An Adventure To Remember

So I arrive exactly one day before Gabe Weston Alexander enters the world!  Talk about timing.  Everything goes well; easy labor, however my daughter begs to differ, home in two days, baby is adapting nicely to a schedule, however my daughter begs to differ, and now I can focus on the other two boys who need some well-deserved attention.

On Saturday morning, Liam, Beckham, Sadie, the dog, and I set out on a hiking adventure down the trail behind their rental.  It's a beautiful wide path edged on both sides with natural forestry and a stream running parallel to the path.  We stopped often to collect bugs, rocks, weeds, etc. I unleashed Sadie so she could run free through the brush, chase forest animals, and roll in whatever dogs like to roll in. Periodically we'd go to the edge of the trail and watch the water splashing over the boulders in the stream.  The boys and I found all kinds of rocks to throw to see who could make the biggest splash!

At one point we spied an area in the stream where the boulders and rocks were positioned in such a way that crossing to the other side seemed doable. The boys begged me to take the challenge and extend our exploration to new heights. In truth, they didn't have to do any serious begging; I was as ready for the challenge as they were. All three of us slid down the embankment to the water's edge.  I instructed the boys to take their time when crossing so as not to fall in.  Like leap frogs, both of them hopped across a series of rocks in a flash.  They were on the other side before I could blink my eyes twice.  Now, it was my turn.  As I stretched my left leg out to the first rock, I prayed that a higher power was there to support me. He or she was because I managed to make it over without any problem.

We spent time searching for more treasures; we found a beaver's dam, a 15' branch that Liam used as a balance pole, and an abandoned bench that someone may have used 100 years ago!  After awhile we decided to go back.  Liam was the first to reach the stream's edge.  He managed to hop on two rocks before his leg slipped into the water.  He and I began laughing so hard that Beckham decided to not slip but actually jump into the freezing water.  Now our laughter escalated to roars.  What great fun we were having!

It was my turn to attempt the crossing and to do it remaining dry.  Seemed that luck was still with me because I had only the last boulder to navigate before setting my feet on land once again. I got my right leg situated on a flat spot, but as I tried to bring my left leg forward I slipped, first twisting the knee, then crashing it on the boulder with my full weight.  My head fell smack dab in the mud and weeds at the water's edge.  When I lifted it, my face was brown and my hair was adorned with twigs and leaves. After asking if I was all right, the boys cackled on loud and long.  Finally, they made it across and started up the embankment.  But I couldn't move. No one was around and I had to find a way up to the trail.  It was Liam who suggested I use the 15' branch as a cane but since I'm now only 5'4.5" (use to be 5'6") that idea was not an option.  However, by wedging the branch between two tree trunks, I managed to pull myself up.

The boys and Sadie ran home.  I hobbled slowly along.  When they reached the front door, talking at the same time telling my daughter about why they were all wet, what they saw on the other side, and how much fun they had, suddenly the realization that someone was missing occurred to her. 

"Where's Grammy," she asked.

 "Oh, she hurt her knee when she fell on the rocks and got her face stuck in the mud," replied Liam.

"Can she walk and should I go get her?" questioned my daughter.

"No, she's okay, but she probably won't get home anytime soon" laughed the redheaded imp.

A little while later I limped in, examined my battered and swollen knee, laid on the couch with an ice pack and smiled.  What a hiking adventure that was!  Probably be the next book in the "Grammy's Gang" series.

I'm Off!

Today is the day I take off for Charlotte. Our 7th grandbaby is due in a few days and I've always been there to help out for the first weeks of each one of their tender lives. I'm so blessed and honored to be asked to come and lend a hand. Of course, if I wasn't asked, I'd probably just barge in and get to work anyway. My immediate problem however is the flying. No, I do not have a fear of flying; I actually love to fly. But, I've always flown on a jet with about 100 or so of my newfound friends. Today I'm going into the wild blue yonder on a puddle jumper first to Cleveland and then board a second "tin can" as I like to call this type of aircraft, to Charlotte. Since I don't have any experience on a puddle jumper, I can only go by what I've been told. You'll bounce around like a rubber ball; you'll want to upchuck the whole time; you'll be so scared you'll pee yourself; you'll think crashing into the ocean would actually be quite refreshing after about 10 minutes of the flight! These are only the most positive comments about puddle jumpers I've heard. Believe me, you don't want to hear the negative ones. So I'm left to my own devices. This morning I had a long talk with Shadow, my dearest friend of 10 years now. I told her how much our relationship has meant to me and promised Papap would take care of her if anything happened. She just stared at me, hopped off my lap and went behind the couch for her usual morning nap. I take these actions as her way of dealing with the pain she undoubtedly is feeling as I prepare to go on my month-long hiatus. Next, I turn to my hubby for some needed assurance and comfort. His idea of relieving my anxiety is to tell me about the cargo planes he flew while in the service of our country. According to him, my journey will be a piece of cake to anything he had to endure. I had no idea how much he suffered sitting on benches in the cargo pits with fellow crewmen smoking cigarettes, telling off-color jokes, and discussing where they would go on their next weekend leave. I'm ashamed I even brought up the subject of flying today given his traumatic, life-threatening experiences. So, in a few hours I'll be off dragging my 80lb. suitcase behind me, toting my 25lb.laptop/purse on my sagging right shoulder, taking 5 or 6 of my anti-anxiety pills, pulling up my bootstraps, grabbing 2 or 3 barf bags, buckling my seatbelt, if there is one, closing my eyes and taking off into the wild blue yonder, not once, but twice until we land, I'm hoping, safely in Charlotte. But, to be there for the birth of my 7th grandbaby, I'd endure much, much worse any time, any day. After all, I'm Off! In more ways than one, right?

How Small Can A Toilet Hole Be?

Since I'm due to fly to Carolina next Monday to help out with grandbaby #7, the article in today's paper regarding the overbooking, overcrowding, and overcharging by airlines caught my eye. If, when I get to the airport,  my seat isn't my seat, there will be holy hell to pay.  I get extremely loud and extremely foul-mouthed when I'm angry.

 I got a good deal on my ticket so overcharging isn't an issue unless baggage charges are excessive.

The real concern for me is the overcrowding.  According to the paper, a plane that typically held 120 people now accommodates 150 people.  To do this, the seats are being made smaller and smaller while the rears of Americans get larger and larger. Since I've been dieting for awhile now, I can proudly say that my backside will fit quite nicely in the smaller accommodations.  But, even so, being smashed together like a can of sardines doesn't conjure up my idea of a pleasant flight.  And, like sardines, one must wonder about smell-control.  Ever sit next to someone on a plane that hasn't showered in awhile?  Plus, the added weight to the plane scares me.  How much tonnage can actually ride the skies before enough is just too much?  Freefalling over Charlotte isn't exactly the way I'd planned to make my entrance although it would be a remarkable one if I do say so myself!

Perhaps the most disconcerting element of overcrowding is making the plane's bathroom much smaller than it already is. A smaller restroom means more available passenger seating. Come on, people, so when you have to go, once you've navigated the long line of "goers" and finally get the green light to enter, you'll be in for the most claustrophobic experience of a lifetime.  Perhaps the most panicky panic attack of your entire neurotic history. 

And, how small can they make an already miniscule toilet hole?  Most normal-sized asses barely fit on today's airplane toilets.  Now reduce the size of the toilet hole to the size of a donut hole?  Where do you think all that shit is going to land?  On the floor, silly.  So, not only will we have to wipe ourselves with the sandpaper provided, but we'll need to make an attempt to clean up the floor as well. And, what about the feces on our shoes?  The hell with that.  Most of us will just wash our hands and track the shoe shit through the aisles of the plane.  The shoe shit smell will add to the already existing body odor of the unshowered.  People will inevitably be overcome by the stench and begin to vomit or faint or both.  More money will be spent for more barf bags, clean-up maintenance, and medical staff will be a necessity on every flight.

Are you getting the picture?  More importantly, do the airline bigwigs get it?  Stop trying to squeeze more people on your planes so you can squeeze more moolah into your pockets!  You don't need the problems that this shit will definitely cause, do you?

I'm looking forward to my Charlotte trip.  I hope the restroom specs are still the same as when I flew there a few years ago!  If not, I promise you, some shit will fly!

Down with processed sugar!

Today is the Monday after Easter.  My brain is muddled beyond belief.  I don't know what else to attribute this dysfunction to except the sugary junk I inhaled this past weekend.  Usually I'm a clear-thinking, wise old broad who goes about life in an organized, decisive fashion.  Today I'm still in my pajamas at 1:01pm and don't have a clue as to what I'll do for the rest of the day.  Maybe read, clean out a closet, walk the dog, nap.... I can't seem to choose or even move for that matter.

I have read that processed sugar is bad for you.  I've been told countless times by my older daughter about the negative effects it has on the brain.  She begs me not to give her children sugar in any form.  Up until this moment, I've always thought her to be obsessive in this regard.  But now I'm thinking she might be on to something.

So listen up!  I know processed sugar is in just about everything we eat. The best we can do is limit the amount of packaged food we ingest per day.  Try eating fruits and vegetables that contain natural sugars more often.  Find creative ways to present them so you and your children will become addicted to what's healthy as opposed to what isn't.

I know you've heard this a gazillion times; I'm not telling you anything you don't already know.  But judging from the way I feel today, I'm concerned about the children going to school after a breakfast of donuts and soda.  Imagine the confusion going on in their little brains.  No wonder their reading comprehension skills are so low.  How can they deal with mathematical equations when their thought processes are so jumbled.  They can't, and through no fault of their own I might add.

Seriously, even though I feel like I have a hang-over without ever imbibing any alcohol, the negativity of the sugar effect is real.  I got a wake-up call today that can't be ignored.  Rethink what you and your children are eating these days. It could very well be the first step in changing the rest of your lives in a very positive way.

Down with processed sugar!

Grammy Knows Best!

Spring in many parts of the country is blue skies, birds chirping, and a warm breeze floating by.  But, in Pittsburgh, PA, March is grey clouds, silence, and cold winds with snow five inches deep. 

So when I was rudely awakened today by the sound of shovel scrapes across frozen cement, I knew there was work to be done.  I hopped on my trusty broom and ( no, I am not a witch) began sweeping the heavy, wet white stuff from our 25ft. walkway that leads out to the street. Why venture to the street this early, you might ask?  Well, because the morning paper delivery guy always drops it there!  Otherwise I'd let the damn snow pile up to the rooftop and it won't bother me at all. 

You also might be inclined to question why I even get a morning newspaper.  Why not just jump on the internet and click on "News of the Day"?  Remember, I'm a grammy, and although I've embraced most modern-day advances, reading the happenings of the world and our community on a laptop iPad, or SmartPhone just doesn't do it for me.  There's nothing like sitting in my recliner with a steaming cup of java chuckling over the recent missteps of the federal, state, and local government knuckleheads.  If I didn't find it funny, I'd be in a mental ward suffering from severe depression.  And I just couldn't start my day without reading the hilariously true-to-life comic strips or the tear-jerking "Dear Annie" columns.  But I digress.  Back to the snow situation.

The shovel scraping that had been going on for at least thirty minutes was being done by my twenty year old neighbor from across the street.  She's a lovely girl who is doing her student teaching this year.  Megan was wearing winter attire that defied any type of coldness from reaching her tender skin.  I'll let you use your imagination to conjure up how she was dressed and what she looked like. Her strategy for snow removal was to dig deeply into it, laboriously lift each shovelful, and hurl it about two feet away in order to clear their 15ft.driveway.  Megan had to stop several times to regain her strength and her motivation.

I, on the other hand, stepped out into the inclement weather in my cotton robe, rubber-soled slippers, and, of course, my trusty broom. With one determined sweep on each step, I shifted the snow to the lef, did the same on the 25ft. walkway and was at the street in less than five minutes.  Just before I bent down to pick up the paper, I glanced Megan's way.  She, too, was looking at me.  I smiled; her face reflected bewilderment.  She then trudged up her driveway; I scampered over my walkway, up the steps and into the door where my steaming cup of java awaited.

The entire point of this whole story is to again show our young people that Grammy knows best and can certainly teach them some very important life lessons.  And in Pittsburgh, perhaps one essential lesson in March is choosing the proper attire for removing the snows of PA and the most efficient way of doing so! 

Pay attention, youngins, Grammy knows best and she does look smashing in her cotton robe, too!

The Child Left Behind

On Saturday morning three people from Seton Hill University, Greensburg, PA, the bus driver and the head coach of the women's lacrosse team, Kristina Quigley, and her unborn son, were killed traveling to a weekend match. A tragedy indeed.  We know little about the bus driver.  However, Kristina Quigley was the beloved coach and mentor of her lacrosse team as well as colleague and friend to many Seton Hill University administrators, professors and staff. She was active in the community and embraced charitable causes because she cared about others.

More importantly, Kristina was a wife and mother.  She left behind a loving husband and a two and a half year old son.  Her husband is devastated and will be in mourning for a very long time.  He now must be father and mother to their young boy. Family and friends will support him in his hour of need and for many years to come.  They will be his rock and his soft place to fall.  They will counsel him and eventually encourage him to move on with his life. In time he will be able to live, laugh, and possibly love again.

But what of the child?  At two and a half, this boy has no concept of death.  Mommy went on a trip as she had done many times before and would be back on Sunday night.  He would be asleep when she crept into his room and kissed his cheek and smiled with pride at her sweet, sweet son. When he awoke, Mommy would be in the kitchen making breakfast, his favorite, pancakes smothered in maple syrup.  She would help him dress for daycare and another day would play out as always.

But she wouldn't be.  What now?  This little child would now see Daddy crying, uncontrollably at times, be overtaken by the family gathering where people talk in hushed tones or sob on each other's shoulders, and, above all, be overwhelmed by the fact that Mommy isn't home on this Monday morning.  She would never be home again although he doesn't realize that now.

I was three and a half when my Dad died in an industrial accident.  Everything this child has already experienced and everything he will experience throughout his life I have lived for the past 65 years.  I wish I could tell him that in a short time everything will return to normal.  It won't.  No matter how loving his Dad is, no matter how much family's and friends' involvement will be from this moment forward, he will always be the child left behind.

Because he is so young, he can't verbalize what he is feeling, the depth of which he can't possibly understand; he can only feel.  And from personal experience, I can tell you he is extremely afraid, totally confused, and even guilt-ridden by the loss of his beloved mother. Time and discussion with Dad, family, and even professionals will help him grasp this tragedy intellectually.  He won't fear death any more than all of us do; he'll understand that accidents do happen, and he will see that he had nothing to do with his mother's death.

But in his heart and soul he will always grieve for the mother who left him behind; he will always wonder what life would have been like had she been there for him; and he will always wish Mommy was there every step of the way.  He will always be the child left behind.  I know that for a fact.

Grammy, who needs her?

After reading another "Dear Annie" where a grandmother is upset over the fact that her one and only daughter will not allow her any quality time with her first-born grandson, I decided I needed to get tough with these entitled, ungrateful grown children who all of a sudden know more about raising "baby" than their mothers and fathers ever did.

To you ingrates I offer some sound advice.  Look, when we grammies were young mothers we didn't know squat about caring for infants.  It was our mothers who were there to answer any and all questions, provide alternatives for persistent problems, and yes, even physically come to our aid when we were desparate. We were rookies then; you are rookies now.  Don't be so stupid to think just because you've read every parent magazine, gone to countless parenting classes, and have exchanged thoughts with your equally clueless girlfriends, you are totally prepared to handle everything in the life of your little one.  You're not! And won't be until you are the grammy of a newborn.

If you are lucky enough to have a mom and dad(grandparents now) to turn to at this eventful time in your life, have the smarts to take full advantage of their expertise and experience.  They made mistakes, a lot of them when raising you, but they've learned from them.  They are willing and able to share these with you so as to minimize your uncertainty and anxiety throughout the rearing process.

"Pride cometh before a fall" and, believe me, you will fall many times being a mom.  Asking for advice and being grateful for the time to actually have grammy and papap interact with your child from birth is a blessing that not everybody gets.  Instead of being a "know-it-all" be thankful to the grandparents your child has and you can certainly learn from.

If you think this harsh, then I've accomplished my goal.  If you accept this advice, then you'll be able to pass it on to your children when you are "grammy!"