A bio

My 9-year-old granddaughter called me last week to help her write a bio for an art exhibit she's to be featured in next month. Wow! Art exhibit at nine! What talent and she certainly didn't get it from this side of the family tree.

But a bio? We discussed what should go in it: her name, age (relevant in this case), where she goes to school, who her art teacher is, and what else she enjoys doing. She wrote a lovely one and I gave it the grandmother stamp of approval.

But then I thought: I need a new bio for my books and the websites which sell them. There would be my name, no age since it's not relevant, basically where I live if it pertains to what I write (it does), how I've learned my craft (experience and professional writing organizations) and what else I enjoy doing.

I need to get busy and will post my new bio as soon as I sort it out and get my granddaughter's stamp of approval.

Happy birthday, sweetheart!

Three years ago today, and six weeks before expected, our first grandchild was born. Emily could be held in her daddy's hand. She was big enough to breathe on her own, but not developed sufficiently to suck. Thus began three weeks in the NICU.

We treated her as if she were made of glass. Her uncle was afraid to hold her at her christening eight weeks later. She was cosseted, prized, and handled with utmost care.

Yesterday we celebrated with a birthday party and an active little girl who is growing taller every day. It looks like she'll be slim and athletic, with lovely verbal skills and a sharp wit.

Happy birthday, Emily.

And thank you, God.

Memory Monday: Where the piano earns a bad rap

Being a good mother, or so I supposed, I wanted to expose my sons to the arts. We went to museums and plays. And, I wanted them to learn an instrument.

The one of choice would be the one already available and sitting in the den: the piano. So began several years of punishment for us all.

The only way to describe Son number 2's experience with the piano is as torture. He... well, they just weren't made for each other. There wasn't enough movement for him, because we who play know there isn't supposed to be any wiggling around, etc. We gave up after a year. He is, however, a pretty good dancer, even took salsa lessons while in Costa Rica. Movement.

Son number 1 lasted about three years before I just gave up and eventually put my energies toward fighting some other cause with him. He'd had some talent and has said now that he wishes he'd stayed with it. Well, duh. Haven't we all said that about some pursuit we've abandoned. And, so we can complete the mother-son circle: I told you you'd regret quitting.

But his household has my mother's piano and his daughter, age 2, will sit on the bench for all of 10 seconds. Perhaps there's hope that she'll settle down and not follow in her uncle's motion-happy ways. If not, there's always the salsa.

Taking a cue from the granddaughter

With the joys of a grandchild have come the equal joys of seeing the amazing array of new gadgets and conveniences. Not only will this child never know what a real diaper feels like, she'll never bump her head on the brick fireplace because there are now fireplace bumpers!

However, I haven't really seen how I could personally use any of Emily's doo-dads until last weekend.

Desiring breakfast and a break from the interstate, we stopped at a fast food place. The service was what one would expect at 9:30 on Sunday morning, a bit sluggish. The tabletop clean-up service wasn't even at that level. We found one clean enough for a quick bite and at that moment I realized what I needed to pack: Emily's disposable placemats! Her mom just whips one out at a restaurant and it sticks to the table. Meal over, placemat is disposed of.

Hey, Emily... MoKa needs to look in your diaper bag and grab a little something!

Grandparents-in-training

It's not like we haven't been grandparents for, oh, a year now, but we came up against an immovable (literally) object this weekend.

With an early morning tee time in a golf tournament looming, it was decided for the grandest granddaughter to bring her parents and come spend the night before. That way, Miss Emily could get her sleep... well, everyone could get their sleep. Our house not holding the requisite baby items beyond blankets, books, and soft toys, we borrowed a version of a pack'n'play, or portable crib.

Right out of its carrying case, it practically set itself up, springing to life and only needing me to put the floorboard in and cover it with a crib sheet, circa 1978. (I knew it would pay off to save some of those things.) She slept just fine, the girls had a wonderful day while the guys played at golf, and they high-tailed it back to the Big City by mid-afternoon.

It was time to gather the scattered goodies and reset the house. The high chair was cleaned and put back into the store room. The towels were gathered, the bathroom reordered, and then it was time to take down the crib.

Out came the floorboard, up came the floor, and then it was push the button time. The side rails wouldn't move to collapse. They didn't even look like they were willing to collapse. I knew they could do it; that was their previous condition. I pushed the button again and pulled up, pushed down. No dice. Reread the instructions on the bottom of the crib. Found the paper instructions. Called Granddaddy.

He couldn't do it either. Called the owner of said stubborn crib which was taking up way too much room now that granddaughter was gone. She repeated what we'd read and promised to stop by after church the next day if we hadn't conquered it. We left it in frustration. Consulted other grandparents that night to find out that there was indeed a trick to it: holding your mouth just right as the cribs were notoriously hard to deal with.

We felt better, but still had a crib up. After church, our friend drops by, surveys the situation and pops it down in all of five seconds. Seems there are two buttons per side, one on the outside (which we never found or thought to look for) and one on the in (which pushing by itself will not yield results).

Given the pace at which baby conveniences have outstripped our knowledge, this doesn't bode well for the future. But we'll file this away and look for two buttons from now on.

Family friendly

Even though our older son made us grandparents this April, I still didn't consider the words "family friendly" coming out of his mouth any time soon. After all, this was the young man of golf, video games and TiVo, bars and late nights. But when I asked him where we'd be dining tomorrow evening when we see sons, daughters-in-law, and granddaughter, he told me an Italian restaurant close to his home. It was, after all, family friendly.

Ahhh. We've made the turn and it just took a 4 pound 9 ounce baby girl to do it.

The bathroom rules, revised

After visiting a few public bathrooms over the weekend, I decided I needed to do a slight revision before launching this full bore.

Instead of a steady stream of subtractions, I'm going to change a few to adds. So, the new revised rules:

From 100:
-10 if you walk past the men's room to get to the ladies'
-10 non toilet paper
-10 trashy
-5 one-holer
-5 no paper towels, if paper towels are the only choice of hand drying
-5 air dryer only
-5 no seat protectors
-5 door lock broken
-5 no coat/purse hanger
-5 no soap
+5 baby changing area
+5 auto-flush (and it works)
+5 auto paper towel

Now, let the games begin.

Up to dates: This is post 101! YIKES!
The grandest grandbaby is home from the neonatal intensive care unit after 24 days.

Thank you, Lord.

So who's into this now?

About two months ago I pulled down the attic stairs and climbed up. The attic is a place we don't venture to much except at Christmas. There's camping equipment from Boy Scout days, stored in the hopes that the sons will take it up with their children (and invite Granddad along), pictures and framed "artwork" from before we remodeled, and bags of stuffed animals and baby things I deemed, at the time twenty-odd years ago, too precious to toss.

As a grandmother-in-waiting, that's what I was after. I pulled through the plastic and cardboard and retrieved afghans and blankets and a piece or two of non-gender-specific newborn clothing. I washed it all up and made pretty piles on the guest bed. I even found old baby toys and gave them a buff.

My husband humphed. I was really getting into the baby thing, wasn't I?

Like, what should I be doing? Ignoring our first heir?

Nothing else was said. Then the granddaughter (that would be the grandest granddaughter in her paternal grandfather's eyes) appeared almost six weeks early. And you know what? Out of the blue it was decided we didn't have an adequate video camera. Just poof! That's what we needed. Why didn't I pick one up on my way down to see our baby yesterday?

Research aside, this is not a cheap decision. So I researched, chose, bought, presented it to him. Besides the fact that video is not allowed in the intensive care unit, he is quite happy with the new acquisition.

Like, I want to say, who's into this now?

Coming out of the woodwork

Have a preemie baby in intensive care and those with stories to buoy your day come, well, come out of the woodwork.

I hadn't known how many people had not taken their babies home from the hospital when they themselves left. I can only imagine the hollow feeling of leaving one's heart hooked to tubes and wiring. But it's not an uncommon occurrence and as I've moved about in my real- and cyber-world since our baby was born on Thursday, I've heard many stories. Most of them center on tiny babies who are now six feet tall.

It works for me.

So a big thanks to Kathi, Kathy, Amber, Irene, Bob, Jenny, Carole, and Cindy. And a bigger thanks to the wonderful lady at church, 85 if she's a day, who looked up at me (and I'm not tall) and recounted the stories of her brothers, one a blip on the radar at 2 pounds--and who grew to be, yes, six feet tall--and the other a resounding 11 pounds! No future size given, nor did I ask. But, she reminded me with a smile, this was when women had babies naturally.

Ouch!

PS: Our baby is still breathing on her own and has taken a bit of sustenance the old-fashioned suck and swallow route. And I got to hold her. I thought my friends were exaggerating when they said there was no feeling like holding the grandchild. No, they didn't lie. It was sheer delight.

My world gets its perspective sharpened

If you've read the previous post, you know that our granddaughter, while not scheduled to appear until mid-May, was threatening to launch herself more quickly. Well, launch she did, beginning Wednesday night and appearing on Thursday morning. At 34 weeks, she's a little early for everyone's comfort and at a bit over 4 1/2 pounds, she is now in the neonatal intensive care unit at her birth hospital. She is breathing on her own (whew! no incubator!) but she isn't eating, as those reflexes hadn't been seen to in the womb yet.

So, while Mommy is exhausted and Daddy is finally figuring out that life has changed, Emily Elizabeth is giving all of us pause. It's just a speed bump in her long wonderful life, I keep telling myself. Just a speed bump. She'll learn to eat--she has the oftentimes larger-than-life ancestors to attest to the fact that we all do. But until then, our perspective is focused on a little bed and a little inhabitant, her limbs and torso covered with sensors, all making sure they have the right perspective on our baby.