor.com)
But I don’t know how else to describe what I just found in my garden…an actual buried hatchet.
Look at it!
It’s a joke from the Universe, right?
I have no idea how long it’s been there or how it became buried near a path that leads to some steps to the second level.
I can’t even figure out how, after all this time, it became UNburied enough for me to notice that bright blue handle.
So with deepest respect, I brushed away the dirt around the buried hatchet.
I’m not sure what to do next. Dig it up? Leave it there? Anyone care to hazard a guess about what it means?
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.
The word of the day is lalochezia. It’s a noun formed from the Greek lalia (speech) and chezo (to relieve oneself).
Maybe that’s where the term “potty mouth” came from??
I have been known to unleash a hearty string of f-bombs and other expletives. To be completely honest, it is, usually, quite satisfying.
Lalochezia: The use of foul or abusive language to relieve stress or ease pain, emotional release through swearing.
Lalochezia describes that moment when you’re so stressed out and angry that you start spurting out the foulest language possible to relieve stress and pain.
Yup, been there, done that…
I’m sure that a few deep restorative yoga breaths — some vital prana — is probably way more soul healing, but in some cases the venting of specific profanity MIGHT be nearly as invigorating.
I guess I have a ways to go before I enter the transcendent state of nirvana, or as my dad would say, “that’s not very ladylike, Rosebud, and I’m sure you can think of more appropriate language.”
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.
Enchanted Seashells | Princess Rosebud 