My deceased husband had a bunch of aunts and uncles on his mother’s side who were all native New Orleanians. As you might imagine, these folks were more fun than a barrel of monkeys. They put the verb in party and drank like it was an economic enterprise.

There’s a story our family loves to tell about the time Uncle Gene decided to get sober. No one was sure what precipitated this decision, but he stopped drinking cold turkey. And suddenly…Geno was no fun anymore. Nonetheless, he was in possession of a razor sharp wit, as evidenced by this verbal exchange with his inebriated wife, Aunt Joan.

“Gene, I liked you better when you were drinking!”

“Well Joanie, I liked you better when I was drinking, too!”

I woke up thinking about that quirky bit of family lore this morning. It brought a smile to my face alongside a mixture of comfort and clarity. I suppose it’s just human nature. We all like each other better during the fun times. Unfortunately, when the rubber meets the road and it’s time to get serious…

…we aren’t as enamored with each other.

I used to be a humor writer. It took a while for my writing to take off, but when it did, my family used to complain about being with me in public. Now granted, we live in a small town, but when we went to church or to a restaurant, people often approached us to say how much they enjoyed my latest article, who they shared it with, etc. My writing poked non-stop fun at concepts like marriage, parenting and our generation’s relationship with our aging parents… And it certainly seemed to resonate.

Those were really wonderful halcyon times for me. My mom was still alive, my husband was still alive, my children were growing up and becoming less needy and I was finally finding time to pursue my passion project. And, what’s more, my work was actually getting published.  But, more than anything else, what I really enjoyed was making people laugh.

One of the most poignant moments in my life happened unexpectedly at the funeral of a woman I once played tennis with. She was a beautiful wife and mother of 4 teenagers, struck down far too young by cancer. After the service, at the gathering on the steps of the church, her sister from Utah, whom I’d never met, approached me and asked if I was, “A Ginger Snapped?” She then proceeded to tell me that my friend would ask her to read my articles out loud  to her as she lay dying in her hospital bed, just so they could laugh together.

When I heard that, I knew I would never need to make a dime from my writing. I would just need to know that my writing mattered to someone. That would always be enough for me.

Not long after that, my mother and husband died a few months apart and my last child left for college. That’s when I lost my funny. There’s no other way to put it. It was almost as if I had undergone a surgery whereby the surgeon opens you up and removes your funny bone. A humorectomy.

And the difficulties didn’t end with the deaths and my empty nest. There was more than just that to navigate. Shortly after, my daughter was diagnosed with cancer, I was financially betrayed by people I thought I could trust and a few other life hurdles were thrown in for good measure.

This is all to explain why, when I picked my iPad back up, I was an entirely different woman. And, thus, a different writer. I see the world through a different lens now. It’s not a bitter lens. In fact, if anything, I might even be more grateful than I ever knew how to be before. What I’ve walked through teaches gratitude. Devastating loss teaches gratitude in the most unexpected way. While simultaneously imbuing a certain amount of empathy and fearlessness…

…which changes a writer’s voice.

Moving forward I’m hoping to meld my love of humor writing with my deeper and more profound understanding of of how grief and loss changes us.  I want to write about resiliency and reinvention, but hopefully with a humorous twist and some novel insight.

Laugh with me, grow with me, ponder with me.  Let’s figure some of this stuff out and be stronger and braver together.

I had to dash into the grocery store really quick yesterday.

I suppose the first thing to catch my eye about the young woman walking in just ahead of me on this unseasonably warm Fall afternoon was the flowy floral printed dress she was wearing. But, what really held my gaze was the little boy holding her hand. I was trying to guesstimate his age.  Maybe 7ish?

As we walked in, she grabbed a cart, but I didn’t.  There wasn’t much on my Empty Nester grocery list- milk, eggs, Coke Zero and wine – an armload at best. So, I didn’t really require a cart. These days we eat out, order in or make do. 

He was talking her ear off about his little-man day. She was listening. I was too. I was listening the way everyone within a mile of us listened to my boys once upon a time – by default…

And then I headed back to the refrigerator aisle, wondering when the last time my little boys held my hand in the grocery store. Like, seriously, when was the VERY LAST TIME?

That lady’s boy was a little on the older side, teetering on the brink, if you will… She might be nearing one of the last times he would hold her hand while walking in to the grocery store. I wondered if she was aware of that?  I bet not. Should I go tell her? I bet she was clueless. I think a small part of me (the exhausted part?) back in the day naively thought my children would always hold my hand as I we walked into the grocery store.

Endless little hands on endless grocery store runs for the endless gallons and gallons and gallons of milk we endlessly pursued…

I once read this gut-wrenching piece about how it’s good we don’t know the last time we do the things we do. The last time we nurse a baby, the last time we rock one, the last time we tie their shoe or read them a bedtime story or help with their homework. If you’ve never read it…don’t. Unless you actually want your gut wrenched.  

but…

On the brighter side of things, we truly never stop being mommies. I woke up with a startle at 3 am this morning and ran across the house with my heart racing to see if my boy made it home safely. The last thing I remember before I fell asleep last night was a text from him saying he was just leaving Dallas (9 pm) and could I leave a door unlocked (of course). I quietly tiptoed down the hall and ever-so-gently turned the doorknob of the spare bedroom so it wouldn’t creak and cracked it open a few inches – just enough so I could see in, but not enough that the light from the hall would wake him. 

And there he was. 

My baby boy. 

Almost bigger than the bed itself. I tskd-tskd a little about the state in which he was sleeping. He was lying diagonally with the sheets and blanket all tangled up in his limbs. I resisted an abnormally strong maternal urge to crawl in on all fours and make adjustments to his sleeping arrangement. I can assure you, had I done that, it would not have ended well, so I exercised remarkable restraint, backing out quietly and slithering back into my own bed (quite neat and orderly). And, believe it or not, I was actually able to fall back asleep secure in the knowledge that he was safe and sound.

He gets married in a few weeks. To the lovely girl I started praying for before she was even born. I prayed God would send someone who would love him as fiercely as I do. I prayed God would send someone who would rest in his strength, believe in his strength but also really see his tenderness and protect it. I prayed for a strong partner that would walk beside him in a world that’s not so very easy and that they would both never have their very worst day on the same day, so they can hold each other up. I prayed for someone who would laugh with him and share music with him and love their children with him. If they can have all of this, they’ll be happy.

And so will I.

And just one more thing I honestly didn’t think of back then…I’m hoping she will keep his sheets and blankets sorted out. I really don’t think that’s asking too much.

Like most people, I’m forever fantasizing about the myriad of things I might want to be when I grow up. The possibilities seemed endless; a mother, a writer, a lawyer, an actress, a marriage counselor, a political activist. I’ve even gotten to be some of them, but there is one thing I got to be that I NEVER wanted to be and that’s a grandmother. The thing is, when my children started having children, there seemed to be no way around it. 

It’s not as if I didn’t try. I started right out of the gates with how the babies and I would address one another. And since they couldn’t talk, I felt I had the upper hand. I soon remembered that no one has the upper hand with babies.

When my oldest daughter gave birth to my very first grandchild seven years ago, I introduced him as “My daughter’s baby,” or on occasion simply by his first name, “Luke,” and if anyone ever asked, “Who is Luke?” I circled right back to “My daughter’s baby.”

I just could not bring myself to say the word “grandchild.” It just didn’t tumble nicely off the tongue. Because that, by default, would make me “Grandma” and I just was not having it. At least for now.  

It’s not like grandparenting isn’t a popular concept in our culture. Quite the contrary. It’s actually met with rave reviews. If grandparenting was on Yelp, it would rate five stars. People are obsessed with the whole thing. When I first started telling friends my daughter was pregnant, they were ecstatic, hugging me and congratulating me as if I myself had conceived (post-menopausally!) 

One friend offered to throw me a “Grandma Shower.” Yes, those are a thing. And, no, as much as I love to be the center of attention, that was not happening. No amount of free cake and baby supplies was worth calling unnecessary attention to my circumstances. Imagine the social media hype.

It didn’t help matters that I was baffled by all the contradictory tropes.

“Grandchildren are the very best thing that will ever happen to you in your entire life!” (Seriously? The very best thing? In my entire life?)

“The wonderful thing about grandchildren is you get to give them back when you are done with them!” (Why would I want to “give back” the “very best thing” that ever happened to me “in my entire life?”)

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not as if I wasn’t old enough to be a grandmother. Arguably, I was. In fact, I was actually a full decade older than my own mother was when I made her a grandmother for the first time. So that wasn’t the problem.

My issue with becoming a grandmother was a bit more complicated and nuanced, but I know it probably boils down to three things that happened the year my grandson (yes, I can say it now) was born.

I became an orphan, a widow and an empty nester all in one year.  My mother passed away, my husband was killed in a tragic accident and my youngest child left for college. I associated all of those life events with “getting old” and they all happened when I was still relatively young. 

A few years after all these devastating events, I found myself thrust back out into the “single girl life.” I was far too young to have any widowed friends, but my divorced friends graciously took me under wing. Life under their wing cost thousands of dollars in laser treatments, lululemon, Botox and Pilates.  

Those days were a complicated batch of emotions as I would often spend the day babysitting Luke and then when my daughter picked him up, I’d quickly shimmy into a pair of jeans, fluff out my hair and meet the girls at a popular rooftop bar. The very last evening I ever did that, I was poised in a mixed group holding a Cosmo, working hard to convince myself 55 was the new 40, when one of my son’s fraternity brothers bear-hugged me from behind and in a booming voice said,

“Hi, Mrs. Blanchard. How’s that grandbaby?”

I was mortified. I can’t imagine the look I gave him. So, in hindsight… bless his heart. But also… bless mine. I haven’t been back to a “Singles Bar” since.  

But it hasn’t gotten any easier keeping my finger in the dyke, because, as you might imagine, my kids didn’t stop at that one little boy. He was such a marvel and we all enjoyed him so much, everyone wanted in on the action. Before I knew it, my entire brood was reproducing like gerbils.

Soon there were three more. All girls. Every time those little stinkers called me “Grandma!” I got visibly annoyed and warned them sternly, “If y’all keep calling me, ‘Grandma,’ I’m going to call y’all, ‘Grandma.'” So every time they called me “Grandma,” I’d call them “Grandma” right back and the three little imps would fall all over themselves giggling and squealing in pure delight, shouting at the top of their lungs, “Grandma just called us ‘Grandma!'” 

So that plan backfired. They were so tickled by the entire exercise they took to calling me “Grandma” every chance they got just to hear me call them “Grandma!” Especially in public. At the top of their tiny lungs. It became a whole thing. Each one of these three little girls is the daughter of each of my three daughters and her mother’s doppelgänger in looks and personality. No one mentions that part; about how having grandchildren is like getting each one of your own children back ever so briefly in little snatches and snippets.

A few more years flew by and my oldest added one more boy. Now, I’m not one to complain, but that kid is feral. Think chubby, wild woodland creature. He is two now. At two, his older brother Luke could name the state capitals of all 50 states. This one walks around with so many pacifiers looped around his fingers he looks like Edward Scissorhands and the only word he said to me all day yesterday was “dangerous!” Which is, admittedly, the only word he really needs to know. So I guess I’m saying he’s quite clever.

My daughter asked me to be in the delivery room for his birth. If you’ve only ever been on the pitcher’s mound like me and never gotten to be there on the catcher’s mound … it’s simply spectacular. This kid and I have an unbreakable lifelong bond. When they put him in my arms, I looked right at him without an ounce of hesitation and said, “Hey there, Little Dude, it’s me, Grandma.”

Earlier this year, my second daughter added a beautiful little girl. Later this year, my youngest daughter will add yet another granddaughter. If you’ve lost count, I understand. I think I’m at 7. All I know is there are a lot of them. My children have a lot of children. So, for reasons entirely out of my control, I am “Grandma.” Their Grandma. 

And I have no desire to give them back. 

The other day, in a foolish moment of recklessness, I asked two of my little granddaughters what they wanted Santa to bring them this year. Their responses gave me an immediate case of PTSD. One requested, “A rainbow scooter that lights up with blue wheels!” The other one asked for, “A Teal Guitar!” Let me be clear, lest you think, as I briefly did, that she meant, “a Steel Guitar” She indeed specifically meant the COLOR of the instrument. A TEAL guitar. I clarified this.

Fulfilling children’s far-fetched requests every year was always one of the most daunting tasks of motherhood. Especially challenging was procuring that particular year’s MOST COVETED TOY. The angst of trying to out-maneuver other mothers to get my hands on a Teddy Ruxpin, or a Tickle-Me Elmo was nothing short of brutal. Before I could blink, they outgrew those creatures and I was out beating-the-bushes for specific colors and sizes of North Face jackets and Ugg boots. And the electronics! May we never forget the Wii, the PlayStations and the Gameboys.  I stood in line for hours at GameStop just to get my hands on them and then served Macaroni and Cheese (the Blue Box) for a month to afford them.  

Zero regrets…

T’was all worth it…

Christmas morning was magical…

Nonetheless, this year I had the brilliant idea to go a different route. Rather than traipse all over the place purchasing gifts “From Santa,” I decided to make joyful memories with everyone I love instead.  I decided to use my precious and finite resources to create memorable and meaningful merriment in the form of  “experiences!

Friday night was the kick-off of my, “Experience Experiment.” We all dressed up and went to our local theatre to see, “A Christmas Carol.” Almost everyone loved it, except my 4 year old granddaughter who didn’t make it past Jacob Marley before loudly insisting on being rescued from the performance. She spent the remainder of the evening in the parking lot with her mother who texted for “ghost updates” in order to estimate how much longer they would be waiting…

“We are on The Ghost of Christmas Present, so just one more ghost to go!”

The next morning she informed us she, “never wanted to see that play again!” We assured her she needn’t ever, but we couldn’t resist mentioning that she missed the snow falling on the audience at the end, to which she responded, “It was fake snow!” (The ghosts were real, but the snow was fake.) She’s quite the Patron of the Arts.

Saturday afternoon we attended our first-ever and last-ever Christmas Cookie Baking Class.  I knew I was in trouble the minute I ushered my rambunctious crew through the door.  They were the ONLY children there. We were beyond conspicuous. I naively assumed a Christmas Cookie class would be for kids. I’m not bitter, yet I couldn’t help but wonder what kind’ve grown-ups require a pricey class on basic sugar cookie creation. That seems like Holiday 101 to me.

Now, I’m not saying my grandchildren were naughty, but they were children. Children at an ADULT EVENT. After they bickered over the fairest allotment of cookie-cutters, sprinkles and dough, they were mostly pleasant to work with. Insofar as far as children are ever pleasant to work with. (For more insight, see the Martha Stewart segment where she decorates sugar cookies with child actors…) Nonetheless, I couldn’t help but wistfully notice all the grown women around us, NOT arguing and whose brand new black suede Uggs were NOT covered with pounds of flour.

Oddly enough, our group finished before everyone else.  I suppose because all the adult students were actually devoted to painstakingly decorating their cookies with acute attention to detail, as opposed to spraying frosting and sprinkles on fresh baked cookies like Jackson Pollard on a sugar high.  As we sat at the “Recovery Table” waiting for the laggards, the children asked me how many cookies they could eat on-site.  When I said, “Two!” they responded,

“Our mommy said we could only have ONE EACH!”  

“Well, your mommy is not here. You can have two!”

I was a tad preoccupied and in no mood to negotiate.  I was busy scrolling through my phone. Would you believe that in the time it took Sur Le Table to box up our cookies, I found BOTH a Disco Scooter AND a Teal Guitar online? Just satisfying my curiousity.

I’m sure by now you take my point.

On the off-chance you’re getting all overly-inspired to emulate and execute my idea, I feel compelled to acknowledge the obvious – it’s tons easier to continue sloshing water for that old Patriarch-in-the-Red-Suit. Just buy the gifts! After all, the elves at Amazon have really changed the rules of engagement.

And next year, I think I’ll consider experiencing Sugar Cookie Class with my adult Lady-Friends. Clearly, I’m the one who could benefit from a little more Holiday 101.

Paul gave me “The Look” yesterday. To tell you the truth, I was somewhat surprised. I didn’t expect to see it quite so soon. We haven’t even been married a full calendar year yet.

You know “The Look,” I’m talking about. Surely you’ve been on the receiving end of it. If you haven’t, then you must be “The Looker,” and not “The Lookee.” This is my second marriage,* and I’ve been the  “The Lookee” in both of my love stories, which clearly makes me the Common Denominator.  Apparently, I’m the one who screws up endlessly, disappointing the poor schmucks who love me.  

In service to all of you Givers-of-The-Look, who never get to see it from our end, let me describe it for you:  It’s kind of like how your facial features would involuntarily contort themselves if you purchased a Powerball ticket and you were matching the numbers on your ticket to the winning numbers displayed on the television screen and every single number was matching up.  It’s like you are SO CLOSE to winning! Until you get to the very last number and it’s a no-go.  Your poor face can’t help but be the conduit that expresses the crappy hand life has dealt you.  

And that, in a nutshell is, “The Look.”

Our saga begins way back when Paul and I were planning our wedding and he asked me what I was envisioning in the way of a honeymoon. To which I enthusiastically responded, 

“Well, staying in one of those little thatched huts out over the ocean in Fiji has been on my bucket list forever!”

So, Paul, being your typical Boomer male, promptly purchased a camper van and began plotting a romantic, highly circuitous route home from our Florida wedding venue through exciting locales such as Tennessee, Georgia, Alabama and Arkansas.  Oh, the joyful hours he spent googling state parks dotted throughout The Confederacy.  We meandered home, stopping at every park along the way (who knew there were so many) affording Paul the opportunity to demonstrate his manly prowess with fire. This made perfect sense. 

To Paul. 

The pure genius of his plan is that we still own the camper. What would we have after a trip to FIJI? Nothing but a sunburn and memories.  Memories of ourselves basking in the literal lap of luxury.  

Earlier this week, after diligently checking the weather forecast (something Boomer men do on the daily) he asked if I’d like to take the camper somewhere this weekend.  I agreed, but with the caveat that we had to go somewhere cool.  We settled on Santa Fe, New Mexico. 

Oddly enough, it is necessary to pass through Amarillo,Texas to get to Santa Fe, New Mexico from Oklahoma.  One could fit all of my knowledge of Amarillo in a thimble.  There are the lyrics to the infamous song, of course, and then there’s the infamous steakhouse, where they are simply rabid to give you a 72 ounce sirloin for free if you can make an ass of yourself by choking it down in less than an hour. 

Paul loves this place with an Oklahoma-passion, so we were compelled to dine there, but took a pass on the Carnivore Challenge.   The best part of the experience is the singing cowboy who comes by your table taking requests.  In keeping with the atmosphere, I considered requesting, “Beast of Burden” by the Rolling Stones, but took one look at the guy and thought better of it.  I asked for Dolly, with a side of Johnny Cash.  The music made me tear up, but that’s just who I am these days.  After we paid, on the way out the door I pivoted back and grabbed 3 pats of butter off of our table and stashed them in my purse. Paul did a 360 degree, horrified, head-swivel.  Again, the fun of a late-in-life marriage is…we’re still getting to know one another. 

“Why on Earth would you steal BUTTER?” 

“I didn’t STEAL it!  It’s there for the customers, besides you’ll thank me later!”

This is where I need you to understand that camping (unlikeFIJI) is kind of “worky!” A lot of tedious tiny details go into pulling off the perfect trip.  For obvious reasons, we typically let Paul handle most of them. But, when we decided to go to Santa Fe at the last minute, he did put me in charge of procuring the groceries for the weekend and I mostly sort’ve agreed. 

On the morning of our departure, Paul needed to go to his office for a couple of hours.  Realizing I didn’t have much “me time” left and would need to make the very most of it, I decided to do the two things I knew I wouldn’t be able to do for a few days: go on a run and take a long leisurely soak in the tub. I figured we would stop for gas along the way and I could grab all necessary grocery items at the Quik Trip. 

As we walked out the door, I did have the foresight to reach into the refrigerator and grab a few items to toss into the camper:

1 carton of eggs 

1/2 bag of tortilla chips

1 pkg chicken sausage ( perfect for grilling outdoors)

1 pkg grated cheddar

3 Coke Zeros

1 can of Hormel Chili 

2 beers (always thinking of my Sweetie)

1 bottle of wine (because…camping)

2 blocks of Hickory Farms cheese (left over from Christmas)

Honestly, I was tickled that we had these things on hand. I was fully aware that Paul had his heart set on that iconic Amarillo Bison burger, so that was one meal accounted for. And, if we ate in Santa Fe one of the days and I grabbed a package of buns at the gas station for the grilled chicken sausage, we would be better than fine. 

My plan went to Hell in a handbag on the very first night. Everything seemed to be going swell.  We had the most remote and breathtaking spot at 7500’ among the mountains and Ponderosa Pines, surrounded by twinkling stars on the horizon and all above us, giving the effect of being entirely isolated inside a shimmering snow globe. Paul had, not ONE, but TWO fires crackling and was setting up the hammock for me, as I speared the sausage on the grilling skewers. It was the picture of outdoor domestic bliss, if that’s even a thing.  

Until, we both simultaneously noticed the sausage was smelling a tad, “off.” But, Paul, being such a kind and optimistic sort offered up,

“Chicken always smells a little rank, we’ll just cook them really good!”

To which I responded, 

“I don’t know…I think I might just heat myself up some chili!”

The sheer disappointment on his face – he had built his woman these two dueling fires upon which to char flesh for our meal and I was about to go in the camper and nuke a can of Hormel? 

“Let me just go check the date on the package!,” he jumped up and ran inside the camper to dig through the trash.

Very shortly after, he walked back outside wearing THE LOOK.  

“What was the date?” I queried, all sweetness and innocence.

“February 2024!”

Momentarily dazed, I asked which month we were currently living in.  Oh yeah, September! And then I started ticking off the months with one hand.  And then, my other hand was required. Damn! The sausage was actually the age of our marriage.  Really young for a marriage, but really old for meat. 

And, man, that look on his face…it simply needed no translation. And I’ve seen that look before.  It said, “I asked you to do one damn thing! Just one damn thing!”

But in the end, everything turned out fine.  I hate to brag, but I made the most scrumptious dish out of that half bag of chips, the can of chili and all that cheese.  If there’s anything a lifetime of screwing up will do for you, is teach a gal resourcefulness. I bounce back like nobody’s business. 

The following day in Santa Fe, we had such a late lunch that we agreed to skip dinner, but we did stop on the way back to our campsite when we noticed a local farmer selling fresh corn out of the back of his pickup.

Later that evening, we inevitably got hungry again.  You know how it goes when you eat a big lunch and swear off dinner. That promise never keeps. We were pretty grateful we had stopped for the corn.  Paul grilled it to a carmelized perfection, but it still needed a little something.  That’s when I had a eureka moment and jumped up and ran inside the camper to retrieve the 3 pats of Amarillo Butter out of my purse.  Because I understood the assignment all along.  The procurement of groceries.  

And, Y’ALL…the look of love on that man’s face…

It was as if he’d won the lottery.  

I finally dragged myself to the salon for a much-needed pedicure yesterday.  It was somewhat shameful that I had let things deteriorate to such an abysmal state at the very height of Summer Sandal Season.  

For those of us who manage to get pedicures regularly (or semi-regularly) we are familiar with the drill:  the salon takes your name and then,  just to keep you entertained while you wait, they gesture over to a rainbow wall of lacquer and instruct you to, “Pick a color!”

That’s when things got complicated… 

Ordinarily I feel confident and clear-headed when I select nail polish.  After all, I had my “colors done” back in the 80s when a concept called, “Color Me Beautiful” was all the rage.  I was 17 at the time and hoped to be declared a Spring or a Summer,  but, alas, I was christened an Autumn.  I’ve long since resigned myself to dismal shades of brown and rust.  

The unending plight of a Ginger.  

But things hit a little differently yesterday when I approached the wall of hues.  I was all in a tizzy due to a humbling conversation with my 4 year old granddaughter that, quite frankly, shook my confidence. 

“I don’t like the nail polish colors you choose!” she offered, apropos to nothing.  An entirely unsolicited opinion, I can assure you.

“Wait – what?” I gasped.  “This color is fabulous!” I protested waving my chic nutmeg-colored fingers under her pert little nose. 

“Don’t worry!” She quickly assured me, “I don’t like my other grandmother’s polish either!”  (As if that was supposed to make me feel better!)  But, if I’m being completely honest, it DID make me feel better.  Much better.  If I’m not cool, thank God the competition isn’t either.  

Geez 

So, I chose a vivid cherry red, in hopes of scoring a slightly higher approval rating with the age-4-and-under voting block.  Red is for “Winters” and certainly isn’t a great color for me, but how much damage could it do way down there on my feet, I reasoned.  

All in all, my toes turned out fine.  Trust me, anything would’ve been an improvement.  But, the pressing question is – why do I care so much what this kid thinks? It’s not like she’s some Big-Time Beauty Influencer.   Case in point: yesterday morning when I was styling my hair she asked,

“Did you get bangs?”

“I’ve had bangs since before you were born!” I responded.  “But I did get them trimmed this week,” I added.  

“How many inches did they cut?”

“Zero inches! They don’t take off inches when they trim your bangs…” I explained.  “But they did cut in some layers to frame my face,” I added.  

In hindsight, maybe this convo should’ve raised a flag or set off alarm bells for me, but it didn’t.  I just thought it was a casual conversation between a little girl and her oblivious Grandmother.  I should’ve known better…

For this girl was on a mission. 

A few hours later I got a frantic call from her mother,  my daughter.  From the sound of her voice when I answered the call…I seriously thought someone had died.  

“Anna cut her hair!” she said.

“I’ll be right there!” I answered, hastily snatching my car keys off the island. They live just around the corner, so I only had 3 minutes in my car to plan my demeanor before I pulled into their driveway.  But it was enough time to gird my loins and counsel myself about my reaction.  

Do NOT laugh.  

Do NOT scold. 

And, for the love of God, Do NOT cry.  

If that sounds a tad over-reactive, it’s probably a good time to admit how hair-obsessed we are in this family.  We like it.  We aren’t those, “Less is more!” types.   We fall squarely into the, “More is more!” camp.  About most things in life, but especially HAIR.  

I was heartbroken.

 She did indeed cut in some bangs.  If you can even call them that.  I thought they looked more like forehead whiskers, but when I whined to my hip niece from Colorado, she informed me there’s something out there called, “micro bangs” and they’re en trende.  If that’s the case, then our Anna is the very coolest.  

I can’t profess to exactly get inside this kid’s head, nor to tell you what prompted this bold action. One thing that was definitely not on her mind was my admonition that we don’t take off inches when we cut bangs. She took off many inches. There is also a loosely held belief that when a woman decides to get bangs, she’s having some type of emotional melt down and addresses it by doing this radical thing to her hair.  

But, that’s not always the case.  I got bangs over a decade ago to cover the traitorous wrinkles on my forehead.  But this is such a foregone conclusion in female spaces, that when my Colorado niece scheduled an appointment with her hairdresser last year to get her bangs, she had to spend 20 minutes reassuring her stylist in advance of the first snip that she WAS NOT in the throes any type of existential crisis.  

There’s even a song about it.  The opening line of Miranda Lambert’s break up anthem, “Mama’s Broken Heart” starts with the words, “I cut my bangs with some rusty kitchen scissors!”  The rest of the lyrics confirm that she is indeed “losing it.”

Maybe that’s it.  Every now and then Anna tattles on her mother by blurting out,

“I didn’t get any “attentions” today!”

Or

“I only got two “attentions” today!”

So, it’s possible the “attentions deficit” was to blame even though she had just spent the night with me, without her brothers, and I had lavished “attentions” on her.

In the end, everything turned out fine.  Her mother took her to Target and purchased a plethora of 4” thick headbands to get her through a few days until they could get into the hairstylist, who fixed the debacle professionally.  Then, as a safety precaution for her End-of-Summer boredom and malaise, her cousin was imported from Dallas to give her non-stop-one-on-one “attentions.”

As the grandmother of both little girls, I beseeched my daughter to hide the scissors, lest they get the idea to cut her cousin’s waist long golden locks into a tidy matching Cousin Bob.   Anna may not be some Big Time Beauty Influencer, but she is undeniably a Big Time Cousin Influencer.  

And while we managed to barely squeak through this crisis, I’ll wager we wouldn’t survive the “Cousin Cut” quite so unscathed.  Not to make everything about me, but Grandma doesn’t need that level of drama, especially when I’m an Autumn walking around at the height of Summer with Winter toes.   

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?