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My parents left yesterday morning after a week-long visit.

When you start your family as late in life as I did, thoughts of time and how precious little there is of it, are never far away. When I look at my parents, I have to remind myself that they are not in their mid-40s, but in their mid-70s. I still think of my dad as a lean and wiry young man able to hurdle a 4-ft. fence. And I suppose that when they look at me they have to remind themselves that I’m in my mid-40s and not seven. No matter how many years go by, they’ll always be my mommy and daddy and I’ll always be their baby. After a week like this past one – one that went entirely too fast — I’d drain my bank account in exchange for the promise that I could get more time for Sean, for me, for all of us, before it all comes to pass.

The day after his Bivian and Papa Ed leave are always hard for Sean. He misses them and it takes some time for him to get over the fact that he is stuck with just me. So this afternoon as I was putting Sean down for his nap, I took some extra time to read to him and for a time, he let me just cradle him. His head rested in the crook of my arm and his long legs draped over the edge of the arm of the rocker. For a long time, we just sat there in silence listening to the sounds of the day – the creaking of the rocker, a lawn mower in the distance, an airplane, a passing car. As I looked long into his face, without realizing it, I wondered out loud “Where did my baby go?” He reached up and touched my face and whispered, “Here I am.”

When I’m 89 and he’s 46, I’ll still be his mommy and he’ll still be my baby.

PHOTO: Sean with Bivian who showed him how to decorate a stick wasting using an entire bolt of Christmas ribbon. Liberal usage of ribbon, sissors and tape is just one reason why Bivian is way more fun than Mommy.

Dear Mom,

I was wrong. It turns out that “because I said so” really is a good answer.

My sincerest apologies,

Antique Daughter

When I was home recently in central Illinois, a house down the street from my parent’s home was up for auction. The elderly owners had both passed away leaving everything in their home exactly as they had left it. Like my parents, they had lived in their home for 50 years. When you are in one place that long, you accumulate a lot of stuff.

In spite of having lived there for so long, few people had seen the inside of the home and there was a lot of curiosity.

On the day of the auction, my mom walked down the street to view the spectacle. Some people were there seeking a bargain, others were simply driven by the morbid curiosity of watching the accumulation of two lives being distributed among strangers.

My mom said she expected that the house, the car and the furniture would be sold off, but that she was surprised at the personal things that were being auctioned, particularly the shoes. She said that there is just something so very personal about someone’s shoes.

“I was a bit surprised that they sold their dad and mom’s shoes and a lot of other personal items,” she lamented. “That doesn’t seem right to sell them at auction.” Then she quickly added, “Will you please give our stuff to Goodwill rather than have someone hold up my panties for a bid!”

I promised her that I would spare her post-mortem humiliation in front of the entire neighborhood — even though she blew kisses to me from the car window embarrassing me in front of my entire 4th grade class.

Life is embarrassing and then you die. And then they auction off your panties.

Last week when we were at my parent’s house, my position in Sean’s universe slipped significantly. Anything Mommy could do, Grandma could do better.

I had heretofore been the chief boo boo kisser. I’m skilled in this particular area of medicine. I’m experienced, I’ve studied it, I’ve perfected it.

So when he bumped his knee and started crying, I reflexively called to him, “Come here Sweetie, Mommy will kiss it.” He stopped crying and looked at me. And then he looked at my mother and then back at me. “No thank you,” he said not able to look me in the eye, “Gammaw kiss it.”

“Um, well, okay,” I said trying not to sound hurt. “Grandma’s kisses are good too, I guess. I’ve got kisses over here too you know, if like, it doesn’t work out or whatever….”

He didn’t hear me saying that my kisses come with an extended warranty. He was already wrapped up in Gammaw’s arms. And it’s true. Gammaw’s kisses are superior. She can make a boo boo better no matter what’s hurting or how old you are. I know.

We arrived back in Dallas Sunday evening from a week-long visit with my parents. The flights were what I always hope for – uneventful, no tipping over. Everyone enjoyed a good nights sleep, each in their own beds. The next day was to be one of reckoning, as I knew it would be.

Those of you who have small children can probably attest to what happens to them after being in the company of their grandparents for an extended period of time. The grandparents, anxious to get back at their own children for depriving them of sleep and disposable income for twenty years, feed the child buckets of ice cream and boxes of cookies and anything else the child wants. They coax the child into some sort of sugar-induced trance and then act as a sherpa leading them to places far beyond the parental established boundaries. And that’s when they put the mojo on the kid.

After the mojo is firmly affixed to the kid, the grandparents say sly things to the unsuspecting parents like, “Why don’t you two go out for a nice quiet dinner? We’ll keep Sean (and convince him that the word no doesn’t really apply to him, it’s really just a suggestion!) Take your time (while we help him see you as two crazy people intent on ruining his life). He won’t even know you’re gone (because we’ll be letting him do whatever he wants!)

The rude awaking came early. At the light of dawn on Monday morning Sean stood in his crib, rattling the rails like an agitated ape and screaming “Mahhhhhmmeeee!” Without fully awakening, I managed to get him out of bed, change his diaper and carry him into the kitchen and set him on the island so that I might pour him some milk. But apparently at Grandma’s house, Sean is allowed to climb up into the refrigerator and get the milk himself. So as I reached into the refrigerator to get the milk, he started screaming “I DO IT I DO IT!!! I wanna do it!”

My first mistake which I will chalk up to not having had any coffee yet was to try to reason with him: a) I always get the milk out, b) it’s on a shelf you cannot reach, c) it’s my house and my fridge d) because I SAID SO. Toddlers coming off a week at Grandma’s are not reasonable people. Reasoning only caused him to scream louder and louder until the hunting dogs that live two doors down started barking, perhaps sensing an injured animal or an exhausted 46-year-old woman with an unreasonable toddler – either way, both dead meat.

He would not be consoled until he got the milk out of the refrigerator himself and I was not going to be bullied by a two year old at 6:30 in the morning. We were at a standoff.

Finally he collapsed into a heap and cried “I want to go back to Wivian’s!” Being the mature, responsible adult that I am, I snapped, “I want you to send you back to Wivian’s, so there!”

It’s going to be a reeeeeally long week of undoing all of Wivian’s doing. Or it may just be my undoing. Stand by.

My mom’s parenting philosophy has always been this: Never miss an opportunity to have fun. If it didn’t hurt anything (permanently) and it was fun (and free) she would make it happen.

Nothing was ever too messy or too much trouble for my mom if it meant her kids having fun. The list of crazy things she would let us do (or think up for us to do) is endless, but one of the things I especially remember is that when it was too cold to go outside, she would bring snow inside in her big mixing bowls so that we could make little snowmen in the house.

I think the thing mom enjoyed most about her kids was the license to be a kid herself. I want to be that kind of mom.

So last week I took a page out of her parenting book and set up a mud muffin making factory for Sean in the backyard. He worked in the gentle morning sunshine mixing and stirring mud in his big metal washtub, perfecting his muffin recipie “in case a moose came by.” It wasn’t long before the clothes came off and he was clad only in mud, but there is precious little time in life when one can a) fit in a washtub and b) enjoy being unabashedly naked.

I sat in a lawn chair near the muffin factory employed as the chief taste-tester and company photographer while enjoying the intoxicating combination of sunshine, mud and a carefree little boy.

Maybe when he’s a grown man, he’ll remember the day that his crazy mom set him up in business making mud muffins in the backyard. Or maybe he’ll just remember that no matter the trouble or the mess, his mama never missed an opportunity to have fun.

If the government really wanted to find Osama Bin Laden, they would put my mother on the case.

Not too long ago, my parents were victims of identity theft. Someone had stolen a check my mom had sent to someone out of the mailbox. Somehow they managed to gain access to my parent’s bank account and went on a spending spree. Mom tracked down the thief and assembled a case for the police in about 48 hours. That gives me an idea. “Identity Theft, She Wrote” starring my mom – that would make a great television series.

The theft wasn’t discovered until mom opened her bank statement and saw that her account had been overdrawn. In the 51 years that she and my father have had a bank account together, it has never once been overdrawn. I can prove this because she has her bank statements and cancelled checks going back to 1955. She called the bank right away to make sure that they had received her recent deposits and in fact they had. However, her account had been debited several times. The bank gave her the phone numbers for the retailers who had debited her account and she was on the case.

One hour later, my mom knew the name of the person who had accessed her account and gone shopping on-line. They had purchased several pairs of expensive men’s Nike basketball shoes, size 10. My dad wears Hushpuppies, size 8, so mom ruled him out. That and the fact that my dad is a little wary of technology and has refused to use the phone since they got a new-fangled touch tone. The “perp” had also signed up with a dating service with my dad’s name, but had used his own description. As if my dad couldn’t get the babes: At 5’8, I may be small in stature, but am big on having fun. I enjoy Wheel of Fortune, metal detecting and fine dining. Look for me at Ryan’s Family Steakhouse at 4:30pm. I’m a mid-70s former altar boy with a paid-for pacemaker that keeps me on the go. It wasn’t too long after that, that my dad started getting late night calls from gals named LaShonika and Yolanda, looking for a 6-foot-tall handsome young black man.

The next day Mom got a post card from a company that sells exclusive sportswear reporting that they were sorry they were unable to fill an order due to lack of information. So she called them and informed them that someone else had been using her checking account and gave them his name. As they were writing down her information, the thief happened to call in again to place another order.

In about 48 hours, Mom knew the thief’s name, age, address and the mailbox from which he had stolen the check. She had a case file assembled with photocopies and an Excel spreadsheet summary. She prepared documentation for the bank, the Post Office Inspector General and for the police – who couldn’t be bothered to come by the house and pick it up.

The authorities did not pursue a case that was handed to them on a silver platter because the boy was under 18 and so he got away with several pairs of expensive shoes (which you know, you and I paid for) but no consequences.

Mom says he’s probably out there messing with someone else’s accounts, but she says, “It won’t be mine!” And then adds, “It gives me one heck of a thrill to outsmart some young punk!”

As I said, don’t mess with retired people. They have nothing better to do all day than plot revenge.

Soon after my mother arrived for a visit recently, Sean realized that by comparison, I was chopped liver, persona non grata, yesterday’s news, the other woman, what’s-her-name – not even good ole’ what’s-her-name. My feelings might have been hurt except that I was too busy taking advantage of my built-in babysitter and getting pedicures and going shopping to notice. Much. Ostensibly she was here to spend time with Sean, but I think she was here to spoil my child to pay me back for the years between 1972 and 1979 and the concrete mixing episode.

Most children call their grandmother some variation of Grandma — Granny, Gran, Gram, Nana, Memaw and even Mimi. Sean decided he would call my mother by her first name Vivian, or as he says it “Wivian”. Wivian was a really good mom, but she is a fantastic grandmother. In fact, I wish she were my grandmother. Then I could have had popsicles and animal crackers for every meal too.

The morning after she arrived, I went into Sean’s room to greet him for the day and immediately, I knew something had changed overnight. He didn’t give me one of his mega-watt smiles or joyfully call out “Mommy!” in his usual fashion. No siree. He craned his neck to look past me and waved me aside like yesterday’s Beanie Weenies. And then, as I tried to lift him from his bed and hug him as I have done every day for the past two years, he kicked his little feet and twisted and wrenched to be put down screaming “I only want Wivian to get me! I want Wivian!” It would have been less risky to reach into a nest of baby rattle snakes. So I set him down and backed out of the room with my hands in the air.

For the next ten days no one could do anything for Sean except for Wivian. Part of me was thrilled to get out of ten days of diaper changes yet selfishly, part of me wished he liked me that much. But beyond all that, I was happy that my child was getting to experience something that I never had – a doting grandparent.

I knew that when I had to return Wivian to the airport, it was going to break that little boy’s heart. And it did. She kissed us both goodbye and we watched the form of her being disappear into the mass of humanity moving in all directions. From his car seat he stretched his neck until it would absolutely go no further. His eyes darted in all directions hoping to catch a glimpse of that familiar head of silver hair. And when he realized she was gone, he cried, “I no see Wivian!” And then he began to sob. There was no anger or kicking or rage, just resigned sobs and trembling wet sadness. By the time we arrived home from the airport, he had cried himself to sleep. I carried his tiny body, heavy with sleep, into the house and placed him in his bed.

Several hours later, I went in to check on him and he stood up to greet me, still without the smile, but this time with outstretched arms. I lifted him out of his crib and gave him a kiss and asked him if he was okay. He nestled his face into my neck and said, “I be sad. I no see Wivian.”

“Wivian will be back, just you wait and see,” I assured him. She still has to get even for the time I drove her car into the neighbor’s front lawn and took out their gas lamp.

Grandma has been here visiting all week and boy has it been fun, but also I’ve learned a lot. Here are just a few things:

Things I Learned From Grandma This Week
By Sean

1) There IS a toy store in the mall – I didn’t know this until Grandma pointed it out. I can’t believe Mom didn’t know that – duh! And…
2) There IS a candy store in the mall too! Mom’s gotta get her eyes checked.
3) Grandma is just another name for Fairy Godmother.
4) Grandma is more fun than Mommy to sit next to at a restaurant.
5) Grandma is more fun period.
6) Grandma is crazy in a good way, whereas Mommy is just crazy.
7) Grandma will play on the floor longer than Mommy because she can’t get up.
Grandma understands that popsicles are a food group.
9) Grandma doesn’t use bad words like No or Stop.
10) Almost any occasion calls for Scotch Tape and a lot of it.
11) There is no such thing as “too messy”.
12) There is no such thing as too many toys.
13) Mommy could stand to relax the lower end of her digestive tract once in a while.
14) People with silver hair are nicer than those without.
15) What’s “pay back”?

I can’t wait for Grandma to come back and visit. I have so much more to learn.

As I mentioned in a previous post, I was first introduced to figure skating while watching Janet Lynn compete in the 1968 Olympics on television. It was love at first sight. Something about the way the skaters moved across the ice resonated deep within me.

I readily identified with Lynn. Like me, she was a small blonde girl from Illinois with a bad pixie haircut. I immediately began imitating the spirals and spins in front of the TV on the hardwood floors in my socks. I knew it was just something that I had to do. I intuitively knew it was something I could do. But what was an 8-year-old girl to do? I had no skates and I had no money. Ask Mom.

My mom was the master at making impossible things happen. I might have just as well asked for the moon as a pair of skates — there just wasn’t money for that kind of thing. With the powerful combination of prayer, resourcefulness and $2, Mom found a pair of skates for me at the local thrift store that fit me exactly. For some reason unknown, they had been spray painted silver, but I loved them. Then she drove me to the neighborhood park that had a makeshift ice rink (an asphalt rimmed basketball court that they flooded in the winter) to try out my “new” skates.

As I sat in the car lacing up the silver beauties for the first time, Mom gave some basic instructions: Hold your hands out for balance and try to fall on your butt and not your front teeth. And so I hobbled out of the car wearing my snowball hat and my silver skates and made my world debut as the next Janet Lynn to an audience of one. Skating was as natural to me as walking. By the end of the session I was confidently skating backwards and fearlessly trying the jumps and spins I had seen on television.

Figure skating is not a sport for the economically challenged. Over the years, Mom managed to cobble together enough money for some lessons and competitions and eventually some good skates, but it was always tough. Most of the girls I skated with had a wardrobe of expensive costumes and the finest gear. I didn’t know at the time the serious sacrifices my parents made so I could do this thing that I loved. I even got to compete once at Wagon Wheel in Rockton, Illinois, Janet Lynn’s home rink. I skated as much as money would allow until the middle of my high school years when other things, like boys, began to seem more important. But being a figure skater remains central to the core of who I am.

I still love the cold stale smell of an ice rink. I still love to skate, although I’m not as fearless or as flexible as I used to be. And while I did not become the next Janet Lynn, I did get to live out a dream to the best of my ability and resources – thanks to my resourceful mom and the silver skates.