I was recently commenting or rather questioning the common practice of getting a tattoo.  The bearer of this body art had several loops, diagonals, and lines that were left to the imagination of the viewer.  I wondered what this "supposed" drawing would look like once the young man was old to which he replied, "I will not care what I look like when I am old so it does not make a difference."  REALLY??  Add this to the long list of myths perceived by the youth of today!  Do they actually think that one day we wake up at 50 or so, (the age when those 30 and under determine as OLD), and we are freed from the desires to brush our teeth, comb our hair, match our outfits, shave,  put on make up or swipe the dirt off our brow?  This may be a sympton of senility, but I want to declare that we are not all destined for this fate and will probably be cognizant of our looks for as long as we walk this earth.  I am especially in tuned to my appearance and my distinct difference from all the  other moms.  I walk amid true blond or brunette bobbing pony tails, fresh glowing faces, and wrinkle-free mouths and eyes each morning as I limp alongside "S' into her classroom. Do I think that I am kidding anybody with my facial paint, the thick line of concealer under my eyes, the multi-million dollar wrinkle cream around my mouth or my latest trial run of "just a fleck of red" dye in my hair?  Am I so delusional that I try to wear the "NIke" stretch suit and think that I appear trendy rather than bulky?  No, young minds of mush and misperceptions, I do not, but I also want "S" to understand that I am not going to cave in to a body and face of liver spots, rolls of unwanted flesh, and brownish colored teeth.  I want her to know that no matter one's age, looking your best with what "God" gave you is a cry of "I am worth it!"  Old does not correlate to indifference and quite the opposite oh youth-of-little-knowledge!  We love more deeply, understand more widely and live more richly.  We may say what is on our mind with less filter, but we still want to be noticed, be heard and be counted!  When your squiggles and body ornaments are enmeshed in folds of skin, are spotted with brown polka dots, and no longer make your personal statement, you  will have reached the ripe old age of awareness and understanding and realize that you still really care....   

I am a list person.  There are lists for errands, the grocery store, movies to watch, projects to complete, places to visit, cards to send, events, "S" medical history and the list goes on and on.  Some remain in the mush between my hippocampus and my frontal lobe, others are actually scripted. I am told that paper is obsolete and this information should all be stored on my Iphone, but I take comfort in paper and pencil.  I spend my day crossing out, checking off or ignoring altogether the itemized record, and consider it a wonderful day if at least one of the lists turns into focused action and is completed.  Lists are like life, always changing, rearranging, a surprise or a disapppointment, but they provide a direction that gives me hope and fulfillment.  The other day, I was pondering and actually making a mental critique of one of my lists.  I was wondering how this list has become so muddled with ambiguity and challenges that seem to confront me daily. My "Never" list was always a constant and sometimes took strength of character or an act of God to maintain.  The words on this personal inventory were ones of impending doom, physical harm, emotional depravity, moral decisions or sometimes just plain stubborness or perhaps ignorance of issues or events that one determines to avoid at all costs and for all time. Being a type "A" personality, with a strong religious base, and many fears, my "Never" list was probably longer than most and grew each and everyday. As I get older, there seems to be less ability or more wisdom that screams to my inner senses to dodge and oppose. But here I sit in the waiting room of a surgical center trying to maintain some type of composure as I reposition one of my "Nevers" to my newly formed, "Suck it Up" list.  "S" is having surgery and I was not meant to be here or be the one to enter the recovery room and try to console.  I am the grandparent!  I am the one who is supposed to visit when pain meds kick in, within the comfort of the child's home, while passing presents all around and leaving knowing that the parents will provide great care. I was never destined to hold her arm down when they took blood as an operation prerequisite and hear her screams piercing the walls of the room and my heart.  I was never meant to lose sleep night after night as she moans in pain and squirms with discomfort.  But then again, I was never going to do at least 100 activities or ventures that I have actually survived since she came to live with me.  They say "never say never", but I still do not plan to jump out of plane or hold a snake, but I realize that "S" will continue to twist the boundaries of my lists and challenge me to do what I wanted to avoid or thought I could never do....

Some things stay the same.  Some things change, not necessarily for the better, but because someone sees the necessity.  I was an educator for thirty-three years.  I taught pre-school to college and I can state without a single doubt that education has changed to a point of being unrecognizable!  Sure, the components remain fixed; there are children and there are teachers!  That is where the similarity ends.  The philosophy, the politics and the social culture have driven the transformation and now what the young parents view as the norm is for me a strife between "what was" and "what is."   Thankfully, "S's " teacher who has been there and is now here was as patient and understanding as she possibly could be.  I absolutely marveled at the pace of the kinder curriculum, the skill packed schedule, the level of content and the management of twenty-one minds of mush as they treked through this learning experience.  "S's" teacher has adult children as do I, and we both remember when kindergarten was primarily about socialization, the ABC's and the recognition of numbers.  "S" can read primer books, can name the missing number in a math sentence, can recognize the differences between rocks, can tell you if a word is a noun or verb and can cite the solution to many social situations.  She writes and writes and writes!. Notes, letters, stories, summarizations of stories, descriptions of pictures, her interests, her opinions and her thoughts all scripted from mind to pen to paper. Words to live as a testament of her being, now reside within the confines of a cardboard box and forever within segments of my heart..  This is the adventure that her teacher so fearlessly guided her and twenty other five year olds through.  It should boggle the mind that so much can be accomplshed in such a short time with a group of individuals of varying experiences, family dynamics, intelligence, social aptitude, personalities and needs.  And what so many do not realize is that this is such a small part of the equation in the twenty-first century of education.  Committees, communication to parents, endless requests for written accountability, other duties as assigned, school projects, community projects, social duties, collaboration meetings, and extensive yearly training are just some of the requiremnts of this job.  Teaching is no longer the career of choice for those with families because you get out at three and have summers off.   "S's" teacher probably worked a fourteen hour day and spent most weekends catching up.  She remained focused on the vision for each of her darlings and "S' profitted from this love and dedication.  I cannot thank her teacher enough and for all teachers like her for taking my precious cargo and returning it to me in such beautiful shape!

The bus driver detailed some of the tidbits of the park as we bobbled along the roads of sunny Florida.  My husband forgetting that this revelation would be a declaration of age exclaimed that our first visit to DisneyWorld was in 1976, upon which someone remarked that he did not realize that the park had been in existence that long!  As everyone who has known me for years or for one minute knows that when I talk of visiting Europe I am not referring to Epcot!  I have never been a fantasy-type personality, more the rounded Type A with a serious nature and many dosages of harsh reality to keep me grounded and quite removed from the land of royalty!  However, for the past six years I have been given the honorary title of Queen Nani, of the Whimsical House of Non-Ordinary-Families.  Within this crest lives "Princess "S" dutifully cared for by two males and one lady in waiting.  It was time for her to meet the other princesses of far away lands, so we boarded a Delta carriage and away we flew!  In dire need of a sprinkle of fairy-stay-awake dust and a magic wand of endless energy, we embarked on four days of picture taking moments with the princesses and fairies of Disney, the side jarring rides of speed and technology combined and spectacular shows that burst into the air or burst out with song and dance.  Although it is impossible not to be swept away by the pure genius of this park, it is not for the tired or weary, the arthritic knees, or for daily nappers.  "S" was captivated and seemed to pick up speed as she went!   I was amazed at the number of elderly couples minus children strolling the grounds, visiting the butterfly gardens or enjoying the flower gardens.  Not a one of them was in the FOUR hour line to visit Elsa and Anna of "Frozen" in order to pose with these two characters and get an autograph which took five minutes!  Where was the over fifty crowd for the Tower of Terror ride which is the equilavant of an elevator shaft plummeting to the ground or the Speed track which has a car that goes from 0 to 65 in a few seconds?  Where were the graybeards at the 11 o'clock P.M. fireworks or in  the mass lines to enter the park in the morning?   But maybe the better question is why are WE at these events?  And the answer to the million dollar question is that we are attempting to provide age related experiences and memories for "S" just as we did for our own two children.  We certainly have our own desire to travel in more adult circles, but maybe a dosage of fantasy and a redo of our youth is not such a bad idea for the two old people either.  

I am not an animal person.  That is not to say that I do not like animals which I consider God’s creatures.  I simply have not found the energy, time or effort for another needy being to be within my care circle.  The whole moving every two years from one base to air force base did not exactly provide the best scenario for pet lovers either.  Moving overseas meant boarding the pooch or pussy for months at a time and then an attempt was made to find a renter that was pet friendly.  Of course I harken back to my childhood for many of my “issues” and there is a direct correlation to my being pet-free.  My mother remains animal-challenged to this day.  She thinks all animals are dirty, carry germs and should be in zoos or in the wild.  If an occasional ant or spider crept into my home uninvited, it was met with frantic screams for removal which usually had my name on it.  Thus when “S” told me that the class was going to hatch eggs as a study in the embryonic process, I was delighted and enthusiastic.  She was going to be part of something magical without any home intervention.  I visited the eggs each day with the same anticipation as the children in hopes of small balls of fluff emerging.  I was sure that the teacher had made plans with a carnivore free sanctuary as the final home of the chick babies.  It was a complete surprise when “S” announced that we HAD to take some of the chicks home ASAP because they could no longer remain in the class.  They had become a bit of a distraction from the daily routine of writing and reading as they chirped for little hands to play with.  Parents were finding any excuse imaginable to avoid this adoption, “We have two, big dogs that will not play nice with the chicks”, or “We are not creating a farm in the backyard.”  I tried to explain to “S” that we had covenants for our neighborhood that did not allow fowl.  She did not budge in her pleas because she did not understand covenants and kept saying that, “this was a life and death matter.”  My resistance was being worn and my husband was not around to oil the armor.  But then I had a brilliant idea.  We had a neighbor who had been grandfathered in for raising some unusual animals.  We often saw ducks and chickens running amuck in the yard.  I visited and simply asked if a new chick would be welcomed in their home.  She then asked how many “S” really wanted and she exclaims, “Three”!  The little one bats her big brown eyes and my neighbor agreed to three chicks.  OK I thought, this was the perfect situation-an afternoon of foster care and then unlimited visitation rights. The teacher already sizing me up as a one child, no-pets-type of parent was shocked when I announced we would take three chirping chicks home.  “S” chose her three and I was asked to take them immediately.  Without a manner of transport, I was given a bucket and no directions for care.  I got home and it became apparent that a temporary means of confinement was necessary.  I ran to the store and the “Pet” lady offered advice on the best diet and pee and poop absorption material.  I poured the cedar shavings into a box, with a dish for water and food and waited for the trade-off later that day.  When I told my neighbor of the plan she asked if I had a light for the night time cold, and a dish that would allow for eating and drinking without drowning.  I was already thinking that a handbook was necessary for this endeavor.  My sister who is the Dr. Doolittle of our family was sending me articles on the care of chicks, knowing full well that I was floundering in my mom duties.  When “S” came home that day, it was apparent that I did not count on the attachment factor.  What was supposed to be an afternoon of love and cuddling turned into a weekend and then a week.  I woke up each morning changing the water and cedar and checking the food feeder while “S” cuddled each afternoon.  When we finally brought the three smothered chicks to my neighbor with the names of her favorite princesses- Ariel, Elsa and Belle, “S” was teary eyed.  Of course, that was last week, a decade in the events of a little one, and it is I who have been the one to remind her that we should visit!   store and the “Pet” lady offered advice on the best diet and pee and poop absorption material.  I poured the cedar shavings into a box, with a dish for water and food and waited for the trade-off later that day.  When I told my neighbor of the plan she asked if I had a light for the night time cold, and a dish that would allow for eating and drinking without drowning.  I was already thinking that a handbook was necessary for this endeavor.  My sister who is the Dr. Doolittle of our family was sending me articles on the care of chicks, knowing full well that I was floundering in my mom duties.  When “S” came home that day, it was apparent that I did not count on the attachment factor.  What was supposed to be an afternoon of love and cuddling turned into a weekend and then a week.  I woke up each morning changing the water and cedar and checking the food feeder while “S” cuddled each afternoon.  When we finally brought the three smothered chicks to my neighbor with the names of her favorite princesses- Ariel, Elsa and Belle, “S” was teary eyed.  Of course, that was last week, a decade in the events of a little one, and it is I who have been the one to remind her that we should visit! 

Maybe it was one too many demands by a forty pound lightweight or the need for a thirty-six hour day, or saying "Yes" when a definitive "NO" is screaming at the frontal lobe or talking to a recorded message which repeats options that apply to everyone else or too many interrupted nights or all of the aboive or none of the above, but I was too loud, too unpleasant and too unreasonable tonight.  "S" went to bed with her feelings hurt and I will go to mine with a heavy heart of her hurt feelings.  For every "Facebook" page that makes it all seem like it's a new hallmark card in the making each and everyday, I am here to say as a mother of two, the grandmother of four and the Nani-mommy of one, it is more like balancing a checkbook; sometimes it all adds up and sometimes you go crazy trying to find that missing penny!  With all my supposed wisdom about children, some merely God-given by the sheer number of days I have interacted with youth, and some through education, I still do not have a clue how to guide without tripping, teach without erring, or discipline without compromise.  I am attempting to mold a piece of clay that is more like a piece of flubber that reshapes with each ping of the moment, while I try to smooth out lumps and create the well- rounded, perfectly symmetrical  vase.  Most of the time, I am reasonable, the grown-up, rationale, and a model, but sometimes I am the tired, "can't take it another minute" , "I won't say it again", reality show mama.  Fortunately, tomorow I will get a chance at a new episode and will try to redeem myself, but the chance of always being patient and kind is not likely.  Even with age, mellow and "I know better", I cannot assure lack of emotion, disappointment or even downright despair.   It is time to admit that parenting is without a doubt the most difficult job in the world, so elephant vasectomist, move down the list, because it is time for moms to rise up in the ratings. 

I remember the phone call as if it was a few moments ago!  " I met a man and I want you to check him out", my friend said.  One of my five finger friends, had recently ventured into the land of middle age dating and was excitedly proclaiming that this one was worth the friend review!  "He attends your church and is an usher at the 10:00 mass so let me know what you think, " she breathlessly requests. Church is always my place to get the answers to all non-answerable questions, but now I was on a real mission.  I had only a few rather non-descript details to go on, but knew him immediately.  He was tall, handsome, and obviously confident!  The only thing missing was the T-shirt that said, " I met a fantastic woman last night!".  He got the official stamp of approval, which was never necessary, because they connected spiritually, intellectually and physically without the drama of youth romance, but with the understanding of real commitment and deep love.  Four years later, my friend walked down the aisle with a glow that defied science to the man that she hoped to share wrinkles, watch as hair slowly recedes and nestle into a life of knowing that you are someone's world.  But it was not meant to be.  A fraction of time and two devastating words-esophageal cancer, plunged them into the traffic of continual ongoing vehicles- rushing to appointments, trying new treatments, speeding to the ER, having hope, feeling hopeless, riding an emotional roller coaster, all the time wishing for the bustle to cease and normal to revisit.  During positive responses to either chemical or surgical treatments, they traveled, laughed with friends or family and shared the so often trivial joys of gardening and watching movies together.  Faith was a constant companion and the handle he grasped when pain, harsh reality or fear enveloped his body and mind.  "S" was accepted, supported and loved by my friends.  She received countless holiday gifts from them and they always had an ear for the latest baby, toddler, soccer girl news and often time downright ridiculous stories of my journey with re-parenting.  When asked who she wanted to pray for each night, she would always whisper his name because she knew he was sick.  She drew pictures and invited my friends to be her "family" during her VIP"  of the week (kindergarten recognition), lunch.  They all endured the school lunch and my friend weathered into a sea of germs to be there for her.  It was the last time she saw him.  He died on February 15, with his last goodbye to his valentine and caregiver of three tumultuous years.  For the very first time after thirty-nine years of parenting, we had to tell a six year old about the death of a friend.  Without hesitation, my husband explained what is still difficult for me to understand.  However, "S" lives in world that is meant to make sense and that logic prevails even when God is mentioned.  So she tells me before I visit my sorrowful friend, now a grieving widow and having no words of explanation, " Nani, I prayed every night and our friend still died, but I know why now.  God looked down and saw that everyone kept trying to help.  Nurses, his wife, family,doctors, but no one could help him. He could not walk, was in constant pain, and God was sad.  So he decided that it was time to help, so he took him and now he is all better and happy!".  I miss my friend, have absolutely no words of real consolation or a better understanding of a life gone too soon, but "S's" bit of way too simple wisdom is the best mend for a broken heart....

I used to have a job.  I had a title and a defined role.  I had deadlines, client file folders, meetings, expectations, responsibilities.  I was up at six and usually ended the work day at nine or later.  I also got a monthly paycheck and a benefit package.  During that time, I managed to complete housework, some yardwork and all the other stuff in between.  So the big time question is what am I doing with all my time now and why am I just as busy as when I worked full time?  Well I guess that is really two big time questions.  So I decided to write the tasks of one day last week as a determination of possible changes in future behavior.  I mean, don't the psychologists always recommend journals, and diaries?   Saturday, February 1st, 8:00- awaken begrudingly from a dream that involves a beach, me in a size 2 bikini and lots of french fries!  Dress in the much larger, probably out of style pants, plaster on the eye-concealer creme that is supposed to erase lines, but obviously not crevices, and some blush to help with my coma color and then dress "S".  Prepare breakfast according to the ever changing desires of one fussy six year old and pour my wake up fuel in order to face the day ahead.  Bags, boxes, ribbons, balloons and toys adorn the floor.  My memory cells (now charged) remember the birthday party the day before.  My counters are cluttered with icky food trays,  half bags of chips, the remains of dips and gue, paper plates, mermaid napkins and juice boxes.  9:00-Engines reved with the second cup of coffee and the clean up, pick up, dismantle and refresh process begins.  10:00- "S" wants her presents removed from the boxes.  Has anyone seen how they adhere dolls to boxes these days?  You are more apt to break into a bank vault than remove toys from the original containers.  Tape, string, tabs and wire must be removed with my arthritic fingers.  Tools are now needed so I go fetch the necessary instruments.  Several toys require batteries and no one seems to remember where we placed those.  Some toys remain immobile until I can run to the store to purchase more batteries.  New toys are introduced to the old in her bedroom, but space is limited.  Shoving, pushing, squeezing and piling are required to fit the shiny with the tattered.  11:30- "S" wants a drink and my husband wants help holding a ladder for a project that I begged him not to start this week.  12:00-"S" is wailing about being starved and makes a request of foods that have more sugar than vitamins.  She gets her standard peanut butter and honey sandwich, fruit, drink and sugarless cookie.  I have skipped breakfast so decide on a quick and easy lunch and join my cannot-believe-she-is-six granddaughter.  1:00-dishes now washed, counters once again wiped, crumbs removed, so I run to the store to return some extras from the party, get gas, and pick up the usual I-forgot-earlier-in-the-week groceries.  2:30-I return, unpack and scan the house for any bruises from my short departure.  Skylah wants some attention and a partner for her new games.  I call up my inner child and play for two and a half hours, interrupted by a couple of phone calls requesting details of the birthday bash.  5:00-Unfortunately the tribe must be fed once again and take out is not an option.  7:00-How quickly two hours can fly when I am having so much fun cooking, serving and cleaning once again.  "S" needs a bath, and I remember that the clothes have not been placed in the dryer.  8:00-bath is finished, book is read and she is planked in front of a princess video.  I am tempted to watch, but decide to engage in a little exercise program consisting of 15 minutes of aerobics, a few sit ups and some weight resistance all in a futile effort to reduce the stomach I earned with my pregnancy of 38 years past and the skin that dangles from my arms that grew overnight sometime between the age of fifty and sixty.  9:00-"S" is put in bed, church clothes are placed on chairs to diminish the chaos of Sunday morning and clothes are folded from dryer.  9:30-Crawl into the bathtub, turn on some detective, take me away with some blood and guts show and unwind.  10:30-Begrudingly go to bed early because I know that I will be awakened early and it will begin again  Now I need some time to figure out how to make more of my day and actually accomplish something. 

I have not written for awhile due to the fact that I fill my day with meaniingless tasks and am positive no one wants to read about them. This has to be the sinlge most damaging bit of evidence that I am not really in my thirties like I wants others to think I am.  For even though I am accompanied by a five year old to all social events, hang out at water parks and bouncy houses, and can list the twenty programs on NickJr with ease, it is quite obvious that I am not of the younger generation because I am not facebooking, social networking via the phone or internet, linkinding, tweeting,  youtubing or pininteresting.  I just cannot figure out what I am doing that would interest anyone unless I was teaching an alien from outer space about the normal and most of the time boring routines of raising a child. For the life of me, I cannot understand the desire or obsession to share every tiny detail of one's existence via cyberspace.  Nowdays I can learn what my family and friends think about the latest trends, specific political causes, the activities of their offspring, their food desires, the latest trips, their bosses, siblings, or even the changes in weather conditions.  With the touch of a button I can be beamed to the core of one's mind and learn what they desire, hate, strive for, fail to act upon. who they deceive or deprive, if they are depressed, elated, or somewhere in between.  It is a constant waterfall of information from the totally absurd to the simply bland.  And frankly I avoid it because it leaves a void of communication that I find cowardly.  I do not shy away from the reflection of my conversations within the face of my receivers.  I want to read the nonverbal signs of boredom, interest, shock, despair or frustration within the eyes or expressions of those I interact with.  I accept the challenge of personalizing my communication with direct confrontation or conversation.  I accept and act upon the body movements that say rather loudly I do not like you or I would rather not discuss that at the moment.  I do not crave the ear of a stranger or the attention of the masses with my text of what I do or do not do, what I like or what I detest. Supposedly tweeting and the like have increased communcaition, but I feel that it has decreased relationships. It appears to enlighten, but it may just be blurring the lines of what we need to know and what we need to keep to ourselves.  This is no doubt going to be one of the many issues between "S" and I that will emphasize the differences in our age, and culture, but I can only pray that she prefers friends and family up close and personal rather than on window screens and endless verbage.....

"S" has been sick since September 26. To be exact, it has been six and one half weeks, or forty-five days or in my world, one thousand and eighty hours!  It all started with vomiting, then a diagnosis of strep throat, another diagnosis of strep throat and persistant cramps which continue today.  My social life has revolved around five visits with her pediatrician, and making new friends with staff at Urgent Care in the wee hours of the morning.  Endless consultations countless phone calls, six absences from school, five medications, changes in her diet and the addition of lactose free milk have resulted in little change.  She still has cramps and we are now trying procedure number six which of course involves being homebound and attentive to schedules of medicine, intake of food, deletion of such edibles and any noticable differences in pain.  Anyone who is the caregiver of a sick child, friend, parent or family member understands the normal wear and tear of the task, but not knowing what is wrong is doubly frustrating and stressful.  I am confident that "S' will be healthy again, but this past month has given new meaning to sleep deprived and patience challenged!  It has become very clear why I became a teacher and not a nurse!  In education, every skill taught causes a positive change and an investment toward the future.  Health issues are clouded with negativity and do not serve any purpose whatsoever!  I have apologized to "S's" teacher repeatedly because she complains of a stomachache each and everyday.  I have become a hermit in my house because I am either physically taking care of "S" or indirectly meeting her needs by making phone calls, researching symptoms on the internet or making purchases to help her mend. For those that have wondered why I have not answered e-mails, the phone or made an attempt to visit, blame it once again on my re-parenting saga!  As a grandparent raising a grandchild, each day is a challenge and a learning experience!  Whatever was known before is new to the individual that is now your child and your responsibilty.  "S" has more health problems than my biological children ever did, and is different in so many ways. Many of the differences stem from me as a parent in my sixties, but she is her own being and has her own special needs.  I pledge each day to take care of her as best I can, but the challenge of the past month seems to attest to having children when one is young, healthy and more energetic.  For now, I will just have to do......