National Lazy Day

"Let's do this. Let's be l-a-Zzzzzz."

Today is National Lazy Day. AND it happens to be a Friday to boot. DOUBLE win.

It's also National S'mores Day... which kinda defeats the whole being lazy thing.

To Gram or not to Gram...that is the Question.

I read a bumper sticker once that said “If I knew having grandchildren would be so much fun, I would have had them first”. It's funny 'cause it's so true. If you are a grandparent you're nodding your head up and down, thinking of the sublime difference between raising your kids and raising your grandchildren.

Calvin Wesley (my youngest)  and Gram

I became “Gram” for the first time when I was 45 years old and it was a brand new experience for me. An experience for which I had no concept of, nor training for. I'd had no grandparents around when I was a child, and my own mother and mother-in-law lived far away from us when my kids were young. They were from a generation and an upbringing that taught “Grandchildren should be seen (when called for) but not heard from, so please keep the noise down and go play outside like a good boy”. Neither of them were what you'd call spoilers or smotherers. I don't fault them. They did the best they knew to do, as do all of us. So donning the mantle of “Gram” was entering unchartered waters for me, and over the years I've experienced multiple moments of being lost at sea on the S.S. Gramma—oftentimes feeling like a fish out of water, flapping my fins on the sand, gasping for air and hoping someone throws me back into the ocean.

Leah and Lorynne (my two oldest g-daughters)

By the time I was 55 I had been blessed with 7 more grandchildren....that's 8 grandkids in 10 years if anyone is doing the math....and I realized along the way that it was either sink or swim in the grandma pool—and after all these years, I still flounder. My own mother had four children and 12 grandchildren between them all. As adults, her kids were tossed to every compass point in the country; Georgia, Florida, Arizona and So. California. She advised me once (after observing me laughing and playing with the two oldest granddaughters when they were very young) not to get too emotionally close to my little darlings. Shaking her head and looking at me with love she said, “Their parents could decide to move to Timbuktoo, you know. And you'll get your heart broken”. She was looking out for my best interests. She was speaking from experience. She was right. She was wise. Sigh....she was ignored.

Georgia, Cal and Mary Katherine - my Bischlets

I have thrown caution to the wind and shamelessly loved each one of my grandchildren, and can't even explain how big my heart grows when they simply walk into a room, give me a hug and call me “Gram.” I rejoice with them over their triumphs, pray for them continually, and cheer them on from the sidelines. I secretly worry about them when they go to summer camp or when they get bullied in school. The oldest one just got her driver's license, and that opens up a whole new can of anxiety. I am still amazed after all this time over how much of my heart they have unknowingly taken posession of.

Jared and Ian - Inseparable Cousins

I also worry about whether or not I'm doing it right. Do I spoil them too much? Not enough? Should I offer more advice? No advice? Should I offer more help to their parents? Or am I in their lives too much? And here's something else....although I am a huge supporter of my wonderful adult children who each are (truth be told) doing an outstanding parenting job, I have absolutely no say-so in how they raise my grandchildren. AND even if I disagree with parenting decisions they make, I must remain firmly supportive of them, and especially to the grandkids faces when they don't agree with their parents either. I am still a mom and am painfully aware that my first job is to cheer on my own kids as their number one fan....but it's difficult. It's annoying at times. I think to myself  “Just let me raise your kids...I'm older and smarter, and I'd do a much better job now than I did when I was raising YOU.” Don't get me wrong—I do give my opinion...which largely falls on deaf ears—but then I shut up. Well I usually shut up...OK maybe sometimes.

Oh mom you were right. And you were wrong. You were a rock, you were an island...you didn't have to be inconvenienced to pick up my kids from school—ever—or sit with me in the doctor's office holding my fevered babies in your arms, awaiting our turn. You never had to sacrifice your saturday mornings to attend children's soccer games or rush to their school after work on a weeknight to see their Spring recital; and they never bothered you with a request to decorate a special cake for them for their birthdays. You were able to live your life unfettered, foot-loose and fancy-free; buying grown-up cars instead of mini-vans, and placing expensive objects d'art around your home without fear of them being demolished.

Ryan..letting Gram kiss him

On the other hand, you never had a grandchild call you on a Saturday morning asking you to come over and pick them up so they could come spend the day with you “just 'cause”. You never called your out-of-town grandkids, asking them to put the phone on the piano and play you their latest recital piece then clap your hands and hoot so loud the phone rattled on the keyboard. You never had those grandchildren spend a weekend with you then hug you so tight when they were leaving to go back home, and ask if they could stay with you longer. You never held a colicky grandchild in your arms at 11:00 pm in the dark, rocking in your rocking chair, singing lullabyes with the moonlight streaming into the window, with every ounce of your being melting into her beautiful, wide-awake brown eyes. And you never experienced the awesome pride as, with tears in your eyes, you watched them walk down the aisle to graduate from school, knowing they'll be entering life happy and successful and yes, that you have a tiny little part in that.

Mom sometimes I wonder if you can see us from heaven and if you are still wagging your warning finger at me. Or if your opinion has softened and changed—if you rejoice with me in the accomplishments of your great-children, as well as the accomplishments of your daughter. Oh mom, I know you were happy and lived a good long life. I don't think you had many regrets...but you missed out on so much.

SIRIous Business

We're BAAAACK!

Being new (again) to California, Mustache Man and I had to get our car registered and new driver's licenses this week. Today we went to the DMV. In Arizona it's called the MVD, which I never got used to. So I'm back home, without any vowels. And it was the usual madhouse that I remember from the days before Al Gore invented the internet and you could do everything online. But, being new to the state (again), we had to go IN to get established as permanent, law-abiding, tax-paying, recycled residents of Jerry Brown's California. Even with an appointment the line to get our pictures taken was loooong.

We both had to take a written test which was totally unexpected and extremely unstudied for. What the?!? I've been driving for a hundred years. What could I possibly not know? We both barely passed. And FYI, it is illegal to drive with a "blood alcohol concentration" that is higher than .08. I did not know that. So, no more driving for me after 11am. I suspected the long line was because of New Guy. New Guy was having a hard day. I really felt for him. We've all been there, right? No one wants to be New Guy. And Ready For Retirement Lady was barely giving him minimal help. The Waiting In Line people were getting restless. And the Mustache and I, being the codependent, make-everyone-happy, proactive people that we are, felt we had to do something about it.

hey SIRI, how you doin'?

We heard a lot of numbers being called over the PA by the automated pre-recorded voice of a woman. "Number B104 will now be served at window 34." Picking up on this, Mustache and I, we say out loud, "this female voice making the announcements? She should really be a SIRI." She would say "If you have numBER BEE. one. OH. four. please go TO window numBER thirTEE-four. She could even be interactive. She'd make wisecrack comments about people who go to the wrong window or have a pouty face. "Hey, you IN the YELLow jacKET. You are at the wrong winDOW. Are you stuPID?" and "Hey, I don't LIKE your attiTUDE. Go to the END of the LINE." All in that monotone she's so fond of. Everyone would be afraid to do anything wrong and get called out by SIRI. She'd make farting sounds right before the camera shot your picture just to make you smile weird. Or comment on what you're wearing. "That purple puke jacKET is not IN your COlor WHEEL, girlFRIEND." There's no end to what a SIRI could do at the DMV. She could even ride along for your driving test. "Turn left at the NEXT corner. I said left. LEFT. YOU fail."  ha.ha. This was fun. The Waiting In Line people became engaged. They threw out ideas for a funny SIRI comments. It was great. Plus it was G-rated. Nice.

it's raining money!

"But why stop here?", we say as we walk across the parking lot to find our car, which now has to be smog-emission tested for our new state and returned to the DMV for verification within 60 days. Mustache Man and I think we should sell this SIRI idea to the Department of Transportation (a government entity who will, of course, build our business) and we'd make a virtual killing. We'd call it, "SIRIously??" Okay. Who wants in?

Calling All Moms

I read another great post today from one of my all-time favorite blogs called Mammalingo, entitled, "A Letter To My Sons, Take Two". Mammalingo is a trip and a half. I love her. We don't agree on everything which is cool because I can always catch a glimpse of someone else's take on things whilst enjoying the dollop of humor she inevitably plops on top. Make that a BIG dollop.

Today she shared some sage advice in a letter to her sons as they grow into strapping young men. I encourage you to read it. Good stuff. But it was her last bit that made me, at first, chuckle to myself and then gulp down the muddy lump that suddenly developed in my throat and made it hard to breathe for just a moment. Her advice? "oh yeah. Call your mother."

The reality of our sons growing up and moving on and totally forgetting (certainly not refusing?) to call their moms is just all too... REAL. It's as if these kids of ours think a stork really did deliver them and then, as soon as they get a taste of independence, (or fall in love with another woman besidesyou)<;they just don't seem to want their mom around... hovering

so what's the problem?

When my son moved away from home at the age of eighteen to attend a school of ministry, it wasn't so far away that his dad and I couldn't visit every now and again. And we did. And it was great. And when we would leave I'd always remind him to call his mom. "Don't forget to call your mom!". blah blah blah. yeah yeah yeah. He took it all in stride and I did get a couple calls out of that effort. Then I decided to leave a more creative reminder for him. haha. Funny mom. It was a non-toxic, car-safe, window paint reminder, correctly and very neatly spelled backwards on his car's rear window. How cute is that? Look in the rearview mirror. hahaha. No? For some reason, my son did NOT think this was funny. At all. Not even a little bit. I didn't find this out until later, when the calls stopped all together, but I had think embarrassed him in front of his fellow students. What? But yeah, I did, and yes, I did feel badly. Really badly. But fer cryin' out loud, how does a mother know when what used to be funny just isn't funny anymore? And then, no calls at all? Bah! Maybe he just "forgot". Probably. Maybe. Ya know, you raise your kids to be strong and wise and independent and what happens when they go ahead and do all that? They drop you like yesterday's news. This is tough stuff. And that is probably a really appropriate metaphor. But seriously, isn't that what they are supposed to do? And if we don't feel some kind of gutting then maybe we're doing it wrong. And we're moms. We really don't want to do it wrong. (even though we often do)

I hope Mammalingo's sons call her, though. I really do. At least with the good important stuff. Like what they had for lunch that day. I hope they do.

oh and p.s. My son is in his 30s and still not so good at calling. So I moved in with him. Problem solved.

That's What He Said

Last Sunday I took myself out to lunch. It was about noon and church had just let out. Living near a retirement village it's not hard to spot so many carefree, retired, restaurant-going, golf cart-driving, gray-haired folk who seem to have lived a good life and now have no worries in their little retirement world. So, as I sat and observed the patrons coming and going I noticed this foursome in particular. And this is why. The man on the left spoke across the table to his friend with constant hand movement. Was he telling a fish story? or how to rotate a tire? It was extreme movage of the hands. And all the while his sweet little wife next to him delighted the woman across from the table with her soft spoken (who-knows-what-she-was-saying) monologue. Was it grandkids or gossip or gardening tips? Who knows. But those two talked for a good half hour, non-stop, while the couple on the right just listened. Non-stop listening. 

I thought about my husband and how many years we've been together and how did we behave in restaurants? And that prompted the next question; are we that old? And do we look this good? But the real question to me was, which couple would my husband and I be in this scenario?? The mind reels. But the fact is, we will never look this mature nor this responsible. Ever. And I'm not sure how I feel about that. So my question didn't really need an answer at all.

Then I went home and took a nap. People-watching is exhausting. Maybe I am that old. pshh...

So... which couple are you?

Thoughts on Mother's Day 2012

Mom's Wedding Day

I grew up a Navy brat in the 50's and 60's, moving every few years, and after 20 years of serving his country, my dad reluctantly retired and moved us to the Antelope Valley in southern California. There were four of us kids and I was somewhere in the middle. After entering civilian life, my father found a perfectly respectable job in civil service while my mother was a perfectly normal stay at home working mom. And work she did. The woman was domestic as all get-out. Our house was cleaned and spit-polished daily. Our clothes were hand-sewn, starched, and wrinkle-free. Our hair was curled and our bangs were short. Our pillow cases and my dad's handkerchiefs were ironed for crying out loud--even the garage was organized and clear of clutter. We ate three home made meals a day and I can count on one hand the number of times we ate out during my first 16 years of life. We had a formal living room that we NEVER used. We kids were only allowed to step foot in there barefoot and right after our baths. It was a special treat to sit on that pristine white sofa, scrubbed and red-cheeked in my jammies, wondering if I would have such a nice white sofa when I was grown up.

Grandma, Mom holding me, Dad and Sherry in front

Being a religious woman, she taught us geeky sayings like “Pretty is as pretty does”, and “Look before you Leap” and (my favorite) “If you don't have anything good to say about someone then say nothing at all”. She taught us the golden rule, “please” and “thank you” and how important it is to use proper grammar. I rolled my eyes and sighed whenever she would open her mouth, but she was right, as we all know by now. I look back on those days and in my mind I see my mom vacuuming the living room in a dress, heels and a pearl necklace. I know she didn't but she may as well have been. She was the perfect June Cleaver.

Now I thought my mother was average. I thought that every kid had a mother like mine and a comfortable home with fresh baked cookies waiting for them after school. I thought every mother was a strong matriarchal figure, holding the family together while my dad was called away, sometimes for months, to serve Uncle Sam. She was virtually a single mom and carried our burdens, shielded us from stress or, oftentimes the truth, to keep us from worrying. I never gave her much thought, unless it involved her meeting my needs and expectations; new clothes, a ride to the library, hot dinners, popcorn on Friday nights and a warm bed with clean sheets to slip into at the end of the day. As we became teenagers and o-so worldly-wise, my sister and I were regular know-it-alls, noticing my mother's faults and eagerly bringing them to her attention. We mocked the way she pronounced certain words (she was from Arkansas, we were California to the bone). She took up the ukelele and would sit in that white living room playing and singing to her heart's content...but we were too cool to appreciate that and scoffed at her from the other room till she finally gave it up. Oh mom...we were such jerks. We were so selfish; so self-absorbed.

Mom and Me a few years ago at the Whistlestop Cafe in GA.

For the record, I did apologize to her for that in my later, adult years and even bought her another ukelele hoping she'd play again. But by then the arthritis in her hands had taken away any ability she had to play. I also apologized to her in later years for the stress I caused her during my checkered past...like running off at 18 with an AWOL sailor to live in a van near San Francisco with my other hippie friends...and without the benefit of holy matrimony. She just smiled at me and said “I know, Mary Catherine. I know”. During the last 15 years of her life, we became close. She'd listen to me as I'd pour out my heart about the difficulties of raising teenagers and the nuisance of annual pap smears. She'd just smile. She knew.

She passed away almost four years ago. She was going on 83 and had lived a good long life. It was her time and she was ready to go. But I sure as heck wasn't ready for her to leave. I almost drove to the desert today (Mother's Day) to visit her grave—but she's not there, so I stayed at home with that hollow feeling in my heart I get around this time of year. My own adult children came over and I let them distract me with their various stories of the difficulties of raising kids and the inconvenience of their annual OB/GYN visits. I nod and listen...she taught me well. I like to think mom is listening in, laughing at our jokes and nodding her head in wisdom.  I like to think that someday I'll see her when it's my time to “shuffle off this mortal coil”and fly to heaven. I can see the look of excitement she'll have on her face when she sees me for the first time, and I imagine she'll be waiting for me with a fresh pot of coffee and a twinkle in her eye as we sit and visit and talk about the old days. I know we'll skip over the trying times, and only talk about the good cause that's the way we'll remember it. I'm glad I have that to look forward to.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

Mary Catherine ~

Feeding the Baby

I finally figured out what sport comes to mind when feeding my beloved 6-month-old grandson. 

Yep. This is it. Target shooting. But without the arrows or sharp pointy objects. Just one spoon. One baby. And 180 degrees of moving target. If this were an olympic sport, I would be so ready to compete.

Whitewashed Fences

Recently my husband, Jim (aka Mustache Man) and I have been seeing a "life" counselor.  Roderick (life coach) talked about the importance of us having someone other than each other that we could confide in and feel safe with. Well, I just sat up a bit prouder in my chair and put an imaginary notch in  my imaginary belt of self-righteousness.  I DO have someone I can confide in and she 1) does not pressure me to call her every Tuesday, 2) does not demand that I tell her first before I tell anyone else anything of any importance that happens in my life and 3) she doesn't judge me. I'm pretty sure about #3. I'm feeling pretty confident so I'll go with it. So, my safe-to-purge-on person? Yeah, I'm talking about my tea-toking sister, Cathy. (not her real name).  She's seen me in some very low places (not real places) and has always been there to lift me up, even if it's just to get me to smile. I sometimes think that making someone smile is a lot like whitewashing a wooden fence. It's not a terribly glamorous job, but it sure makes the house look nicer.  So I was thinking about that today (smiles, not fences) because Jim and I had to cancel our counseling appointment tomorrow (nothing serious). And she's my go-to gal so naturally I'd think of her... is any of this making sense? She's the husband I never knew I always wanted. OK, that's not true either. But here's the thing with Cathy and me. We work on our friendship everyday, and it's called texting. And it's FREE. Inevitably one of us will get a headache from tap-typing on our iPhones, so when the mood strikes we will email. I don't try to wax eloquent when I write to her, I don't always spell check, although that is incredibly difficult for me to NOT do.  My sister is extremely low-maintenance and she always lifts up my spirits, and I know that's what she wants to do. Because she loves me. I just love her for that.

Here's a typical short-version of an email from today. It's not Mark Twain, but it got my fences whitewashed just the same. And that's what mattered.  It's all that mattered on this particular day.

On Dec 5, 2011, at 2:26 PM, Susan Fernald wrote:

> I opened my email today and now there's 192 unopened emails there.Lurking. Most of them are stuff i've started "following", and SodaHead crap. oy. my head hurts again. I was up all night and couldn't sleep so I watched White Collar on Netflix. It's a funny white collar crime series. Catchy title huh? Then I got up at 7, showered and dressed, drank some coffee, watched some Top Gear with Evan then went to see my baby boy. OMG. He's grown, sissy. And he didn't even wait for me. He sits in my lap now and smiles and chews HARD with those newbie teeth of his. He's 17 pounds and 4 feet tall. He's gonna be a husky kid, and he's gonna be Gramma's care bear when he's old enough to hug me as great as his daddy does. I call Sam our family's care bear, and he is. Then I came home and saw that new Pinterest deal inviting me to join via my Facebook account. I'm pretty sure the banks are in cahoots with Facebook and you'll have have a driver's license, ss# and a FB acct to put money in the bank. So anyway I checked it out since Lisa told me she had a "board". huh? I started up just a peck and a paw on that and OMG how many hours will this snag out of my already sedentary day? Pinterest is WAY better than Farm Town. Do you think I can do both? I may have to sell off one of my 12 farms. You think i'm kidding but I'm not. Lisa got the 4S iphone and now sends me great pictures again. She sent one that had a picture of B next to a photo of her that I had taken after she'd gotten her cast off at 4 months. They look exactly alike. Well, you and I both think that. And I was thinking how MUCH I'm enjoying that baby who was just sitting in my lap, not doing anything special except brightening my world, and I think maybe I got to get Lisa twice, so I could love her all over again. But this time I'll do it better. And then I'm all crying and now I can't stop and my head hurts even more. How can happy tears hurt so much? OK, enough out of me. How are you doing sissy?

From Cathy Berthiaume -REPLY- 

>Now i"m crying too after that last bit in your email. Yeah. Grandkids are like getting a chance to do it all again and we WOULD do it better. If only our grown children would listen...
I'm glad you're feeling a bit better. Man that flu really took you downtown to China town.

Here's a random story:

Sometimes I use Mike's glucose meter to check my blood sugar level. It's always around 75 or 80. He's always burnt that its so low. "You should have diabetes too" he says. "You are more of a candidate for that than I am". And I just say "tch tch. Don't sulk. Now excuse me cause there's a donut int he kitchen calling my name".

But seriously he shakes his head like "it doesn't make sense". Well he has the family history of diabetes, right? But he really eats healthy and has always taken loads of vitamins and walks so really it isn't fair. he is keeping it down to below 120 though by diet and exercise alone. I saw my endocrinologist this morning for my thyroid and I told him about Mike and he said that only 3% of people with diabetes actually keep it under control without medication so yay for Mike. If it was me I am SURE I'd be on medication.


ps my under achieveing thyroid is fine.

pps tell that baby to STOP growing for crying out loud

See what I mean? Whitewashed fences. And I didn't use spellcheck either.
~Susan Renee~

The Pirates of Riverlakes

Ian and Jared, age 3

I have eight grandchildren. The score is even; 4 boys and 4 girls. Each and every one of them are my heart's delight and believe you me, I KNOW I am blessed. Smack dab in the middle of the line-up are two boys; Ian and Jared. These two boys are thick as thieves, closer than brothers, and can even finish each other's sentences. They are inseparable—in crime as well as punishment. Ian is a little older than Jared but for three months out of every year they are the same age, and right proud of it. This month, they are both 9. Together they have obsessed over Star Wars, Indiana Jones, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles...you name it. If there is sword fighting, karate or blowing stuff up, they're all in. Jared doesn't mind girls. They are ok by him—in their place. Ian has always been a card carrying member of the “He Man Woman Haters Club”. After watching Lara Croft Tomb Raider they both gained new respect for the feminine gender. Thank you Angelina Jolie for increasing those boys tolerance. But they don't just love the most popular action movies, they become the characters in the movies. During the Star Wars phase (which comes and goes) Ian was Han Solo and Jared was Anakin Skywalker. They dressed the part, they looked the part, they could duplicate every light saber fight in every movie and did so with gusto. I must have at least 6 light saber in my house at all times and it prompted #4 of "Gram's Top 10 Rules for Raising Grandchildren— You can never have too many Light sabers”. The two younger grandsons, Ryan and Calvin, and at least one of the girls would agree with and appreciate that.

Jared and Ian, age 4

When the families all get together I can't help but watch them play and wonder what it will be like around my house when they are all teenagers and older. How much quieter it will be when they are no longer running shrieking through the house chasing each other with water guns or playing hide and go seek at the top of their lungs. In hind sight I know all too well that my own kids grew up in the blink of an eye, and against my better judgement. I am helpless against the tides of time and watch in amazement how much faster it seems the grandkids are growing.

In an effort to save myself from constantly washing cups, last summer I had the kids all write their names on the kid-sized acrylic cups I have—so when they come over they'll know which cup is theirs and use it all day, instead of always getting new cups. Brilliant, Gram. I amaze me. Then a couple weeks ago I decided to buy myself all new, matching acrylic cups for the grown ups. Four different colors, sixteen in all. I've always wanted all my cups to match so I figured it was time and I had a 20% off coupon for Bed Bath and Beyond. The kids have their cups now and the adults have theirs. I'm sure Martha Stewart's cupboards look exactly like mine. Maybe organized better but I bet her cups match.

Ian and Jared, age 8

The next day Ian and Jared came over to spend the night. They saw my new cups, immediately located the permanent black marker and wrote their names, each on their own cup. It was at that moment I walked into the kitchen. They were proud and showed me their brand new personalized cups. The first thing out of my mouth was “Oh No! I just bought those. You weren't supposed to write your names on my Brand New, 16 matching, Bed Bath and Beyond Grown Up Cups!” I saw their deflated faces. Ian put the marker down and they both looked me in the eye and said “I'm sorry Gram. We didn't know”. They shuffled out of the kitchen in silence and then I noticed the cups. Both were scrawled with their 9 year old handwriting and both said the same thing— “Captain Jack Sparrow”. 

Captain Jack's cup

Right then and there the proverbial ton of bricks hit me and my timbers were shivered. I melted. I sighed. I darn near cried. I thought how fleeting this time is with my Captain Jack Sparrows and how these 16 matching Bed, Bath and Beyond cups will be cracked and thrift store fodder long before they start liking girls for real and put up their light sabers for good. Cups I can replace. Two Cap'n Jacks...irreplaceable. I found them in front of the X Box and suggested we go out for ice cream. “C'mon Captain Jacks. Last one in the Granny Van walks the plank!” Grabbing their swords and screeching like banshees they jumped up and ran out the door. Oh how I love those two villains.


~ Mary Catherine 

Call of Dooty

When my kids were babies I breastfed them exclusively. Thus, their poop (or "dooty" as I call it) didn't ever stink. Well, not until they started eating food anyway. That was just one of the perks of breastfeeding. When my grandson, Brayden, was born it was the same. He was, for the most part, breastfed and I don't recall him yet having a stinky diaper. But, stinky or not, I made it my goal to never change a "dooty diaper" if I could avoid it. Let's face it, boys are just harder to clean up; too many nooks and crannies. I used to have a baby boy. I know. So, it became a little goal of mine and I was determined to go as long as I could without changing a single dirty diaper. And it lasted... for 12 whole weeks.

Brayden Mason

When B's mommy, Lisa (my daughter) returned to work 12 weeks after his birth, I offered to watch him for her. Hallelujah! What a deal. I waited for so long to get this grand baby I was in heaven at the idea of playing this role in his life.  Besides, I was already head-over-heels in love with him.


When the day arrived for my daughter to bring over the "supplies" I would need, I hadn't quite counted on a case of pint-sized disposable diapers to be included. What was I thinking? Of course I needed diapers. It had finally hit me. "I'm gonna have to start changing some dooty diapers now! Ugh and Yuk." My winning streak just ended by answering the Call of Dooty. But ya know what? I wouldn't have it any other way. Our "dooty times" have been some of the sweetest moments between my grandson and me. While I do the changing, he spends most of the time smiling up and gooing at Gramma. It's so precious my heart usually sheds a few tears of joy. 

I love this little boy in ways I have never known before. And I am so blessed to be in a position to care for him while his mommy must work. I have to say I am proud and happy to have answered the call.  And now I wonder if I'll always think "my grand baby's dooty don't stink"? But I know it won't. That would be a little too optimistic.