Tasting icicles.
Getting a gallant, helping hand.
Find out all about taking a trip to Cancun on my Herald-Leader blog today.
And read about great deals in the Caribbean at my Travel blog.
Don't forget about Try It Tuesday tomorrow! Start writing that post today and get ready to sign Mr. Linky any time after midnight tonight.
Then I actually had to WALK DOWN THE STAIRS to get to the beach. No elevator. No cabana boys to carry me as I reclined, sipping a frozen drink. Geez. SO. MUCH. WORK.
I had to cross a few yards of sand to get to the beach. A few yards. Can you believe it?
And I could actually see some people sharing our beach. I could SEE them sitting right near us. Well. Sort of near us. OK. They were not that close, but they were IN SIGHT. The nerve!
Sigh.
I managed to persevere. And it was all worth it. TOTALLY worth it. Just to see HIM play in the sand and dance in the waves.
I would have walked miles and miles and miles for that.
Maybe it wasn't QUITE so inconvenient after all.
Check out my Herald-Leader blog post today: Special Grandparent Books and sign up to win a free book!
And the local wildlife was quite exotic.
We had the loveliest time splashing about.
But, my dear, the paparazzi! So intrusive!
We finally had to completely vacate the water.
So annoying! I know JUST how Brad and Angelina feel!
Check my Herald-Leader post today at: On The Patio At Azure
First thing we do is get rid of those shoes, mon! Defeet and debabyfeet like de bare feet best.
Den we like to fly! Debabyfeet like defeet to make dem fly, fly, fly. It be fun, mon.
Den we get out de bowling game. Defeet bought dis for debabyfeet and debabyfeet love it. Dey are verra good at dis game. First, dey hold de ball.
Den debabyfeet roll de ball.
Den we get out de blocks. We like to make de tower verra high, mon. Cause dat be fun!
Now, it's time for some dinner, mon. Debabyfeet like de hot dog and de macaroni and cheese. And de cookie, of course. He like de cookie verra much. Defeet might like de cookie too. I'm just sayin.
When debabyfeet went home, defeet had to take a little rest. Debabyfeet full of energy, mon. Dey be FULL of energy.
It's fabulous to have a birthday dinner cooked by your daughter, who is a wonderful cook.
It's pretty fabulous to have a birthday meal cooked by your daughter, who is a wonderful cook, who also has the most perfect son on God's green earth.
It's pretty damn fabulous to have a birthday dinner cooked by your daughter, who is a wonderful cook, who also has the most perfect son on God's green earth, whose house is only ten minutes from your house.
It's pretty damn frackin' fabulous to have a birthday dinner cooked by your daughter who is a wonderful cook, who also has the most perfect son on God's green earth, whose house is only ten minutes from your house AND BE ABLE TO WEAR YOUR SLEEPING PANTS THERE.
Man, what a great birthday.
I forgot what it's like to have a two-year old.
I forgot that when he says he doesn't like Ravioli and I give him Ravioli anyway because his mom said sometimes he says no but he really means yes and he won't eat the Ravioli because, yes, he did indeed mean no, and I tell him OK, you eat your carrots and I'll make you some macaroni and cheese and then, because he's two and has no conception of time as we know it in this universe, he thinks that means macaroni and cheese RIGHT NOW and so, hey! he better clear off his high chair so he strong-arms that dinner right off the tray and onto the floor so Ravioli and peas and carrots shoot into the air in quite the display.
I forgot that macaroni and cheese means MACARONI not bow-tie pasta because they are NOT THE SAME THINGS AT ALL and he absolutely is astonished that I would think he is going to eat those ridiculous shaped things which are OBVIOUSLY not macaroni, what's wrong with you?
I forgot that you can't say now as soon as you finish those scrambled eggs Mimi made for you because the Ravioli and Macaroni and Cheese simply didn't cut it, we are going to take a bath and then we'll put on our pajamas and watch Blue's Clues and won't that be fun and that means BOOS COOS RIGHT NOW and then it's a little difficult to explain that no, scrambled eggs NOW, BOOS COOS LATER.
But I didn't forget that when I blow the pinwheel for him after dinner he will laugh out loud every time. Every single time. And that chuckle is bright and silvery and cascades into my heart and lodges there.
And I will make him Macaroni and cheese with macaroni and scrambled eggs or whatever he wants to eat forever and forever and forever.
Today is Blogblast for Peace Day. Bloggers all over the globe are going to post their own peace globes and write about peace. I don't have a lot to say. I'm not really very political. All I truly know is this. I want the world to be a peaceful place for my grandson. I never want him to have to die in a foreign country in a senseless war. I want him to live a long and happy life. And I would like the same for every grandson and granddaughter in the world. The whole world.
OK, so I'm a little late. This was actually supposed to happen on Wednesday. But what can I say. I've been working. I have been remiss in my blog reading. I hang my head in shame.
Anyway. My point.
Apparently, lots of people are reading blogs. Lots and lots and lots. But not many are commenting. Comments have fallen off even for the blog goddesses who live on Mount Olympus and only drink/eat ambrosia (this is a controversial point in the land of the gods) and put their eye shadow on with little tiny angel wings. Whatever. I have noticed a falling off in the comment department as well. From as many as...well...four or five, I might now have...well...two or three. It's an incredible difference. I tell you.
So, to the MOFO delurk day. Bloggers are asking their readers to delurk for just a moment. Just enough to make a quick comment. Just a sentence. A word. A letter....OK, I might need more than that. I think I will steal an idea from one of those Mount Olympus bloggers. Although steal is not exactly the right word. Teachers share all the time. I'm not she wouldn't mind if I share her idea. I hope not. If so, she can comment and let me know. I'm sure she reads regularly.
This weekend, I am going to the pumpkin patch with my family and friends. My little grandson, genius that he is, can now say pumpkin. And not even in Martian. He can say it in real Earthling. So we will celebrate this by getting him a pumpkin bigger than his head.
What are YOU doing this weekend? Comment, please. Maybe I can get as many as six comments. The excitement is palpable.
Make my day. Comment.
OK, the strangest thing is happening. Wes is growing up. It seems like just a very few months ago that he was in the NICU at the hospital, a minuscule 2-pound miracle that we all prayed over until he came home with a little monitor we had to keep plugged in when we were baby-sitting to make sure he was still breathing. And didn't our hearts stop when it started beeping, even though it was always a loose connection or a momentary lapse. Now he's almost two and he is turning into a real person. He is talking. OK, some babbling like he's from Mars, but now and then we actually get something understandable. His parents get a lot more understandable stuff but, at our house, it has to be Earth language for us to get it.
The other day I took him to the grocery and, while we were there, I got him a box of animal crackers. He was working on them in the car seat on the way home and, all of a sudden, I heard a little voice piping "My milk? My milk? My milk?" The boy wanted milk with his cookies and he was telling me.
Then, we were looking through kid's books at Goodwill and I idly held one out to him. "Do you want the duck book?" I didn't really expect an answer. I often talk to him and don't really expect an intelligible answer. But he leaned forward, looked carefully at the duck book, looked up at me and said "No." Then he proceeded to keep looking through the other books.
I fixed dinner for him and began making macaroni and cheese. "Macaroni and cheese" I crowed to him, because I know he likes macaroni and cheese. He grinned at me and did a little dance, singing very clearly "Cheese! Cheese! Cheese!"
And, of course, it goes without saying that he can clearly say "Read book? Read book? Read book?"
Did you really expect any less from the grandson of a librarian?
He was reading with Tom the other day and we got a whole, entire, understandable sentence out of him. It was very strange. Good. But strange.
We are looking forward to a whole new era.
-Mary H. Waldrip
I thought I understood how the other grandmother felt. How it must be so difficult for her, being so far away from her only grandchild. Only seeing him a few times a year. I put myself in her position and felt her pain and sorrow and my heart hurt for her. Or so I thought.
This weekend, she was in town for a visit. We didn't get to see Wes at all. Liz posted some photos on her blog yesterday. The other grandmother with the perfect boy. I have spent a lot of time with him this summer, so I feel especially close to him right now. Even more so than usual. And when I saw her holding him in her lap, I felt...sad is not a strong enough word. Anguish. Pain. My heart literally hurt in my chest. It HURT. I don't feel jealous. It's not that kind of pain. I am willing to share him. I know it's good for him to have lots of people who think he is the most perfect child on earth. But I missed him. I wanted to touch his face. Kiss his cheek and his neck. Hear him laugh. And it hurt that I couldn't.
And that's how she feels. Every day. Every single day.
I thought I understood how the other grandmother felt. But I was stupid. Stupid. I was smug in my understanding of her pain. I realize now I had no idea. I'm so sorry, Alice.
Art Class is over for the Summer. Wes and I went to the last class on Friday. So, here's a little pictorial history lesson to help you share the whole experience with our little Van Gogh. And me.
When we went outside to fly our kites, someone accidentally squeezed their keys in their purse and set off their car alarm. Wes is trying to figure out who the dodo was who did this. That could totally happen to anyone. I'm just saying.
One of the most fun activities was painting with colored shaving cream. Until Wes realized it was stuck to his hands. We had to make an emergency trip to the bathroom to wash our hands. Like, RIGHT NOW, Mimi. Get this crap OFF ME!! Which was fine, because in all actuality? I think he enjoyed the hand washing in the little kid bathroom more than any of the art projects combined. It would have saved me a lot of money if we had just gone to the Center and washed our hands every day. 
So, Wes and I have been going to ART CLASS. I think that totally needed to be in capitol letters, because really. Art class. With a toddler. How fancy can ya get? With his mom's approval, I signed him for an art class at the Living Arts and Sciences Center which is kind of like yuppie central for classes for children. I have longed to take my children to classes there for years but seriously. $60 for a week long class? When my children were small, that might as well have been $6,000. It was that far from our financial capability.
Now that we have a grandson, $60 is nothing. We spend that much on kee-kees (cookies, you nit) for him in a week. OK, not really. His mom already thinks we give him too many kee-kees at our house. But we don't. (yes, we do.)
So. ART CLASS. I was totally naive the first day because, well, wouldn't you be? Here's the description of the class:
64. Our Forest Friends With Michelle Newby Armstrong We will learn about the different animals that live in the forest through art, stories, songs, and games. We will learn about plants and insects from the forest, too.Ages 18 - 24 mo + Parent 9 - 10 am $50(m), $60(nm).
So, I'm thinking, like stories and games and stuff. And maybe some coloring with crayons? I was going to lunch with a friend after the class so I had on a darling (of course) green capri set with matching green shoes (but you knew that) and was made up and primped up and good to go for a chick lunch outing. And then they got out the paint and the paper and the glue sticks. Crap. I managed to hold him at arm's length while we dipped the leaves into paint and not get any on me. The other mothers who were dressed casually in jeans and t-shirts (and $1,000 diamond bracelets) gazed disdainfully down their noses at me. I could see they were wondering just what kind of grandmother I was all DRESSED UP for ART CLASS.
I got smart the next day and dressed much more casually. Good thing. Because she got out the paint and THE PAINT BRUSHES. God. But it was OK. Wes grasped the paintbrush and dipped it into the blue paint, all ready to paint his plant pot we were planting with flower seeds, oh so natural and talented. My heart was swelling with love for this natural little artist, so ready to paint his little clay pot. He is such a genius. Maybe he will grow up to be a famous painter. I can see it now. His artwork will hang in museums and I will go visit and hang out by the framed, famous works, and casually examine my fingernails and say "Oh, me? I'm just the artist's grandmother. I took him to his first ART CLASS, you know. It's thanks TO ME that he is famous and rich now."
He held up the paint brush, dripping with bright blue paint, getting ready to dab the pot and create a masterpiece.
Then, he stuck the paintbrush in his mouth and attempted to eat the blue paint.
I bet his mom never even noticed. I'm sure I got it all washed off. Except that little bit in his hair. Never be noticed. I'm sure.
He wakes up crying from his nap so I go in to get him and, when he sees me, he stands up in the crib, holds up his arms and says "Mimi." It's the first time he has said it so clearly. My heart breaks into a million silvery pieces that fly away but one lodges in my throat and chokes me and brings hot tears to my eyes.
I pick him up and his blonde, downy head lays down on my shoulder. It's heavy and warm. He's not quite awake. I go in the family room and sit in the recliner and rock him a little bit to wake him up. But he's not ready to wake up. He tucks in close and nestles his head against my breast and his hand drifts lightly, softly against my other breast and falls open like a soft flower. His eyelids flutter and fall slowly closed again and his breathing is soft, soft against my neck and his foot is warm against my bare leg.
He is warm, warm and he relaxes into sleep and I recline the chair and lay my head back and close my eyes. His body is soft and warm and relaxed against my chest and now he is deeply asleep and his small foot relaxes against my leg. And it is so small.
I am dozing now too and the fan overhead turns, turns and the cool air bathes us both but we are warm, warm and content and sleepy and life is good.
And it's naptime.
We got to keep Wesley this weekend. I use the term "we" loosely, since Tom's part in keeping Wesley consists of chasing, playing, laughing and tickling. My part consists of feeding, diaper-changing and cleaning up. Well, that's not really fair, since Tom has kept him alone and done all the afore mentioned chores as well as playing with him. And done them annoyingly well. Even without me.
I have completely forgotten my metiquette. I used to know metiquette. When I had my children with me and met other moms, I knew how to behave. No more. Once I entered grandmother (Mimi) territory, I completely forget any manners I used to have.
I took Wes to the park the other day. We were playing and having a great time running around and rolling the ball (bah! bah! God, what a genius he is.) to each other when another mom came over and sat down beside us in the grass. Her little boy ran over to Wes and they commenced a gabbling conversation that sounded like two Martians had finally, FINALLY managed to find each other on planet Earth and now they could proceed with the invasion. She smiled and said "How old is your little boy?" Now, I have to pause here to preen a little at her actually thinking Wes was my child. The fact that my sunglasses were covering the wrinkles around my eyes and my cellulite, spider veins and flabby thighs and stomach were obscured because I was sitting down, is completely irrelevant.
I answered "Oh, he's my grandson and he's 18 months old this month." "He's darling", she replied.
And here's where my metiquette fell completely apart. In hindsight, I should have asked about her child, told her he was just a DARLING child and chatted a little. But, in my defense, I am a Mimi now, not a Mom. All my friends are grandmothers. When we talk about our grandchildren and show each other pictures, we admire how fabulous they are and it's perfectly acceptable to say "I know! He is so gorgeous!". Because, after all, we didn't really make him. We can totally take credit for how fabulous he is because we didn't make him. His PARENTS made him. So it's OK to agree about his fabulousness. We completely understand each other. And, we know, even though we don't say it, that OUR grandchild is the most perfect, the most beautiful, the most angelic child on the face of the earth. Not their grandchild. And we all understand this. Each of our grandchildren is the most perfect one. Of course.
So, when she complimented my PERFECT grandson, I said "I know". I DID. I'm cringing now. But, at the time, it seemed perfectly logical. He is perfect, after all. For someone else to comment on it seemed perfectly natural. She was a kind, pleasant woman. She didn't stare at me incredulously. She didn't reach out and slap me for not complimenting her child. Maybe her child has a similar Mimi. She just smiled.
And took her child away to find a mom who knew her metiquette.
