Homemade Squishiness

One of our more popular endeavors last week was the creation of "gak." I got the recipe from Pinterest. It was so easy - a couple of bottles of Elmer's glue, a little water, a little Borax, and some food coloring - and provided lots of squishy fun.

The texture is smooth and cold. It's shiny but not slimy, though if you leave it lying around, it tends to expand and grow, like something out of a bad 1950's horror film. But it's easy to pick up in one big lump - like a huge pile of Silly Putty.

Liam's favorite thing to do with it is to plant both feet firmly in the middle of the goo, then look at his footprints. The prints don't stick around very long, as the gak reforms fairly quickly. We also had fun with gak racing. We each hold up a string of the goop and see which thread hit the table first.

Store it in a plastic bag and it should keep forever. Future generations will marvel at the stuff.

Liam's Magic Beans

Magic in the sense that they were just regular beans from a regular seed-packet that are now growing into something edible, thanks to a little tender loving care from a GrandBoy and GrandMary.

First, we soaked some of the beans in a cup of water. Some of the beans, we scattered on a wet paper towel, then covered with another wet paper towel. We waited a few hours until the beans got wrinkly. Some of them split open. A couple even started to sprout.

Then we planted the beans in clear cups of potting soil. The clear cups let us watch the roots sprout and take hold.

There was no small amount of drama when we didn't see spouts after the first couple of days. With the fresh soil, heat, humidity, and rainfall, we were expecting to see something pop up overnight. Had we planted too many beans in one cup? I lost count of how many Liam pushed down into the dirt.

But hooray! On the fourth day the first bit of green poked through the soil. And we could see the thin white lengths of roots taking hold in each of the cups. I will admit to some over-enthusiastic watering sessions, but give a 2-year-old a watering can, and, well, you do lose control over proper hydration.

By day six, the plants were going great guns. They seemed to grow a 1/2-inch every hour. Yeah!

It was easy to see the plants were outgrowing their small, clear cups, and it was time to transplant the tender shoots to larger pots. So we emptied our little cups into terracotta planters, where their roots could spread and the beans could grow properly. We also planted the bean seeds that hadn't sprouted. Hey, you never know.

So now we wait. Wait for the flower and the fruit. We'll keep you posted on the progress. Liam takes great pride in his beans. Looks like he has his father's green thumb.

Magic doesn't have to mean supernatural. Most often, I find, magic is in the common and ordinary. Like a few dry beans that turn into green plants and more magic beans. What a wonder!

So Many Ideas, So Little Time

I haven't seen GrandBoy in almost three months, so I'll be traveling down to Atlanta in ten days to spend a week reconnecting. Since I last saw him, I've added Pinterest to my social media skills and have a board just for GrandMary Goodies. This is where I stick all the fabulous, fun, creative ideas other folks have dreamed up that I think Liam would enjoy.  The problem is, there are way more pins on the GrandMary Goodies board that I will ever be able to put to use.

At the risk of over-planning, over-thinking, and over-scheduling ways for us to spend our play time, I'm culling through my board pins to choose just a handful of things that will make us giggle, give us some exercise, get our hands dirty, or all of the above. So, let's see. Where to start?

Do we cook up slime, galaxy playdough, or a variety of recipes for disaster? I see some real possibilities there. Bet I could find lots of fun stuff in this free, downloadable Summer Fun book, with activities suitable for toddlers. But are the activities suitable for GrandMarys?

I'm not afraid of a little (or a lot) of water, and neither is GrandBoy, so perhaps we move the fun outside. Maybe rig up this water spray made out of a 2-litre plastic bottle. Or stock up on balloons for a little water balloon action. We both love-love-love sidewalk chalk, so maybe one or two games using the chalk will be fun. Or a messy outdoor art project. Note to self: use the water spray to clean up after the messy art project.

Of course, there are always old fashioned activities, like catching lightning bugs, collecting rocks/leaves/sticks on a nature walk, throwing/catching/chasing a ball around the yard, and eating popsicles on the front steps. We'll need time to dance around a while and whizz cars and trucks down the hallway. Whatever we do must revolve around mealtimes and naptimes - for both of us.

Whatever happens, we'll have fun. Whether we make things that fizz and glow, or spray water, or spin around, we'll have fun. And we'll really deserve our meals and naps after all that!

Staying Cool, Kid-Style

Children can find plenty of ways to stay cool in the summertime heat if adults will just get out of their way. All that’s needed is a water source, something cold to drink, and maybe knowing where your mama keeps her change purse.

As hard as it is for me to admit, I had an air-conditionless existence until I was maybe 6 or 7 years old. That’s right. When I was very young, a Southern summer childhood was at the mercy of an electric fan and the sheer benevolence of an adult willing to plug the thing in, turn it on, and let it blow on you. Yeah, a whole line of iffy situations. Seems we got the use of the fan at naptime, after we had a bellyful of Campbell’s vegetable soup, a tomato sandwich, and Hi-C orange drink, just as added nap-insurance. Beyond that, a little kid had to fight for fan frontage time.

Fortunately, mamas liked their kids to play outside - whatever the temperature - so if we got permission (and sometimes if we didn’t), we could turn on the outdoor spigot and play in the hose. As long as you didn’t get knocked in the teeth with the metal nozzle or get water sprayed straight up your nose, a good time could be had by all. Holding the hose straight up made an instant shower. Coiling it up, then then letting it go, caused all sorts of unpredictable sprays, twists, and turns. Oooh, the water snake!

Eventually, we graduated to a super-deluxe backyard pool. By super-deluxe, I mean a sparkling aqua-colored plastic sheet draped over a 2-foot high white fence-type thing. The bottom had a diamond design of black, blue, and white. It took forever to fill  the thing up, but I’m telling you, nothing Esther Williams ever had was a fine as our beautiful blue pool. It seemed huge at the time; I’m sure it would be laughable now. But water and kids and sun can co-mingle for long time, and we were very happy little campers. I don’t remember Mother watching us – she was inside doing whatever mothers do. Yes. Pure child endangerment/neglect. Thank God.

Still, there’s more to staying cool than water-immersion. That’s where Kool-Aid and Fizzies came in. Seems like they were always in plentiful supply – a little goes a long way for a kid – so we’d sit in a swing or on the picnic table and have our treat. Anyway, those purple and orange Kool-Aid moustaches washed off after a few minutes in our sparkling backyard pool.

Sometimes, though, in late afternoon/early evening we’d hear that glorious sound – the bells or music of the Hunky Man (that’s what we called the truck that came around with popsicles, push-ups, and nutty-buddies). Chaos ensued, as some of us   waved him down, while others ran inside to plead for enough dimes to cover the charge for our confections. The perfect way for a kid to stay cool on a summer afternoon.

So think back on how you liked to cool off in the summer when you were little, and share that with the little ones in your life. Even if you have a real, in-the-ground Esther Williams swimming pool, break out the garden hose or sprinkler sometime. Just don’t let the nozzle hit you in the teeth. And remember to wash off your purple Kool-Aid moustache.

The Field Guide to Good Grandparenting

Everything I know about being a grandparent came from observing two of the best in their natural habitat. My mother and daddy loved being grandparents, to the point of barely acknowledging their own children once those children produced off-spring. They cooed and baby-talked and cuddled and kissed the wee ones, read to and over-fed the toddlers, and spoiled rotten the children/teens/young adults from there on out. 

I studied their grandparenting skills as one would study animals in the wild because the experience I had with my own grandparents was not at all what my daughter experienced with Mother and Daddy. I’m guessing it was a generational thing.

For whatever reason my grandparents weren’t very touchy-feely. I loved them, and they loved me (I assume), but I don’t remember spending much, if any, time alone with them. They lived elsewhere, and the rest of the family were always around. Some hugging, maybe a kiss on the cheek, a little small talk, then back to the business at hand – cooking, adult-talking, farm chores, whatever. We could tag along or not, but none of this centered on us.

My parents, however, had a completely different relationship with their grandchildren. We all lived within a half-hour’s driving distance and could foster up-close-and-personal relationships between grandkids and grandparents. Lots of visits. Lots of overnight visits, even when the kids were very small. Special events. Not-so-special events. Chill-out time. Always filled with many, many hugs, kisses, and cuddles. They knew their voices and temperaments. They were comfortable with each other.

I mean, just look at that picture. Grandpa reading to a lap-full of his little grandchildren. They're all settled in, paying attention, feeling the love.

Both Daddy and Mother pulled out all the love-stops where their grandchildren were concerned. And it didn't take a genius to figure out their grandparenting blueprint. It was all about always showing grandkids how much they were loved, paying attention to little things, and being generous with their hugs and time. (OK, and slipping the kids some spendable green stuff when they got older.) Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

That's pretty much all you need to know about how to be a grandparent. I know. Because I got to study two of the best for years.

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!