There are lots of reasons to have children.  There must be, considering how we humans have kept this trend going for as long as anyone can remember.  We seem determined to complicate our lives, despite the fact that this endeavor is expensive and exhausting.  

I mean, sure, there’s all the obvious reasons…they’re cute and sweet and they supposedly love us unconditionally.  But I’ve come to the recent conclusion that we derive ultimate pleasure from the fact that they look and act like us…in miniature.   And it’s a lark.  

With the influx of fresh new members of late, this hobby of spotting each other’s traits in the kids has become a favored family pastime of ours. An untold amount of text threads, photos and videos are devoted to chronicling and discussing who looks like who, acts like who, sounds like who.  Who has whose hair, who has whose eyes, who has whose attitude, intellect or grit.  I’ve started to understand what people mean when they say, “Grandchildren are a gift!”   I’ve gotten almost every member of my family boomeranged back to me in one form or another.  

Including myself. 

I certainly brought home the receipts after my recent President’s Day outing with my two oldest grandchildren.   The kids had the day off of school, but their parents had to work, so who better to entertain the little tykes than their perpetually unemployed grandmother? 

I picked them up, took them to as fancy a restaurant as is prudent to take small children, and then had the brilliant idea that we should jaunt on over to Build-a-Bear at the local mall and create a bear for their baby brother, who was getting tubes put in his ears the next day.  I announced my plan at lunch.  

“Have y’all ever heard of this place called Build-A-Bear where instead of merely BUYING a stuffed animal, children can actually MAKE a stuffed animal?  Like stuff it and everything?”

In hindsight, my timing was atrocious. Our waiter had just set our meal on the table.  Luke, 6, sensitive to the never-subtle nuances of his 4 year old sister’s every mood swing, started cramming his chicken tenders in his mouth at record speed, while simultaneously flagging down our waiter for a couple of to-go boxes.  Meanwhile, Anna’s eyes were rolling back in her head, she started flailing about in the booth and it seemed as though she might have a mini coronary right there on the spot.  

I had barely paid our check before Luke had managed to strap not only himself, but his sister into their car seats.  As we drove to the mall, I trained my rearview mirror on their faces and firmly admonished – we were only making ONE BEAR!  For the baby.  Because HE WAS THE ONLY ONE HAVING SURGERY!

They both nodded in cherubic complicity.  This seemed to make perfect sense to them.  These two are obsessed with their baby brother and were delighted by the prospect of customizing a bear for him.  And I was pretty tickled with myself for coming up with this selfless project…having fun together AND building character all in one afternoon.

Everything was going according to plan…

…All up until we walked into the dazzling magnificence that is the Build-A-Bear Industrial Complex.  If you’ve never been there, it’s a stuffed animal lover’s utopian  fantasy.   And, wouldn’t you know it, my Anna, is a stuffed animal lover.  We were surrounded by bins and bins of limp, furry creatures just waiting to be brought to life by a small child.  Think Taxidermy-For-Tots, only slightly more hygienic.   

Anna aggressively picked up a colorful drooping pelt and shouted loudly, capturing the attention of all the other patrons, “When I have MY surgery, I’m getting THIS one!”  

‘Oh no,’ I thought to myself, ‘She’s gonna march straight home to her parents and demand a hysterectomy or something!’

But I managed to distract her into selecting a bear for the baby.  I got everything back on track – a swell time was being had – all up until we got to the station where you record your little voice into a little message on a little chip that goes magically into the bear’s little paw.  

That’s when she lost it.  She flipped her *$&@#.   

Before I describe the anarchy that unfolded next, allow me a brief aside to describe the females in our family.  We are some of the most delightful gals you’d ever want to know.  We can breathe life into your parties, your galas, your weddings, your whatnot.  We’re the first on the dance floor and the last off.  We will dominate the dreary air space with a witty or intelligent take on any topic from breastfeeding to politics.  In short, we are more fun than a barrel of monkeys.  Unless we are triggered by some form of perceived injustice.  And, while that may take a lot, when we see ourselves spiral, we shoot off warning flares.  But if the warnings are missed…All the king’s horses and all the king’s men…if you know what I mean…

To be fair, Anna shot off a warning flair.  I just dismissed it.  

Cue the chaos:

“It’s not fair! I never get to have surgery!  Everyone in my family gets to have surgery ‘cept me!”

“Anna, sweetheart, that’s not true, NO ONE in your family has EVER had surgery before!”

One more quick mention about the girls in our family…when we decide to mount a case, we get our duckies all lined up in one big irrefutable row.  We certainly were at an inflection point.  And what a schmuck I was, kneeling down, thinking I’m going to match her energy by telling her who HAS and HASN’T had surgery in her very own family…

“Uh-huh,” she insisted, “Luke got to have HIS ears done!  Now Baby Caleb’s getting HIS ears done! And Mommy got all those babies taken out of her body and Bella…”

She trailed off when she got to their beloved dog, Bella, who actually did have a surgery about a year ago, but neither of us could recall what kind, but honestly, it didn’t matter at this point.  

“Aaaannnnddddd…”  said scanning my face intently…

I got nervous.  She had just accurately catalogued her older brother’s tube surgery that happened before she was even born, her mother’s pregnancies and miscarriages AND a pet surgery! This child was not playing around.  She had more family medical history than an EOB from Blue Cross/Blue Shield.   Call me paranoid, but I knew I had mere seconds before she shared my elective procedures with the entire Build-a-Bear community.  Hippa be damned.  

I thrust that rainbow bear at her, the one she had been eyeing earlier…

“How about this one?” I suggested.  “Do you want this one? Look how cute he is!  I think he loves you!”

An hour or so later, we walked out of that place with a greater population of bears than Yellowstone.  I was broke and exhausted after being bested by a smaller version of myself.   

Word to the wise:  Build-a-Bear is not the place to go to build character.  It’s a place to go to build bears. Just bears.  Many bears.  

Later that afternoon, when I dropped them off, I lingered for a bit chatting with their parents.  When I went to tell the kids goodbye, I noticed neither brother had possession of their bear.  All the bears were in Anna’s room in Anna’s custody.  They were lined up in her bed, where she was feeding them and fiercely scolding them – admonishing them to, “straighten up!” and “behave!”  Or else.   

I couldn’t wait to hop on our family group text and brag about how Anna has inherited my penchant for strictness with her charges.  She doesn’t put up with anything.

That’s what she got from me.

It’s getting harder and harder to ignore the fact that I’m being cheated on.  It’s scandalous.  And, yet, no one seems to care except the other ladies in my Book Group. 

Most of them are getting cheated on too.  We meet monthly to discuss various and sundry books, but we inevitably meander off-topic.  The last time we got together, we ended up lamenting this rampant infidelity that’s uprooting our otherwise happy lives.  

Almost every woman in the group could relate.  Admittedly there were a few who hadn’t experienced it YET, but they were warned by the rest of us…

 “Don’t be naive!”

“Just you wait!”

Adding insult to injury, we all agreed, is the fact that the little cheaters don’t even have the decency to try and hide their betrayal from us.  I mean Zero Discretion!

“Bye Grandma Laylay!” they chirp cheerfully as they hug and kiss me goodbye, “We’re off to Mumsie’s now!”

It’s really hard not to feel betrayed when they skulk off to the open arms of another woman while you stand around surveying your broken home that resembles a war zone in the aftermath of their departure. 

Mumsie is, “The Other Woman!” Or, as my 3 daughters pragmatically refer to her, “their children’s other grandmother.”  Of course, they’re not ALL named Mumsie.  There are 3 of them and they go by various other grandma monikers, but the principle is the same. 

 I am sharing my grandchildren with other women.  

Women who, I’ve been told, love and dote on them as much as I do.  That could be true, I suppose.  How would I know?  I’ve never been, “The Other Grandmother.”

This would all be fine and dandy if the competition weren’t so FIERCE.  We’ve all been mystified by the reality TV shows about  “Sister Wife” arrangements.  This is where a small group of women amicably share the same husband, children and chores.   It’s an intriguing plan, as marriage and family can be EXHAUSTING.  I don’t know many women who haven’t given at least passing consideration to the concept.  But we always quickly dismiss the idea when we remember how we could potentially be compared unfavorably to the other ladies in question. 

I’m not admitting I’m competitive, but I don’t love it when I come up short when compared to others…

Case in point:

My daughters and I were all sitting around the other evening enjoying a little wine-time together, when we happened to get on the subject of their mothers-in-law.  Three lovely ladies whom my daughters all adore and the feeling seems to be reciprocal.   

Eventually the conversation took a turn, when one of my daughters asked her sister about her MIL’s grand-parenting style .

“Well, she’s just a different kind’ve grandmother from Mom, which is wonderful, because my kids get to experience the best of both worlds!”

My ears pricked right up.  How is she different from me I wondered.  I didn’t have to wonder long…

“How is she different from Mom?” the other sister asked. 

“Well, she’s just the type of grandmother who gets down on the floor at their level and wrestles around playing with them.  She’s super high-energy!”

“What?” I protested, with what any casual observer would agree was quite a bit of energy.  “I’m ALWAYS on the floor playing with them!”

I can’t even remember which daughter pointed out that I was currently sitting on a white couch sipping my Cabernet from a long stemmed wine glass, while the grands had been instructed to play in the playroom.  I wanted to slither off the couch onto the floor that very moment, but I knew that would look all too obvious.   So, a few minutes later, I got up to pour myself some more wine; when I re-entered the room, I lowered myself gracefully down to the floor.

What???   I just wanted to be down there all approachable and Grandma-like in case one of the little darlings sauntered back into the room. 

She then went on to explain how the other grandmother makes Rice Krispy treats with the kids and how very taxing this is to do with children.   Girl, I get it.  I raised 5 kids, everything is taxing when it involves children.  And for sure, stirring melted marshmallows into cereal is no job for the weak and weary.  

I’ll gladly cede the entire Rice Krispy Treat World to my formidable competitors. But, also, unbeknownst to me, apparently I’ve relinquished the entire world of On-The-Floor-Fun-Grandma-Energy.  

So unfair.  

This is why it’s difficult to be a, “Sister Grandma” with another woman.  Sure, it’s nice to know there’s another woman out there helping to carry the full weight of your load.  These kids are a lot, so that part’s great.  All up until someone goes around inferring that you can not, nor will not melt marshmallows or roll around with reckless abandon on your living room floor.  

Oh well…

I knew from Day 1, as we were passing that little burrito bundle around in the hospital, this was inevitable.  These kids were born with a wandering eye.   They suck all the fun out of one Grandma and then move right on to the next one waiting around with arms wide open.  

But you can bet the next time those little Home Wreckers come tearing into my house shrieking at the top of their lungs, 

“Grandma Laylay, Grandma Laylay! We’re here!  We’re here! Where are you?”

I’m going to answer,

“Down here!  On the floor!”

No one’s ever going to accuse ME of not being childish.  I can easily get down to the level of a toddler.  

I woke up this morning in a cold sweat, completely panicked, as I had the most alarming realization…

There are just a few shopping days left before Christmas and I haven’t bought my grandchildren anything.  Nothing.  Nada.  Zilch.  Not so much as a measly little stocking stuffer.  

And I call myself a grandmother! (Actually, I don’t call myself a grandmother, but that’s another discussion.)

I have 5 grandchildren under the age of 6 who will descend upon my home early Christmas morning, their sweet cherubic little faces gazing expectantly towards my tree wondering which of the plethora of gifts strewn about are for them.  Never quite imagining the answer.  

None of them.  

And it’s not because I haven’t been shopping.  Indeed I have.  I’ve been in the physical stores AND online.  And I’ve been at it for months.  I’ve bought darling outfits for their mothers.  I’ve bought warm winter coats for their uncles and chic athleisure wear for their aunts – everything wrapped and tagged. And every time I shop I always include a little something for myself.  One must always remember to bless Mrs Claus. 

But nothing for the littlest among us.  The very people we purport the “magic of Christmas” to be, “all about!”   So, why ever not?

I think it’s because I know from past experience, the things I usually get them are not the things they really, really want…

In years past, I’ve purchased toys for the tots.  Lots of toys.   Which their mothers pragmatically insist they leave at my house to play with when they are here.  Consequently, my house AND their homes have more merch than our local Toys R Us.   Most of the loot is still in its original packaging in the closet in my spare bedroom.  

I don’t mean to imply my grands aren’t wildly active children getting into absolutely everything.  They are. 

One thing they can’t resist when they come over here is Band-Aids.  Yes, you read that correctly.   My grandkids are obsessed with Band-Aids.  The little hypochondriacs manufacture non-stop injuries, requiring me to pull out my arsenal of Band-Aids and administer aid to their tiny extremities.  And one adhesive strip is never enough. Every injury requires 4-5. It’s almost as if they have Munchausens-By-Proxy.   

Except, not by proxy.  Nothing is by proxy around here. Ever.

They are equally passionate about sprinkles. The kind that are supposed to land on top of baked goods, but rarely do. They land everywhere else in my house. I find them days later in rooms no one even entered? Every time the grands visit, some bizarre Pavlovian response is triggered, whereby they must concoct some type of occasion they deem bake-worthy.  This event must be celebrated by making something that requires the liberal use of sprinkles.  

Of course they never eat the baked goods.  That’s my job.  They are hyper-fixated on the sprinkles. And there’s just no describing this mess.   In a shameless effort to illicit sympathy from my friends, I’ve attempted to post pictures online, but I guess the photos just don’t quite capture the depth and scope of the situation, because people seem to miss the point, gushing over how adorable the little stinkers are instead of remarking on the appalling state of my kitchen and surrounding areas. 

The only other household item that works them into a lather rivaling that of Band-Aids and Sprinkles is a .99 cent neon pink spray bottle I bought at Walmart.   When they’re here I fill it with water so they can play “Cleaning!”  Since there’s only one, it sparks tearful, hair-pulling, screaming matches.  I don’t know what it is about spraying water, but kids love it with a fervor. They spray my windows, my fence and our dog.  This past summer they played, “Mobile Pet Wash” and after our dog was as clean as any mutt could possibly be, they took turns spraying innocent ants on the sidewalk for hours.  I considered intervening, PETA style, on the insects behalf, but, as I mentioned, hours of amusement…

I’ve decided my grandparenting ethos is more about “making memories” with the children than buying them crap they don’t play with.  I’m already shocked and saddened by how fast they are growing up.  Even faster than my first round of children, it seems.  

But still, I am going to need something tangible for them on Christmas morning or I might be making a memory I’m not eager to be associated with.  

So, I’m off to the Dollar Store to procure stocking stuffers. I’ll fill their stockings with a lit assortment of Band-Aids, Sprinkles and neon Spray Bottles.  I got a little choked up when I noticed that the common denominator of these items was that they all represented Love…okay, well, Love and hydro-aggression. 

Never matter – at least I know they’ll enjoy this stuff and we’ll be making some messy, misty memories we won’t soon forget. And, if anyone gets hurt, which they undoubtedly will, we got ‘em covered. And covered. And covered. And covered. 

Man, did our family ever get riled up this weekend.  

It was all going swimmingly until Saturday night.   In all fairness, that’s usually when most weekends go to hell-in-a-handbag.  

-3/5 of my kids were together in New York enjoying one another’s company and watching a football game.   Heart-warming pics were trickling in every few hours.

-1/5 were in Texas overseeing soccer games and kids’ birthday parties

-1/5 were in Oklahoma also overseeing soccer games and kids’ birthday parties.

In fact, as I kept up with everyone by text, I remarked to Paul-Paul around 1 pm that all three of the granddaughters were napping simultaneously across three states.  In more than one time zone.  The world was temporarily at peace.  Or at least my world.  

But, that was very short-lived.   Things shook up around 5 pm when one of my daughters went through her kindergartner’s backpack.   That’s when she found the document that she then proceeded to text to the fam, that then got everyone oh-so-very triggered as we bloviated, blustered and prevaricated well into the night.  

I mean…it was the white/gold, blue/black internet dress all over again.  We didn’t exactly break the World Wide Web, but we did carry on and on about it.  Hell, I even dragged our waiter into it. 

Apparently, in my grandson’s kindergarten class, in an effort to teach the children their letters, they were given a worksheet with instructions to color various objects that started with various letters, various colors.  For example an object that started with an “F” was to be colored brown and an object that started with an “L” was to be colored orange. 

One of the objects on the paper was a “feather” that looked for all the world (to any normal human) like a “leaf” so my little progeny colored it orange and his teacher circled it WITH A RED PEN!!!

Well…

You can’t even imagine the brouhaha that was set off for our family, that clearly had nothing better to do on a Saturday night than jump to the defense of our favorite kindergartener. We passed our phones around to one another and texted this picture cross-country to every human being we know, querying them as to whether it was a leaf or a feather.

And you think Gallup polls the public?

My very harried waiter at Lake Hefner Grill was pressed upon to spare a quick glance and say it looked like a feather to him, but quickly conceded he could see where an innocent 5 year old with a limited world-view might think it was a leaf.  

Clearly sensing his tip was on the line, which it absolutely was.

The entire debacle reminded me of when this child’s mother brought home her very first “C.”   She was in the 8th grade.  Up to this point, she’d never even made a “B.”   She just plummeted straight down to the C-suite.  It was in Phoenix, Arizona in her Art class.   Ceramics to be precise.  The class made ash trays.  And, apparently this Art teacher found my baby’s effort to be sub-par…  It was the FIRST and ONLY time I ever questioned a teacher about any of my children’s grades.  

But, seriously…8th grade ash trays? 

I HAD to say something.   I believe the legal defense I used in her case was something along the lines of, “Art is very personal to each individual and beauty is indeed in the eye of the beholder, is it not?”  Or some-such. Who can remember! I prevailed, but I swear, I never got involved in my kid’s grades ever again.  

But this?  I gotta admit…I’m torn.  My little grandbrat is brilliant.  When he was 2, he had a puzzle of the United States and could put it together in record time while lisping the name of every state.  Cutest thing ever!  

The following year, as the presidential election results came in, he used that very same little wooden puzzle to fill in the electoral college – keeping the family apprised, as each state’s results were reported. Okay, I’m exaggerating. No one in this country understands the electoral college. Not even my grandchildren.

I think I’m going to have to let this go for now.   But I do agree with what my friend Mike said last night at dinner…

“It’s obviously a leaf off of a feather tree,” he said, as he signed the credit card slip, tipping our waiter handsomely.

Full stop.  

Like art, everything in life is in the eye of the beholder.  We would all be happier if we remember that everyone sees the world just a little differently from one another.  And that’s a good thing.  

My world is once again at peace…

But, seriously…8th grade ash trays? 

Not too long ago, one of my daughters read something in a fairly current bestseller about how it was “actually a good thing when your children disappoint you.”  The author was making a larger macro parenting point; one I might have been able to respect and wrap my head around if say, I, were the one reading the book – If you know what I mean.  But there was just something about having one’s own offspring highlight that particular passage and send me a screenshot that struck me as…I don’t even know.  But, it struck me.  

I might add, this occurred before ANY of my children had ANY children of their own.  

As I pondered the myriad of implications resonating throughout this text, I remember thinking, “We’ll just see about that!” 

And now, we ARE seeing about it. Things are starting to get really fun. 

And by fun, I mean to suggest that my grandchildren are making my children “better people” in much the same way that my children made me a “better person.”  If you know what I mean. My grandchildren are rolling up their teeny-tiny little sleeves and finishing the good work that I started.  They are shaping and molding their parents’ character.  

How are they doing this?  By disappointing them, of course. Only mildly…in the smallest of ways.  The casual observer would never even notice. But still…it’s kinda fun to watch from the good seats.  

As most American Mothers do, I enrolled my daughters in dance lessons.  Alas,  several hundred thousand dollars later, only 1/3rd emerged as a professional dancer.  But, boy, could that girl move.  She was twerking in kindergarten before I even knew that was “a thing.”  She pranced her way through high school Pom, college Pom and right onto center court of the NBA.  So, naturally when she made her own little female human, we all wondered if the dancing talent was genetically transferable.

But we are a patient tribe. We waited insouciantly until an age we all deemed appropriate. The ripe old age of 3.   We arrived at that age using a rather complex algorithm: I don’t want to bog you down with how complicated the formula was, but basically it was when her tutu finally fit without slipping down her tiny little hips as she toddled.  Thats when her mother signed her up for ballet.  

And that’s when disappointment reared it’s ugly head.  If you know what I mean.

This little gal, this little genetic wonderment, this absolute replica, doppelgänger of her mother refused to even cross the threshold of the dance studio.  Oh, she certainly Looked the part, she just wouldn’t PLAY the part.  Her golden tresses all done-up in a severe topknot, her miniature leotard and tutu fluffed just so, pink slippers so elfin-sized I wept at the preciousness.  But y’all, she was just not havin it.

Quel dommage!

She didn’t seem to mind the ensemble – the plumage of it all – even though oreos (overalls) are her daily outfit of choice.  She just had no interest in joining the other similarly clad little girls in this ancient female right-of-passage we call dance class.  She expressed semi-peaceful resistance by letting her body go limp as a noodle on the floor.  Give her a bull horn and this gal could organize a protest movement about absolutely anything, anywhere.

But, what bewildered her young adoring mother the most was the fact that under most circumstances, bribery works wonders with this kid.  And, trust me, her mommy bribed her with everything imaginable.  She even called in “back-up” to come beseech (aka Daddy, for whom said child typically submits her utmost cooperativeness)…to no avail.  

After a couple of weeks a pattern emerged. This small Woman-Child donned her tutu every Tuesday afternoon at 3pm, rode with her mother to the dance studio, claimed she was, “too scared to go inside!” and then sat out in the hallway and chatted animatedly with all the Dance Moms about various Grown-Up Lady Topics, such as career challenges, parenting struggles and marital dynamics.  At one point my daughter confessed, “I’m not sure, but I swear I think she rolled her eyes and muttered under her breath, ‘She needs to leave him!’”

After each “Tutu Tuesday Report” Grandma and all the Aunties agreed she was definitely not, “too scared” to go into that stinking dance class.  There was something else going on.  Perhaps she was toying with her mother?  Just a little mild disappointment, nothing too earth shattering.  If you know what I mean. 

Mama Dancer asked, “Should I un-enroll her?  I’m wasting time and money!”  I countered with, “Not really, after all you’re gaining valuable insight into her personal viewpoints on career, marriage and family!”  

“Continue acting nonchalant about the dance aspect of Tuesday afternoons,” her experienced older sister advised.

And then, lo and behold, the magic happened.  Either curiosity got the best of her or the Real Housewives of Dance were having an off week, but she casually meandered into the actual class.   

The videos came rolling in as fast as I could tap on the viewing arrow. My joy was palpable. I’m reminded of a story one of my friends told me once about her grandfather attending her dance recital.  He was getting pretty old and probably going deaf.  But as she danced, she could hear him bellowing from the audience at the top of his lungs, 

“Well, Hell, Baby’s the best one up there!”

My girlfriend remembers being somewhat mortified, because to this day she swears she was a horrid dancer, but the story speaks to that absolutely insatiable pride and adoration of a grandparent.  

As each successive video came through…I was giddy over the genetic transfer of talent. Baby did not disappoint.  What an amazing dancer – I love how she flops around like a rag doll at the end…her signature move, reminiscent of her former days as a Community Protester.  She will probably be a dance enthusiast.  In one video, you can even hear her saying, “Mommy, I’m doing it!” as she executes a twirl. 

But, I have to admit I’ll miss those few weeks of watching her build her mother’s character.

If you know what I mean.  

There once was a girl, who had a little curl

Right in the middle of her forehead

And when she was good, she was very, very good…

But when she was bad, she was horrid…

That might be the only poetry I can actually quote by heart.  I remember it from a book of well-worn short stories my mother owned called, “Uncle Arthur’s Bedtime Stories.”   I believe these books were published in the early 1930s.  This poem was at the beginning of a story called, “The Two Carolines.”  It was a story about a little girl that was sweet as pie most of the time, but could turn into a little terror on occasion. 

My mom delighted when my sister and I pored over these antiquated children’s instructional volumes in the hopes that we were soaking up all the positive behavioral lessons replete within their covers.  But, I honestly believe the volumes might’ve informed my parenting style far more than my actual childhood behavior.  

The story of “The Two Carolines” debunked, at least for me, any notion that there was such a thing as a “difficult child” or an “easy child.” I believe this story convinced me, no matter how good one’s children are, they’re ALL difficult. 

To parent (or grandparent) effectively, one need merely employ some basic survival skills.  

I’m in Texas babysitting my 3 year old granddaughter while her parents are flouncing about Europe.  A concerned friend texted this morning to inquire how bedtime went last night.  I responded with my typical candor.

“There were some tears, but I did manage to pull it together eventually.”

The problem is that I’m not really a, “Night Person!”  I start to wind down around 6 or 7 pm, right around the hour this little gal seems to be revving up.  So, yeah, I guess you could say we tussled over a few details.  I postmated Chic Fil A, fetched Soy Milk and streamed Netflix Kids for her all afternoon and well into the evening.  So, by 8 pm, I was depleted.  Out of money, calories, apps and any shred of good humor.  When I agreed to read some bedtime books, I was thinking 2, maybe 3 at the most.  When she insisted on 5, I said, “No!” for the first time since I crossed the Red River…

 All Hell broke loose.  

As we entered a heated discussion highlighting our opposing viewpoints, I couldn’t help but notice it was MY voice that started to crack and MY eyes that brimmed with tears… I can’t believe at one point in my life I fancied I’d make a good attorney?  I can’t even “lord over” a toddler with conviction, resolve and authority.   

Her parents would not be pleased to hear that I’m this fragile at the helm.  But, then again, they probably know. After all, they’ve been checking in regularly and I’m pretty sure there’s a hidden camera in this house connected to an app on their phones.  But, I’d have to care to look. 

Yesterday morning her mother texted to ask how “getting her off to school” went.  It was 9 am!

I texted back,  “I thought you said I didn’t have to rush her off to school in the mornings if we wanted to just relax?”

“That’s fine!” she reassured me. “Take your time!”

 Truth is – I’m not really a “Morning Person!” either.  Moving Heaven-and-Earth at the crack of dawn to coax a reluctant 3 year old off to Montessori Pre-school is just not my thing.  They’re not going over vital information she needs to know for her ACT.  With that said, my daughter did remind me the school doesn’t accept drop-offs after noon.  

We skidded into the parking lot on two wheels at 11:59.

What I HAVE mostly been doing a lot of this week is focusing on the things I LIKE to do with kids.  We’ve been singing and dancing and playing.  We’ve also enjoyed traveling vicariously through her parents on Instagram.  Well, at least that WAS enjoyable until she decided that MY IPAD was OUR IPAD and just lost it with me for, “not sharing!”  

“You aspost to share with people you things Laylay fo nice!”

That’s tough to argue with. Especially when you consider the language barrier.  

The language barrier presents an interesting conundrum.  Before this week I would’ve bragged to anyone that I, “speak fluent 3 year old!”  I am after all a veteran mother of 5.   But, what I’m just now remembering is that all 3 year olds speak the same language, but with different regional/familial DIALECTS.   

So…it is the same language, but it’s actually not.  To remedy confusion on my part, she speaks LOUDER and SLOWER, the way my dad spoke to people in foreign countries.  Now I know how all those cab drivers and waiters felt.  It’s tremendously condescending.   Just because I don’t speak your mother-tongue doesn’t mean I’m “stupid” or “slow!”  Geez.  

But, she said something to me this morning I understood clear as day…so I’m not sure why I asked for clarification.  We were taking a bath together and she asked, 

Her:

“Can I pee in here?”

Me:

 “What???”

Her:

 “CAN…

I…

PEE…

IN…

HERE…?”

Me:  “No!”

 Although I was touched by her well-bred manners and uncustomary thoughtfulness in asking first, that’s the 2nd time I’ve been forced to use that word in 48 hours.  It doesn’t go over well. I get it, it’s just not Grandmotherly, but in this case I managed to stand firm.  

Well…psuedo-firm.  I bribed her to get out of the tub.  

“Let’s go to Starbucks and get you a cake pop on your way to school!”

Wow, does that ever work!  She popped right out of that tub.  I have no problem bribing children to achieve my desired outcome.  Besides, I wanted a latte and desperately wanted to drop her off at school for a few hours of respite.  

And, what’s so wrong with that?  Adults respond favorably to bribery too.  I bribe myself to do almost EVERYTHING I do these days.  I don’t get out of bed without the promise of coffee.  I bribe myself with dessert to get motivated to work out.  And…If I have to babysit my grandchildren, I promise myself a nice glass (or bottle) of Cabernet.  I see nothing wrong with this method of living.  My life is a non-stop bribefest of personal accomplishments.

So that’s how it’s gonna be for the next 5 days.  We will have all of our collective vices (Postmates, Netflix, Disney Channel, Montessori, Starbucks, Cabernet, Soy Milk, Chic Fil A and our co-owned IPad) on constant rotation.  As well as the newly downloaded  Babbel App – “Speak Toddlerese In 3 Short Weeks!”

It’s called Survival.

Because when we are good, we are very, very good, but when we are bad…well…we are horrid.  

(Posing at photo shoot with our Marketing Director – Vilona Michael)

To this day I’m not sure who wanted it more, you or me. But I’d be willing to bet $5,000 and a Rolex watch it was me.  All I know is that I wanted it bad.  Really, really bad.  

The Legend Award.  

It was the highest award your company gave out.  They awarded it every year at the annual Management Conference to the highest achiever in several categories and you were up for it in 1989. We were only 26.  If you won, you’d be the youngest recipient in the history of the company.  The prize was $5000 and an engraved Rolex watch.  The money would be life-changing for us, for sure, but it was the glory I was after.  I desperately sought that recognition of your hard work, talent and sacrifice.

And, trust me, I know how that sounds…I was the stereotypical 1980s wife…living vicariously through her husband’s success. But alas, that’s another article for another day.

I remember how I couldn’t even enjoy the day of the banquet.  I was beyond nervous.  Someone had chartered a boat.  Everyone was waterskiing – one of my favorite activities.   Never matter, I couldn’t ski anyway, as I was large with child.  It was August and our second daughter was due in September.  The day felt extraordinarily long and insufferable.   

Eventually, the moment arrived.  The CEO gave a speech about the winner, but didn’t say your name until the end.  It was suspenseful to say the least.  And I would go on to recite his words hundreds of times in the years that followed…Mostly to an enraptured audience of 5.  Our children.  It was the mom version of a Ted-talk.

“This man isn’t glitzy.  He doesn’t blind you with his flash and dash.  He’s all substance and honor, a man of his word…”

The minute I heard this description, I knew you’d won.  Who else could they be describing?  It had to be you!  

Later that evening, back in our hotel room, as you stashed the cash in the room’s safe and slid that amazing piece of hardware on your wrist, I recall you weren’t happy.  Not at all.  Which was weird.  I’d never seen you unhappy around so much money.  But to be fair, I’d never seen you around so much money.  When I inquired after your sullen mood, that in no way matched my euphoria, you indicated panic.  You told me there was pressure on you now.   Everyone would be expecting so much from a “Legend!”   

I was shocked by this revelation.  I couldn’t really wrap my head around it.  You were worried about delivering?   You always delivered!   That’s why you received this award in the first place! I remember trying to reason you out of your surliness, after all you were “harshing my vibe.”  I gave you one of my renowned pep talks, but you couldn’t shake it off that easily.

There was time for all of this later I reasoned. All anyone expected right now was for you to go downstairs to the lavish hotel bar and celebrate by letting them buy you a drink or three.

That seemed to do the trick, but you were a complicated man, that’s for sure.  

Nonetheless, you managed to work through your angst and went on to build a successful career off of that award and your status as a legend.  Your reputation preceded you everywhere we went until the day you died.   And, honestly, it still does.  Although, I suppose these days it’s called a legacy. 

Yesterday, the kids and I participated in a photoshoot at a restaurant your company opened and named after you.  It was fun and obviously an honor.  The email said there would be emphasis on our hands and wrists, as we would be photographed holding cocktails – so the guys should wear watches and the ladies bracelets and rings.   At the last minute, I grabbed your Rolex for Tommy, as today’s younger generation typically uses their cell phones as their preferred timepiece.  

I choked up as I fastened it on his wrist.   We both laughed a little at how big you must’ve been, because the watch was huge on him and he’s not a small guy in his own right.

About halfway through the shoot, Tommy took the watch off and gave it to me because it kept sliding off his wrist.  Unfortunately, I had nowhere to put it, so I set it on the seat beside me and then accidentally left it at the restaurant.  

Yes, what I’m trying to say is that I lost your stinkin’ Legend Rolex watch.  

This isn’t the first time it’s been lost.   But I’m very worried it might be the last time.  It went missing once in the 90s and we kept interrogating 3 year old James, “Do you have Daddy’s watch?” I’m not sure why we were so convinced he had it, but both of the little boys were enamored with your watch.  I think they associated it with you because you wore it every day.  Eventually James got all excited and ran across the room and pulled it out of the bottom of the toy box, holding it high up in the air, shouting enthusiastically,

“Yeah it is!”

Yeah…there it was!  Somewhere we never thought to look.  Yeah…it sure was.  

I was so relieved we found the watch that day.  But since I left it in a public place this time, I fear it may be gone forever.   I’m not sure which son I would’ve given it to anyway.   Still…I’m so very heartbroken over losing it.  One more little piece of you gone forever.   I have to keep reminding myself that watch wasn’t actually you.  It was really just a thing.  I still have everything you left on this earth that actually matters.   

One of your favorite things to say was, “Protect The Brand!” You said it constantly and I’m not really sure we all really knew what you meant back then, but I do believe we are starting to get it nowadays.

Your watch might be gone forever, but I do believe “The Brand” and your legacy are secure. It’s times like this I’m reminded to be grateful for the parts of you no one can ever take from us.

I’ve been told I overthink things.

And, that’s probably not too far off the mark.  I do tend to over-analyze some things. Okay, EVERYTHING.  But, I’ve given it a lot of thought and decided it’s probably a sign of intelligence.  I’ve got a lot riding on that conclusion.

This morning was the annual “Oklahoma City Marathon – A Run To Remember” and it proved extremely exhausting for me.  And probably for the runners too. 

I had a coveted front row seat at mile 18 – our driveway.  I did run the half marathon  years ago and, while it’s all a blur, I do recall being quite touched by all the people out on their lawns cheering on the runners, so I decided that would be my personal contribution to this year’s event.  

I set up my lawn chair, made myself a latte, grabbed a fur throw in case it was chilly and headed outside.  That’s when things got challenging.  

Nobody likes a “Woo-hoo Girl” or so I’ve been told by my kids, (they keep me current on the ever-changing slew of cultural do’s and don’ts) so as the first runner sprinted past, I wrestled internally with what to shout at him.  I admit I was stymied and caught a little off guard. I couldn’t find the right words, so I just clapped.  Vigorously.  

By the time the next runner approached, I had found my Inner Outside Voice:

“Lookin Good!”

“Keep it Up!”

“You’ve Got This!”

If a lady runner approached, I customized my encouragement with a smidgen of feminism:

“Go Sister!”

“Get it Girl!”

At one point, a couple ran by and I hollered, “You’re killin’ it Girl!” and then worried for a few minutes that her guy might’ve felt like I wasn’t there for him.  I mean, he too was “killin’ it,” I was just biased because she was a woman and probably had to make breakfast for their entire family before they left the house that morning.  Just sayin…But, I had to let it go, as another group was approaching and I was convinced they were in desperate need of my particular brand of positivity.  

I considered shouting, “You’re almost there!” but thought better of it, as they still had 8.2 miles left.  That’s more than I run these days and way more than the average human.  So, no.  

I also toyed with, “Think about everything you’ll get to eat today after the race!” But even I didn’t need my kids to tell me that sounded more than a little toxic.  So, I let that one go as well.  

As mentioned, I haven’t always sat in a lawn chair yelling at strangers on my street. 

I started running with my dad back in 1981 when his cardiologist told him he needed exercise.  He had suffered his first heart attack at age 33, right after he returned from Viet Nam.  I was petrified to lose him, so I became his running partner.  I would’ve done anything to keep him healthy and alive.  We ran 1.8 miles in a circle around our subdivision every morning before I went to school.  Believe it or not, that seemed like a marathon to me back then.  

My dad had another heart attack – the one that took him from us – 20 years later, in 2001.  By then, I was married and had 5 children.  It was horrific to lose my father, but it was somewhat bearable by then because I was so distracted by the large and chaotic life I had built for myself.  Still, the memory of all those morning runs was a comfort.

And I kept on running.

 I ran that half-marathon years ago in honor of my first running partner, who taught me resiliency in the face of all of life’s challenges.   Dad fully embraced that 1970s poster dictum, “KEEP ON TRUCKIN BABY!”  I’m sure on some level, my dad knew back then what I did not know.   Tests were coming my way.  In droves.  And I was going to have to plod on. 

So there I was, cradling my latte, witnessing this incredible feat of human endurance, remembering my Dad and our runs and how it all shaped me, while searching for the words to inspire people to plod on. 

…But, the last thing I wanted to do was aggravate the marathoners on mile 18.  I must confess, I’m always one click away from perturbed when I run even a mile or 2.  (I never have quite achieved that ever-elusive “runners high.”)  

What’s more, I kept thinking about how irritating I find it when people exhort, advise and beseech you to do something they’ve actually never done.   I was reminded how people would encourage me to “keep going” after Jimmy died.   Their well-intentioned words were somewhat akin to “Looking good!” “You got this!” “Go Girl – you’re killin’ it!”

True – I was hostile, depleted and exhausted, so I often felt like responding to the cheerleaders on the sidelines, “You don’t know….you’ve never been through this!”  Or even, “Why don’t you just shut up!”

So, in the end…I decided not to actually SAY anything to the runners.  I decided to merely clap.  I clapped until my palms were stinging.  But, every now and then, I did sprinkle in a “Woo!” followed by the ocasional “Hoo!”

Which I hope succinctly and adequately conveyed this message:

“You’re doing something I’ve never done!  Something I can’t even imagine doing and dread the very thought of and I admire the hell out of you!  Period!”

I channeled my inner “Woo-Hoo Girl,” deciding she was less condescending than the self-proclaimed Armchair Therapist and her equally boorish outdoor cousin, the Lawn Chair Therapist.  

But, who knows?  I’m probably overthinking it.

3 year old Anna told so many lies this weekend, we’re starting to become concerned she’s on her way to the Governor’s Mansion or the White House.  She, however, insists she’s headed to a convent, as she claims she plans to be a nun.  I’m pretty sure that’s yet another narrative she’s weaving for our entertainment.  I do think she could be a writer, though. Writers are the biggest liars out there, second only to politicians, of course. 

It started almost immediately, when we picked her up for a sleepover. The overnight stay was somewhat necessary because she wasn’t “getting along” with her nanny.  It seems, as the story goes, there was an altercation between her and the nanny.  When her mother tried to discuss the episode with her, Anna looked her mother straight in the eye and asked,

“Why would she even say that about me?”

Her mother gently responded, 

“Well why do you think she said that about you?

To which Anna unabashedly proclaimed,

“I have absolutely no idea!”

Exasperated, my daughter implored me to have the child over on Saturday night for a sleepover, so she and Daddy could have a much needed evening out, leaving the beleaguered nanny with two easy-going sweet little boys.  No problem, said I. And the entire world could relax knowing this little hellion was in the capable hands of Grandma Laylay, who (by the way) doesn’t lie like that stinkin traitor/nanny.  S’all good.  

We picked her up for the overnight.  She met us at the door with a princess suitcase large enough for a month in Europe.  We hugged the nanny goodbye, who MIGHT have rolled her eyes over the child’s head.   I rolled my eyes right back in mutual solidarity and hugged her and I MIGHT have whispered, “I love you” to a woman I barely know. Why, you ask?  Because I don’t want her to quit.  Why, you ask?  Because I’m first in line to be this woman’s replacement!  It’s no coincidence that Granny rhymes with Nanny. 

Our first stop was our favorite restaurant.  As we pulled in the parking lot I asked if she’d like a sprite to go with her Girl Cheese Sandwich. In an annoyed voice, she retorted,

“I don’t like Sprite!”

In an equally sarcastic voice most grandmothers don’t employ when speaking to their grandchildren I retorted right back, “ You don’t like liquified sugar poured over ice with tiny bubbles?”

I spotted that immediately for the lie that it clearly was.  Grandma Laylay can play this game with the best of them. 

Moments later when I ordered myself a glass of wine, I looked over at the tot and asked in absolute seriousness,

“Would you prefer something from the bar instead?

(Side note:  Try this next time you have the misfortune of taking a small child to dinner.  The look on the waitress’s face was everything.  She was probably trying to work out how to card a 3 year old. ‘Twas Priceless!)

Now, this child was a COVID baby.  She never saw the light of day, with the exception of her own backyard for 2/3 of her tiny little life.  Her first restaurant experience was very recent.  And I’ll wager her lame parents have never offered her anything from the bar. We went over all of her choices.  There was one.  We settled on it.  The classic Shirley Temple.  Obviously she does like Sprite.   Presentation is everything.  No judgement here…I’m not interested in anything that’s not properly garnished…houses, outfits, even grandchildren.

On the ride home, she happily chirped about how she “couldn’t wait to get to our house to sleep in her Elsa bed!” More eye rolling.  This time it was me and Paul-Paul.  Nonetheless, he optimistically set up the little cot we optimistically ordered on Amazon.  Tiny little liar climbed in that bed and stayed there for less than 2 minutes before she wedged herself in between us.  

When she arrived home the next morning, her mother asked her if she had a lovely time.  She admitted that she did, but she still had a complaint (oh really? Can’t wait to hear!)

“Dey didn’t talk to me…Dey only talked to deyselves”

Hmmmm…I barely acknowledge Paul’s existence when Anna’s over.  She’s just simply that demanding. She and I got in the hot tub in the morning and discussed her future career in the convent ad nauseam.   And she absolutely dominated the dinner table conversation the night before, so I’m not quite sure where she’s getting this, but this kid is certainly “living her truth!”  Perhaps it was when Paul opened the back door and asked if I needed a refill on my coffee.  I will admit he can be rude like that sometimes.  

But the most poignant lie she told this weekend was a bit of a whopper…

  When she stays over – a few minutes before her parents are due to pick her up, I dress her and scramble around hastily to pack her things. Then, as is our custom, while we wait, we walk around and look at framed pictures…

…Pictures of all the people who passed before she was born.  People who would have loved the absolute heck out of this scrappy little thing.  How much she’s like her mother, her aunts, me and my mother.  What a kick they would get out of her sassy little self. Lies and all.  I carry her around the house on my hip and I show her.  

We paused at a picture of Jimmy.  Papa Jim.  I said,

“That’s your Papa Jim.  It broke my heart when he died.”

And y’all…in the sweetest little voice you’ve ever heard (NOT the “I DONT LIKE LIQUIFIED SUGAR” voice, but a different one.) A voice so pure said,

“Awwwwwwww Grandma Laylay, it broke my heart so much when he died too!  It just broke my heart!”

So, yeah, this child can lie to me, she can even lie ABOUT me.  I’ll take it. ALL DAY, EVERY DAY. And for all the rest of my days.

Honestly, I started having second thoughts about the position of solidarity I took with that lyin’ nanny.

We have a little game we play repetitively with the toddlers in our family. At first, it comes across like a “Q&A Intelligence Test,” but it’s actually a bemused response to something the child originally said and we’ve become quite adept at getting them to repeat it, for our continued entertainment.

An example is an ongoing exchange with my almost 3 yo granddaughter.  It goes like this:

Me- “Who runs the show?”

Her- “Grandma Lay-lay runs the show!”

This silly patter reminds me of a moment one of my Besties recounted about an exchange she had with her 5 yo daughter years ago.  In a rare moment of rebellion, my friend’s daughter retorted, “You’re not the Boss of the world, you know!”   Trying to suppress her astonishment, my friend queried, 

“Well, who IS the Boss of The World?”

And her daughter responded,

“Miss Leslie!”

Well, there you have it!  I’m in charge. Out of the mouths of babes, etc etc. There was a general consensus among the neighborhood children.  I guess they watched me lording over the cul-de-sac just long enough to render this assessment.  I am unequivocally “Boss of the World!”

Only, I’m not…

What I am…or at least what I have been, is a Grief Mitigator. And all that really means is that I have experienced traumatic events in my life, over which I had zero agency, and am still here to talk about them. Grief Mitigation has similarities to what AA touts about Alcoholism – “Once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic.”  It could also be compared to being in remission from an incurable disease.  You still have the condition, you will always have the condition, you’re never entirely cured…you’ve just employed some extremely powerful work-arounds.  

I read an article about surviving trauma today.  It was great.  Really insightful.  The author talked about how the Survivor’s  life is divided between a strong line of demarcation.  The “before” and the “after.”  Oh, how I get that.  And, how very gratifying to be understood.  

It seems like everyone wants Grievers to eventually become “cured” or “fixed.”   I feel this a little bit when people tell me over and over how “strong” I am!  I’m never really sure what they’re basing that on.  After I lost my husband, I really only had two viable options.  To live or die.  I had to choose the former because I was a Mother.  (Failure is never an option for mothers.)  So, I chose to live… minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day…until eventually one day, recently, I noticed …5 years had gone by.  

Five years that feels like 5 days, but also 50 years.

The bottom line is that there’s not really a cure. People so desperately want to believe there is.  I think this is because, as people bear witness to YOUR grief and efforts at recovery, they need to bolster the belief that THEY too could survive their own worst fears.   Watching you navigate yours with a modicum of resilience, gives them hope for themselves and quells their fears to some degree. 

Not long after Jimmy died, people started enthusiastically reminding me about all the good things I still had in my life.  They offered me a smorgasbord of my own blessings as consolation prizes.  Like an obnoxious 1970’s game show host, they would suggest, “You didn’t win the brand new car or trip around the world, but you are going to take home this Amana Radar-Range!”

Gee, thanks.

For a long time, I bristled when strangers and friends threw my very own grandbabies at me, as though they could replace my Love.  This made me crazy.  So crazy, in fact, that I even went so far as to admonish several cheerleading friends to, “Call me when YOUR husband dies!”  I know, I know…that was shameful, but it felt like everyone was secretly relieved I “took a bullet” for the team. I’d won that awful lottery, so no one else had to play.

But, the thing is, they also weren’t wrong…about my blessings.  I just couldn’t receive the message yet, and certainly not from anyone who hadn’t experienced what I considered to be my advanced level of trauma…my National Merit Trauma.  

But survivors do manage to find the palliative care that mitigates their suffering.  They just do it on their own timetable.  And the lived experience of other survivors honestly CAN help.  I recall how I immersed myself in memoirs of Holocaust survivors, drawing strength from their experiences.  If they can do it, I can do it, I reasoned.  

So, it’s been 5 years since the ringing of a doorbell.  The quiet chime that drew a bold line right down the center of my existence.  The Before and The After.  But, on this side of the line I’ve welcomed 4 new grandchildren into my heart, found an absolutely amazing new Love, bought a new home, made new friends and reveled in lots of new experiences.  I willfully and intentionally embrace joy, whilst I carry my pain, somewhat contained, in a Fanny pack around my waist.   It’s always there, but it burdens and encumbers me less these days.  

I’m sure by now my friends’ kids (all fully-grown adults) have come to realize I don’t actually rule the world. If I did, things would’ve proceeded quite differently.  And yet, life is indeed both wondrous and wonderful.  

One of the coolest things is that there’s a whole new crop of little ones who think I run the show.  And, I’ll take it.  

“Cheers to Laylay! Boss of the world!”