Members of the Same Club

Want a sure-fire way to get GrandBoy up and dancing around the room? Find Mickey Mouse Clubhouse on-demand and wait for the Hot Dog song finale. Once Mickey and crew start flapping their arms and kicking their legs, it's hard for a little guy (or his GrandMary) to sit still. And, boy, does that Hot Diggity Dog song stick in your mind! That tune, plus Minnie's little prissy dance. So we sing and dance (more like Goofy than Minnie) and wear ourselves out trying to keep up with the Clubhouse gang.

Now, believe it or not, GrandBoy and GrandMary belong to the same club. Which club, you ask? Why, the Mickey Mouse Club, of course. It's just that the club is a little different from the one I joined as a child. First of all, they've invented color since the original Mouseketeers came on the scene in the 1950s. (OK, not color, but color TV.) And the clubhouse is way cooler now, thanks to computer animation and whiz-bang technology. I wish my living room would rotate out to reveal a great kitchen. Ah, well.

Also, they've ditched the Mouseketeers altogether. 'Nary a one in sight. There were a couple of iterations in the 70's and 90's - and, yes, I know that Justin Timberlake, Britney Spears, and Christina Whats-Her-Name were the most recent wearers of mouse-ears (did they wear ears?) - but none compared to Annette and crew. I'm thinking Disney felt the same, so gone are real live Mouseketeer kids. Mickey, Donald, Minnie, Daisy, Goofy, and Pluto run the show now.

But never mind. When GrandBoy calls out for Mouse, it's clear he's a card-carrying Mickey Mouse Club Member, just like I was. Am. So I happily join in the Hot Dog Song and dance. 

Still, I do miss the Mickey Mouse Club "alma mater" that ended the original show. So serious. Pledging our loyalty to the Mouse and each other. No wonder I'm still a member. Hot dog!

Down on the Farm

A trip to the family farm in Henrietta, Tennessee, last weekend gave GrandBoy his first taste of a real farm. It was cold and windy, so visions of young Liam running barefoot through green fields were quickly squashed, but he didn't seem to mind the weather.

In his bright yellow slicker, he got to see real cows and horses, get an up-close look at tractors old and new, experience the joys of tossing rocks in a puddle (endless fun, by the way), and experience a freedom to roam around wide-open spaces and explore things like haystacks and unfamiliar porch steps.

GrandBoy also got to test out his "mooing" skills with a herd of Black Angus cattle. He learned that, yes, cows actually do moo, as he engaged in human/bovine conversations and stare-downs with cows and their calves. Moooooooo!

He saw his first real red barn and scarecrow, which was guarding a newly-planted field. He learned how to shoot a water pistol and see the effect of strong wind blowing bubbles through a bubble wand (no human-blowing needed).

There was an endless supply of uncles willing to toss a ball or hoist him up to look over a fence. An equally endless supply of aunts (as well as his mama and GrandMary) kept a close eye and made sure he was warm, dry, fed, and hugged. In other words, he was joyfully spoiled.

So now the go-to guy for the correct tone of cow-mooing, best rocks for puddle-tossing, and most efficient way to run through a field is GrandBoy. In case you were wondering.

You Just Call Out My Name

"Gramee-ee!" Yes, finally. GrandBoy's calling for his GrandMary. He's got the "Grand" part down and just needs a little more work on the "Mary," but he's almost there. He used my name repeatedly when I was in Atlanta a couple of weeks ago. It does an old lady's heart good to hear a hearty little voice call from downstairs "Gramee-ee!"

Add to that his sweet little hugs that include patting me on the back and, well, the whole package is irresistible. That wonderful little 2-year-old package.

Sure, it's work trying to get to toddler to understand why sharing is good and throwing sand is bad. And goodness knows, trying to keep up with the little tyke is almost impossible. But getting to witness daily - make that hourly -  discoveries and milestones is worth all the exhaustion.

A hug. A few little pats on the back. A toddler kiss. And calling out my name - "Gramee-ee!" The daily delights of a grandmother. 

My Two Favorite Leprechauns

Happy St. Patrick's Day, everyone!

As The Toddler Turns

A couple of weeks ago, Daughter shared a delightful little video of Son-in-Law spinning GrandBoy around in the park. Now, we all know the consequences of whirling, twirling, spinning, especially for someone little and low to the ground. Total discombobulation.

Remember what a wonderful feeling it was to spin and spin, becoming light-headed, brain-scrambled, wonky-eyed and finally collapsing on the ground to let everything settle down? And how fast you wanted  to get up and do it again?  And remember what the adult(s) present would warn? Don't do that, or you'll make yourself "drunk." Bad warning, adults. If this is what it feels like to be drunk, then I want more!

I figure as long as I was in a good clear space, with no danger of hitting my head on a table or a rock, spinning around until I made myself drunk was a pretty harmless form of entertainment. Of course, these days I guess you have to make sure the little tyke is wearing a protective helmet of some kind, plus knee- and elbow-pads. Naturally, all that protection will seriously cut down on speed of spin, wind resistance, and trajectory, but we had no such worries. We were only limited by the space around us and the speed at which our little legs and arms could launch and maintain a good twirl.

Ah, spin-drunk. Such bliss! Such a feeling of well-being! Like being tickled from the inside out. Free. No need for batteries, wires, or joy-sticks. Plus, no nasty hang-over headaches afterwards. I love watching GrandBoy enjoy his first spin-drunk experience - the staggers, the false attempts at trying to stand and walk. Fun for him and a delight for anyone watching.

Alas, it's the kind of thing that age, height, and weight bring to an end. In fact, it's the kind of thing GrandMarys try to avoid at all cost in order to keep the bones in one piece. But watching GrandBoy enjoy the feel-good experience of being spin-drunk brings back wonderful, carefree memories of my spin-drunk days. Spin on, young man. Spin on.

Happy Second Birthday!

Happy Birthday, dear Liam! You've brought your GrandMary enormous joy over the past two years. You're a jolly, active, loving, smart, inquisitive little boy, and I love you beyond all measure. I look forward to watching you grow and laugh and learn for years to come. Happy, Happy Birthday!

What a 2-Year-Old Doesn't Know

Having just spent a week fully in charge of GrandBoy as his parents took a much needed vacation, I was constantly reminded of how much a 2-year-old knows. Things like complicated words and concepts, adult manipulation techniques, rapid escape maneuvers are easy breezy. But as smart as the little dickens is, I discovered a few things that a 2-year-old doesn't know, and I'm happy to share the knowledge.

1. A 2-year-old doesn't know that a GrandMary can't get up and down as quickly as a 2-year-old. There's just not as much juice in the joints and not built as close to the ground. This frustrates a 2-year-old. And a 60-year-old.
2. A 2-year-old doesn't know that his GrandMary lives in Spanish Harlem, a mere five stories above a busy street and the Metro North commuter train line. Noise does not phase her. All the whining and tantrum-tossing in the world is just so much white noise. This frustrates a 2-year-old. It does not frustrate a 60-year-old (who lives in Spanish Harlem).
3. A 2-year-old doesn't understand the difference between shampoo and real poo. A 2-year-old certainly knows about poo (and isn't afraid to let you know it). But the word "shampoo" is confusing to him, especially when GrandMary wants to put it on his head. All he hears is "poo." And not even a 2-year-old wants poo in his hair.

Other than that, a 2-year-old pretty much knows everything a 60-year-old knows. And until the shampoo situation sorts itself out, I'll just call it soap. Nobody wants poo in their hair.

Heartbreaker

This picture of GrandBoy is tacked up next to my desk at work. It's a proof of one of his preschool pictures. Daughter told me they weren't expecting the photo, thinking school pictures had been taken mid-week, and GrandBoy is in preschool on Mondays and Fridays. But a photographer was there and a GrandBoy got to shine.

So here he is, crazy monkey hair going every which way, wearing his dinosaur shirt. I love the way his little mouth is drawn up, ready to explode with a belly-laugh. I love the mischievous twinkle in his eyes and the way he's tentatively holding the side of his seat.

Whenever I glance over at the picture, it makes me smile. But there's also something sweetly heartbreaking about the expression on his face. I just want to pick him up and give him a big hug. The picture makes me happy, but it also reminds me of how much I miss the little guy.

Silly GrandMary

Just because it makes me smile. Just because I love the little dimple next to GrandBoy's mouth. Just because making silly faces is what GrandMarys do.

FutureHope

I have great hope for the future. I have to. With a daughter and son-in-law and GrandBoy who will be living out their days long after I'm gone (God willing), how can the future be anything but hope-filled? Nieces and nephews, cousins and second cousins, and all their daughters and sons are growing and thriving, learning and working, all for better lives and a better world.

Yes, I know things seem mean, greedy, and soulless much of the time. Relentless news about wars and uprisings, elections and in-fighting, protests and unemployment have us screaming at each other rather than listening, finding solutions, and compromising. I understand why folks voice so much doubt about the future.

But we've heard it all before. Any student of history knows that people throughout the ages have thought the world is on the fast-track to Hell. It's nothing new. The only thing that is new is that despair and pessimism spews forth at the click of a keyboard or remote control. We're inundated with doom and gloom 24/7.

However, do not tell me there is no bright future in store for us, our children, grandchildren, and beyond. I will not hear of it.

Every generation does a lot of things right and a lot of things wrong. Every generation. It's no use pitting one against another. We're all in this together, across a continuum of time, relationship, and understanding. We can only do what every group of people has done since the dawn of time. Move things forward as best we can.

Perhaps we should think before we speak or type a snippy comment. Can we turn down the volume of hate? Stop siding with folks who only want to scream and stomp their feet, and start working toward listening and sorting things out together? None of us has the whole picture. None of us has all the answers.

The future is too important. It must be full of hope and promise. Just look at all these sweet new children. The future is gloriously brilliant. Now, live like it!

Why Santa Needs Elves

Because some - and often, most - assembly is required. I guess some elves are toy-makers, who craft their wares in 14,000 pieces that must be put together with allen wrenches (yuck!) and 35,002 screws, and some elves are the putter-togetherers, who have to take those 14,000 bits and assemble them into something recognizable that a kid would want to play with.

How did I come to this realization? Well, I watched as a couple of earthly elves fashioned an incredible train table out of a gazillion pieces and a 250-page instruction booklet. OK. I exaggerate, but not by much. Witness the process and results:

Elves, disguised as parents, employ their best carpentry skills in the race to have the train table ready by Christmas morn.

Hm. Does this thing look like the picture?

I need 2 E tracks and a B. Or is it 2 B tracks and an E?

Pay-off for the 2-hour assembly process: one thrilled little feller!

Here's hoping your Christmas involved both toy-makers and assemblers. Merry Christmas to all!

World's Rarest Christmas Ornaments

At the risk of having hordes of people turn up outside our door hoping to delight in these wonderful objects, I must announce that we are in possession of the world's rarest hand-made Christmas ornaments. Yes, it's true. And when you consider the cost of the care and feeding of the baubles' creator, well, they're probably the most expensive ornaments in the world, too.

Each and every ornament is hand-made (and I do mean, hand-made) by the one and only . . . GrandBoy. He has spent hours of precious pre-school time, under the careful guidance of his patient teachers, crafting an assortment of keepsake decorations that Hallmark could only hope to achieve. It has taken the laser-like concentration that only a 20-month-old can summon up to turn out his one-of-a-kind angel, stocking, wreath, tree, and reindeer.

No need for diamonds, gold, silver, or delicate blown glass. No. What's needed is an assortment of paper plates, construction paper, glue, glitter, finger paint, and, of course, little fingers. I never imagined hand-prints could be so versatile - everything from reindeer antlers to holly leaves.

Sorry, folks. He only made one of each. Rare, indeed. Priceless. Don't even bother calling us, Sotheby's. These will never hit the auction block.

We might consider tours next year. But they're all ours this Christmas.

Spoiled

Nobody likes a spoiled brat. Children should not get every toy and whimsy they fancy. I think we're all agreed on that. So for a grandparent it takes great restraint always, but especially at this time of year, to keep from picking up everything little (and big) that might bring even a moment's delight to the little tykes.

The truth is that if GrandBoy didn't get any new toys for the next two years, he'd have enough stuff to play with all the live-long day. But it's taking all of our willpower - and by "our" I'm including his mama and daddy - to resist picking up a few more little Thomas the Tank Engine train cars at the store or ordering everything that hums, honks, dings, and whistles online. The urge is overpowering. "Oh, he would love this!" and "I'd love to see his face when he opens that!" Is there a 12-step program for this?

The good news is that I haven't given in to these urges to purchase everything in sight for GrandBoy. Much. I chose one item off the gift wish list, found the absolute most perfect winter hat for him at the Grand Central Holiday Fair, and bought him a couple of books. Well, more than a couple of books; the stack seems to grow daily. (But books aren't toys, are they? Can you spoil a child with too many books? Help me out here, grandparents.)

Oh, yeah. And a friend was going to Hess to pick up a truck for her grandchildren. Did I want one for Liam? Of course, I did. I mean, the annual Hess truck is iconic, right? He needs one of those. Really. It lights up and makes noise and everything. Just made for my GrandBoy. So add that to the list.

I'm beginning to think that finding delightful things for our grandchildren has more to do with spoiling us than them. Is it completely selfish to want to see that first little flicker of surprise, then the smiles, and the play that follows when a gift is well-received? It's not the thing itself, it's the reaction and the way it's treated and used, that we wait for. Selfishly. OK. Maybe it is a little selfish. Maybe we're the spoiled brats, not the kids.

In the spirit of the season - and with every ounce of self-control that I can muster (thank goodness for limited discretionary spending) - I'm trying my best not to become a spoiled GrandMaryBrat. But that goal may be hard to achieve, since I do not need a reaction to a gift to spoil me. Every smile, string of jibber-jabber, plane-spotting, YoGabbaGabba dance, sleepy bed-head hug from GrandBoy spoils me beyond imagination. Perhaps I should just sit back and enjoy being spoiled for a while.

And maybe I'll save the Hess truck for GrandBoy's birthday.

Travelin' Man

GrandBoy loves anything that gets you from point A to point B. Whatever the mode of transportation, he is all over it. I've already mentioned his penchant for cars, but this passion extends to boats, airplanes, and - maybe most of all - choo-choo trains.

Over Thanksgiving, we spent a lot of time in two places: Ashford Park in Atlanta, by good fortune located below the flight path of planes flying in and out of Peachtree Dekalb Airport and right next to railroad tracks serving both MARTA and regular freight trains; and the Island of Sodor, home of Thomas the Tank Engine and his friends. Grandboy couldn't have been happier.

At the park he can hear a plane approaching long before those of us with older ears. He starts pointing to the sky and exclaiming, "Whoa!" Whoa-whoa-whoa! And sure enough, a couple of minutes later, an airplane crosses overhead. He's always pleased that he's able to locate it in the sky when it finally comes into sight.

Anything having to do with trains warrants the call-out, "Choo-choo!" He never tires of watching the freight trains pass by, however many cars are attached or however long it takes for the caboose to show up. Oddly enough, he can tell the difference between the excitement of a solid old freight train and the sleeker MARTA trains. MARTA doesn't get much of a reaction from GrandBoy.

The other choo-choo eliciting interest is Thomas. Thank goodness for Roku and instant Netflix, which let us watch episodes of the little Sodor train engine at will and kept GrandBoy entertained during the holiday hub-bub. Now, you may not believe this, but his mother and I heard him clearly say, "I want to watch Thomas," yesterday afternoon. We looked at each other - Did you hear what I heard? So I'm willing to testify that GrandBoy's first complete sentence was about the choo-choo Thomas.

Me thinks it will be a transportation-themed Christmas this year for GrandBoy. Now, let's all sing along:

They're two, they're four,
They're six, they're eight.
Shunting trucks and hauling freight.
Red and green and brown and blue
They're the really useful crew . . .

Happy Halloween!

GrandBoy seems happier as a FDNY fireman than he did last year as a monkey. Happy Halloween, everyone!

A Duck, a Cow, a Rembrandt

The time has come to clear the refrigerator door and stock up on magnets. I got my first GrandBoy artwork in the mail yesterday. From personal, parental experience I know that this is just the beginning of wonderful little creative endeavors too precious to throw away.

Several boxes of his mama's crayon, fingerpaint, potato print, and glitter+glue creations are taking up space in the family's basement. Yes, I tossed out a lot over the years, but some are just too precious to consign to the trash heap of history. I'm especially touched by anything with her early attempts at writing her name. Awwww. How can I throw those away?

Now it's time to employ my art curator skills again, this time for the Grand. So this first precious duck-cow picture, made with his own sweet little handprints, has pride of place - center of the fridge door. Fortunately, I have a full-size refridgerator.

Drivin' or Cryin'

GrandBoy wants to drive. Unfortunately, he's only 19 months old.

This is frustrating for him - frustrating to the point of tears and toddler-fits sometimes. His vocabulary is coming along, but he hasn't mastered the word for driving. Or cars. Or trucks. Or any vehicle that catches his eye. All of those things are lumped under one double-barrelled word: Doo-doose.

Doo-doose. Not sure of the spelling, but we all know what it means when he sees a big truck on the freeway or a tractor in a field. Doo-doose! And we really know what it means when we're trying to get him into or out of a car, or when he's upstairs pointing at the door leading to the garage, and he spits out: Doo-doose!

Now, doo-doose - er, driving - to Liam mostly means sitting in the driver's seat moving the steering wheel back and forth, or trying to push keys into the ignition, or pulling the visors and lighted mirrors up and down, pushing every single button on the dashboard, opening and closing each storage compartment. Yet, he never wants to pass up an opportunity to have full run of the front seat of a car. Perhaps it's because he's always tied down in his car seat well away from the front.

A few weeks ago we were at my nephew's wedding at a Florida resort, and poor GrandBoy lost it every time he saw a golf cart. And there were lots of golf carts. Last weekend we went apple-picking, and while he enjoyed that adventure, GrandBoy was completely beside himself when he got to sit in the driver's seat of a big blue tractor.

We figure he's got a bright future as a race-car driver. Or a trucker. Or a farmer. Long may he doo-doose!

The Red Balloon

GrandBoy loves balloons. No. "Love" is the wrong word. GrandBoy covets balloons. Balloons in grocery stores or restaurants or outside a place of business or in Goodnight, Moon. He wants every balloon he sees. Now, as his mama points out, once he gets a balloon, there's not much he can do with it, at least not at 19 months old. But if there's a balloon in sight, he wants it to be his.

Yesterday after an active morning in Atlanta's Winn Park - where we repeatedly tested all five slides (except for the high twisty one), GrandBoy and GrandMary dropped into our local Chick-Fil-A for a well-deserved lunch. The minute we opened the doors, I knew we were in trouble. Large shiny mylar balloons decorated the counter area, and GrandBoy's eye honed right in on 'em.

"Baaa-oooon! Baaaaa-ooon!"

Oh. Dear. I placed our order through much pointing and "baaa-ooon"-ing. As we entered the dining area, I noticed lots of red and white balloons dotting the tables and booths filled with children. Fortunately, this story has a happy ending. No sooner had we settled into our booth than a kind employee came by with a fistful of balloons. Yea! We chose a red one. I tied it to GrandBoy's buttonhole so that it wouldn't fly away.

Like his mother, I figured he just wanted to possess it and would soon let it hover over his head while he ate. But low and behold!, after spending a couple of minutes bopping it around, he grabbed it with both hands and put his face right up to it. He turned left and right, up and down, and his perplexed look changed to a little half-grin. He was looking at the world through a red balloon.

Seeing him with the balloon reminded me of that wonderful film The Red Balloon, which I dearly loved as a child and that his mama loved when she was little. It's still a favorite of mine. GrandBoy's too young for the post-war Paris fable of a little boy and his wonderfully faithful red balloon, but I hope when he's older he'll find a place in his heart for it. It is the ultimate boy-and-his-balloon story.

GrandBoy's red balloon lost its oomph by late evening, and interest in it was lost, as well. Still, maybe some day he'll find more uses for his balloons.

Like having a hundred of them carry him right over Paris!

Little Golden Memories

When I was Grandboy's age (way back when entertainment meant blocks, Easter egg hunts, and Howdy Doody - stop yawning!), the kiddie reading material of choice in our house was a stack of favorite Little Golden Books. They were inexpensive, colorful, and the perfect size for little hands. I was too young to read, of course, but my daddy loved reading those books to us, and we loved listening. It wasn't just the stories that made an impact; it was the illustrations, as well.

I don't remember all the stories, but there are four stand-outs that stick with me all these years later.

The first was officially called The Five Little Firemen, but we called it The Five Little Firemen and the Jolly Fat Cook.  I always associate this story with my brother David, for some reason. I think he particularly liked this story of the brave little firemen rescuing the cook when the house caught fire. And all cooks from that time forward were referred to as "jolly fat cooks" in our family.

Next on our Little Golden Books hit parade is Noises and Mr. Flibberty Jib. Poor Mr. Flibberty Jib. He had all sorts of noises pounding through his head, rumbles and rattles and squeaks. Yes, the sounds of the modern world were driving him crazy. He tried everything to get rid of his noise-headaches. Spoiler alert: the cure was roast beef. Not a day goes by that I don't think about the rumbles in my head. And crave roast beef to cure 'em.

Little Golden Books introduced me to Clement Moore's The Night Before Christmas. The illustrations in the original Golden Books version are what dance in my head whenever I read or hear the poem to this day. Santa Claus to me is the Little Golden Books Santa. Whenever I see the pictures, I get the feeling I'm a very tiny child.

The last is more memorable for one of its illustrations. The Little Golden Books version of Little Red Riding Hood had a full page picture - full page! - of the big bad wolf in grandmother's bed and night-cap. His eyes were squinched up and his big nose was tucked under the coverlet. And you just knew he'd done something awful. While Little Me loved the story, Daddy would have to quickly turn over the wolf page because it was too, too scary. {shiver} Oooh. the big bad wolf!

It's funny that these little books, with their wonderful stories and memorable illustrations, have stuck with me throughout my life. I love children's books - the big glossy kind with fabulous pictures, all very clever and colorful. But those dime store-bought Little Golden Books still live in this little girl's heart.

But, please, turn past that wolf-in-grandma's-bed page quickly!

Celebrating 18 months!

How fast they grow! Happy 18-month birthday, GrandBoy!

The Grand Role

What is the role of a grandparent? I suspect it depends on whether you're the grandparent, the parent, or the grandchild. One of the great things about being a grandparent is that you carry with you all three perspectives, since you're the only one of the three to have experienced each life-stage. But sometimes it's hard to reel in all the years to see through the eyes of the child or parent you were. 

From my lofty GrandMary perch and taking into account little Mary and mama Mary, here are my top three roles of a grandparent:

• Unconditional love. A grandparent is free to just love away on the grandbabies, usually without the angst of setting the rules, saving for college, or getting them dressed for school every day. (I know some grands do have to worry about these things.) Unconditional love doesn't mean "no limits" and letting the little darlings get away with murder. Abide by the rules of the parents and of society, and the rest is just lots of fresh cream on strawberries. Open heart and open arms - that's a grandparent's primary role.

• Fun-loving storyteller. A grandparent is a connector from the present to the past. You can tell the stories about family, friends, and events that help anchor a child's roots. You can give grandchildren a glimpse of what their parents were like as children (so start storing up those funny, embarrassing tales). You know songs, rhymes, tall-tales that only someone in your generation would know, so share them. But remember that "fun-loving" is the modifier here. Otherwise, you'll become a raging bore. You have to be the one with a ready laugh, a conspiratorial wink, and the ability to pull a funny face throughout everything.
• Parental support. A grandparent is not the grandchild's parent. The parents make the rules, and your role is wholehearted support, at least when engaging with the grandchildren. If you feel the need to confront parents about something you disagree with, well that's up to you. It might work, it might not. But never, never undermine the parent in front of their children or intentionally break their rules.

I do realize that many grandparents are the primary caregivers for their grandchildren. But I believe that even with increased authority that love, fun, storytelling, and support provide the foundation of the "grand" role.

What do you think are the top three roles of a grandparent?

The Frustrations of a Bilingual Toddler

Toddler tantrums are legendary, and sometimes all you can do is deep-breathing exercises or plug your ears with your iPod. But look at it from a toddler-view. It must be incredibly frustrating to understand two languages (grown up English and toddler-speak) but only be able to communicate in one (toddler-speak).

I do think they get - or almost get - whatever's being said to them, and I think they understand what you need or expect to hear in return. Problem is, their language skills haven't caught up to their understanding.

So when you ask a question, a toddler knows what answer to give. It just comes out in a Tarzan-like grunt or a string of gibberish. They try to help us along by pointing or gesturing, but we don't speak their language. As adults, we have to make logical (or sometimes, wild) guesses as to what our sweet toddlers are trying to say. Frustration all around and a perfect storm for impending tantrums - and not just on the part of the toddler.

Yes, what we've got here, in the words of Strother Martin in Cool Hand Luke, is a failure to communicate.

Of course, lack of ability to form clear words isn't the only frustration a tiny kid faces. Emerging, basic fine motor skills and coordination lets That fork or spoon doesn't quiet behave they way it should and deliver food into the mouth, for example. Darn! Yeah, I think I'd throw a tantrum or two (and I'm sure I did).

Things will get better. The pointing grunts will lead to "milk, please" or "I'm hot." Blocks will stack and forks will get food right into the mouth. But until then, sigh, we'll all just have to communicate the best way we can.

I'm just waiting to hear those three magical syllables: GrandMary.

Hooray for Daddies!

What better way to celebrate Father's Day than a baseball game? GrandBoy took in his first big league game today at Turner Field in Atlanta, where the Atlanta Braves beat the Texas Rangers. Yahoo! His mama, Grandpa George, and Grandma Lois tagged along with the father-son duo.

This GrandMary's thankful that GrandBoy has such a great daddy. And like all the generations of mamas supporting him, he has generations of good daddies doing the same. Daddies who have worked hard and loved their families. Daddies who have taught important life lessons, as well as the not-so-important but fun lessons.

Thank you to the long family line of good men who have shown the true meaning of fatherhood. What a precious gift!

Looks Like Toddler Spirit

Parents are never quite prepared for the transition from baby to toddler. Even a fast crawler can't hold a candle to a toddler determined to get from point A to point B. I've never quite understood how those tiny folks with newly-acquired (albeit shaky) balance can outrun full-grown marathon-running adults, but those little stinkers will leave the grown-ups in the dust every time.

Yes, they fall and trip and stumble once in a while, but their ability to maneuver around furniture, corners, up/down stairs, and bigger, more powerful humans is a wonder to behold. Which is amazing, since the average toddler looks a little lead-footed, walking with the un-syncopated rhythm of Frankenstein's monster.

But, beware!

That off-balance movement is a ruse. A cover-up. A little toddler trick. Those sly little devils walk unsteadily to lull you into a false sense of security. First chance they get, it's off to the races. Just try to catch them. This GrandMary's convinced that toddlers are two parts jack rabbit, one part Weeble.

So, to all toddler-chasing parents (and grandparents, babysitters, protectors of public safety) out there, good luck. There's no training for the toddler race. The little tykes have found their legs, and they mean to use them. All the time. Usually when you're the most tired and/or not paying attention.

But look on the bright side. Just think of the gym fees you'll save!

The Joys of Summer Reading

One of my great growing up memories is throwing myself headlong into any summer reading program that came along. I usually had at least two going during the hot days of June, July, and August - one from the local public library and one from my church library. These programs weren't the mandatory summer reading lists required these days by every grade from kindergarten through high school. Nope. These were completely optional.

I loved having a new crisp, clean form with sections for Fiction, Biographies, Non-Fiction, and whatever categories some dear librarian wanted to toss my way. Oooh, the feeling of getting to carefully write in a finished book and its author - well, it gives me a thrill even today. Yes. I am a book-nerd, and obviously always have been.

Then when Daughter was 4 or 5 years old, we'd grab our library cards and participate in whatever summer programs the establishment had to offer. It was so much fun introducing her to joy of selecting her own books and finding a quiet time amidst summer activities to crack open a whole new world. It was a great daily habit that I hope she loved as much as I did.

Laura Ingalls Wilder's Little House books, Sydney Taylor's All of a Kind Family, and Edward Eager's Half Magic were some of our favorites. Yes, I may have had a hand in guiding her to the Ingalls family, but the others she found on her own. It was wonderful learning about Taylor's Lower East Side Jewish family or figuring out the right way to make a half-magic wish. Great stuff after a day's work and heat!

GrandBoy's still on board books so he's a little young for a library summer reading program. But just think how much fun it will be to let him choose a book - at a library, bookstore, Kindle or tablet store, or whatever new book delivery option will be available in 2-3 years - and share it with him! What new worlds and people will we meet?

Do you have a favorite summertime reading memory?