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Tis’ the Season for Leaves

Posted on October 24, 2013 by susanrray

fall-leaves Tis’ the season for leaves.  Those beautiful yellow and red and orange leaves that light up Tennessee mountains.  Those beautiful leaves that fall to the ground.   Those leaves that aren’t so beautiful when they cover my yard and deck and driveway.  Especially when it rains.

I love living in the woods.  I love to watch tiny buds burst into leaves in the springtime, and I love the comfort of a shade tree.  And nothing in nature is prettier than the colors of autumn.  But when leaves begin to fall from trees, they spell work.

Almost thirty years ago, Husband and I built a house in the woods.  Through the years, we’ve lost trees to disease and storms, but it seems that each year our trees produce more and bigger foliage than the year before.  We’ve used every method to remove leaves.  Raked, mowed, and blown.  When our children lived at home, we ‘did leaves’ as a family undertaking, and now we usually, and happily, hire out the job.  Some people say to let all the leaves fall and then get rid of them one time.  Well, if we tried that, we’d be up to our eyeballs in leaves.  At least, up to our knees.   Someone will have to blow or rake the leaves in our yard at least three times between now and December.

Early in our marriage Husband assumed the responsibility of yard care, but because I’m the one who loves living in the woods (he’d be happy in a walk-up apartment) and we need to see where to drive, I try to keep the driveway leaf free.  I haul out my electric leaf blower, a 100-foot extension cord, and a rake.  I spend as much time untangling that long extension cord and moving it from an outlet on the front porch to a basement outlet as I do blowing leaves.  And I use a rake where I can’t reach with the blower.  Two hours later, I can see pea gravel and concrete once again.

The next day, leaves litter the driveway.  By the second day, especially if there’s been breeze, even a mild southerly breeze, I can’t walk the length of our driveway and not step on leaves.  Time to haul out the leaf blower.

Last week, my oldest Grand, age 8, made my heart quicken.  “Gran, can I blow the leaves?” he asked.  Can he?  How fast?  As quickly as I could get him to my house.  He carried the leaf blower, and I lugged the extension cord.  I gave directions on how to hold the leaf blower and which way to blow – straight into the wooded yard area designated for leaves.  We pulled on gloves; he covered his ears with hearing protectors.  I began taking wet leaves that were stuck under shrubs, and he stood holding the silent leaf blower in hand.  “One more thing, Gran,” Samuel said.  “Are you going to pay me?”

My Grand says he’s saving money to buy a Lego set.  He’ll have enough money soon.  There’s plenty of work for this boy.

 

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Acting Their Age

Posted on October 16, 2013 by susanrray

images My two sweet little Grands who were born during the summer of 2011 are two years old and they are typical toddlers.  They are learning to be independent and they mimic and they ask questions.

Early one morning when everyone except Dan and I was sleeping, he lined up three toy trucks, one behind the other.  He stacked wooden disks, the size of checkers, side-by-side in the bed of the dump truck.  When he pushed the truck across the floor, the disks rolled off.  I gathered the disks in my hand and said, “Look, Dan, lay these flat, on top of each other and they won’t roll.”  My Grand looked at me sternly, “No, Gen*,” he said.  Two more times he stacked the disks side and side and both times they rolled off the truck.  The fourth time, Dan pushed the truck with one hand and held the disks in the truck bed with his other hand.  “See, Gen,” he said.  “I do it!”  He did it his way.

Elaine sat quietly in her mother’s lap as her older brother and sisters, her parents, and I crowded around a laptop computer watching a slideshow of pictures from a recent family vacation.  She sucked her thumb on one hand and twirled her hair with the other hand.  Her eyes blinked often and slowly.  Then a picture of her sister, with eyes like saucers and arms and legs stretched wide as if she were flying, appeared on the screen.  “What on earth?”  Elaine yelled.  (The picture was snapped after Elaine’s father threw her six-year-old sister high in the air and just before her sister splashed into a swimming pool.)  What on earth?  Who says that?

“Agen,” Dan said.  Pat-a-cake again and again.  His chubby little hands pound the imaginary cake, and if he’d really held a cake, he’d flung it onto the ceiling, not thrown it in a pan.  He grabbed my finger.  “Band-aid?” he asked.  I assured him my finger was okay; the band-aid covered a small cut.  “Why” he asked.  And my answer led to another why and another and another.

“Baby Brumblebee.  Sing, Gen,” Elaine said.  I clasped my hands together and sang, “I’m bringing home a baby bumblebee.  Won’t my mother be so proud or me?”  Elaine put her hand on my mouth and said, “Stop, Gen!”  She pulled my hands apart.  “Brumblebee gone?” she asked.  I reminded her that it was a pretend bumblebee – not real.  “It sting you?”  she asked.  No, I assured her.  “Okay, sing, Gen!”  I clasped my hands and she clasped hers.  “Ouch, it sting me!”  Elaine shouted and threw her arms wide apart.  “Smash it, Gen!”  “I’m smashing up a baby bumblebee,” I sang.  Elaine sang along, slapping her hands together.  At the end of the song, Elaine asked, “Brumblebee, gone?”  Yes, until next time.

Oh, what fun to play with my two-year-old Grands!  Until he runs and she climbs.  Until they say, “NO!” when it’s time to wash their hands.  Until they have more questions than I have answers.  They are two years old and they’re acting their age.

*Gen—toddler talk for Gran.

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Grand Memory

Posted on October 4, 2013 by susanrray

400-04286209Our home is quiet this week.  Much too quiet after last week’s visit from our two Grands who live an airplane ride away.  Neil, 3 ½ months old, and his mother and his older brother visited so that Neil could meet his Tennessee relatives.  And his relatives – great-grandmother, cousins, aunts, uncles- gathered to welcome him.

Three and a half months old.  Is there an age that a baby is sweeter or more cooperative? Neil smiled and giggled and let us pass him from one set of arms to another.  When he lay on the floor on a quilt, he stayed put and watched.  He sat happily in a bouncy seat while we ate meals.  Of course, his mother made sure he stayed happy because he wore a clean, dry diaper and slept when he was tired and ate when he was hungry.

I had to sneak him away a few times to have some just Neil and me moments.  When Neil’s mother said, “He really needs a bath,” I quickly volunteered.  I hauled out my giant commercial size stainless steel bowl, lined it with a bath towel, and tested the water temperature until it was perfect.  Exactly baby-bath warm.

Neil, wearing only a diaper, lay wrapped in his blanket on my kitchen counter.  I placed my arms along his sides, and, with my face just inches from his, I sang a silly made-up song to the tune of ‘The Farmer in the Dell.’  “We’re going to take a bath…” He smiled and kicked.  As I eased his naked bottom and legs into the water, his arms flung outward.  I held his upper body securely, under his back, and smiled.  “Oh, nice warm water,” I said.  He relaxed, body limp.

As I gently rubbed his body with a soapy washcloth, I remembered the days when I bathed my own babies.  Did I cherish those minutes or was bathing my babies a chore?  Neil’s eyes followed my hand as I poured handfuls of water over his tummy, his legs, his arms.  His fussy cry let me know he didn’t like water on his head.  And I didn’t like water splashed on my face when he kicked his feet.  “Bath time is over,” I said.

I wrapped Neil in the softest towel we own, carried him into my bedroom, laid him on my bed, and quickly diapered him.  I sang,  “La, la, la, la, la….” He giggled, waved his arms and kicked and cooed – ohs and ahs – as only a baby can.  And then he blew a bubble and we both laughed.  I took pictures – just in case I ever forget that sweet, happy time.

As I gently massaged his body with lotion, Neil lay completely still, relaxed.  As I struggled to pull his shirt over his head and get his arms through the shirtsleeves, he fussed.  Finally dressed, he lay on his back in the middle of my bed.  I walked from side to side of the bed straightening the bed spread, and he arched his back and turned onto his side to see me.  When I sat beside him and told him how much I love him, he grinned, kicked his legs, and waved his arms.  A perfect response.

The memories, both mental and digital, must tie me over until next time.  I’m booking an airplane ride to be sure a visit is in the near future.

 

 

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At the Beach

Posted on September 30, 2013 by susanrray

DSC00876I hold her hand tightly.  She tiptoes along the dry sand and then onto the wet, just washed sand.  Together, my two-year-old Grand and I stand as the ocean water laps our toes.  Elaine wiggles her hand out of my grasp and marches toward the breaking waves.  She stops when the white water covers her ankles.  “Let me hold you hand,” I say.  “We’ll jump the waves.”  I covered her hand with mine.  She looks up at me, jerks her hand away, and shouts,  “No, Gran!”  The next wave is bigger and stronger.  She flings her arms out to maintain balance.  My hand on her shoulder gives support.  The water retreats.  She turns and runs to her mother who is standing on dry sand.  Mother lifts Elaine into her arms and Elaine burrows her head in Mother’s shoulder.  “Are you okay?”  Mother asks.  Elaine sniffs and says, “The water fall me.”

I carry my young Grand perched on my hip and walk along the seashore.  Just where the water surges onto the sand.  “Ah, Elaine, the water tickles my toes,” I tell her.  She lays her head on my shoulder.  “Tickle, tickle, tickle,” I chant,  “Oh, my toes are wet.”  She jerks her head up and leans her body to see my toes.  “Tickle, tickle, tickle,” I say.  She wiggles and slides down my leg.  Her toes touch the water.  She stands still; her body rigid as she watches the salt water cover our feet.  She grabs for my hand and clutches my finger.  “Tickle, tickle, tickle.  Our toes are wet,” I say.  Together, we stand and let the water lap our toes.  I pat my foot and the water splashes onto her knees.  She stomps.  “The water tickles your knees,” I say.  She stomps, again and again.

Elaine and I hold hands and walk on the dry beach.  “Shell, Gran!” she shouts.  She picks up a tiny broken white shell and runs to me.  “Hold it!”  I open my hand and she lays her treasure onto my palm.  “Hold it tight!”  She runs a few yards, stops, and gathers the shell fragments around her feet.  Her small hands are full.  “More shells,” she says as she unfolds her fingers and drops her shells into my hands.  It was a short walk in distance – maybe twenty feet.  A long discovery walk.  Shells of all colors.  White, brown, black and all sizes, but no whole and unbroken seashells. Yet each a treasure in Elaine’s tight fists.

I rest, reclined under a beach umbrella, and Elaine sits in my lap.  We watch her brother and sisters and parents and Pop swim and play in the ocean.  Pop and Elaine’s older sister are jumping waves; Pop lifts Elaine’s sister high as each roaring wave breaks under her feet.  “What they doing, Gran?”  Elaine asks.  “Jumping waves.  Can you hear your sister laughing?”  I say.  Elaine nods and stares at her sister and Pop.  “Gran?”  she says.  “I wanna’ jump.”

I stand beside Pop and lift Elaine as he lifts her sister.  The white water splashes her feet.  “Higher!  Gran!  Jump higher!”  Elaine shouts.  She grips my hands and stands knee deep in the water, waiting for the next wave.

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At the Kitchen Table

Posted on September 12, 2013 by susanrray

images “What else did you do with your granny?” my six-year-old Grand asked.  I’d told Lou that I use to sit with Granny at her kitchen table, just as she and I were sitting at mine.  Lou wore her swimsuit, ready to play in the YMCA pool, as soon as we finished breakfast.

Granny lived alone and just down the road, a three-minute walk from my house.  And most afternoons after school, I’d checked in at home, say I’d had a good day, and slam the screen backdoor as I shouted, “I’m going to Granny’s.”  Every time Mother told me not to eat candy or anything sweet at Granny’s or I’d spoil my supper.

Granny would push her quilt blocks aside on the couch and make room for me to sit.  “Are you hungry?”  she’d  ask.  Of course I was, because that question was Granny’s offer to make chocolate candy.  Sugar, a hunk of butter, a little milk, and a scoop of cocoa – all dumped into a metal saucepan and heated.  Stirred a few times until the mixture boiled, and then stirred constantly.  Granny dripped a few drops of the hot mixture into a small glass of cold water.  If it formed a smooth ball when I rolled it with my finger, it was done.  She set the saucepan on her white metal table and poured in a few drops of vanilla flavoring.  Then she beat the gooey chocolate with a wooden spoon until it became thick or until her arm was tired and she announced that we’d made spoon candy.  She poured the warm chocolate candy on a buttered platter.  A white one with a small chip that is now in my kitchen cabinet.

It was grainy candy –sometimes firm enough to cut into sloppy squares immediately and sometimes spoon candy, my favorite.  Granny got two spoons out of a drawer, wiped them on her apron tied around her waist, and then she and I ate straight from the platter.  She started at one end of the platter, I at the other.  As we ate, the syrupy candy would spread out and Granny declared that we’d hardly eaten any.  The candy still covered most of the platter.  And then Granny insisted I drink a big glass of water.  “Wash your mouth out,” she’d said.  No doubt, she didn’t want her daughter-in-law, my mother, to see all the chocolate on my teeth.

As much as I liked the candy, the happiest memory is sitting beside Granny at her kitchen table and talking.  She’d tell me about the day’s soap operas and I’ll tell her about Marvin jumping off the top of the slide on the school playground and getting in trouble.  I liked sitting beside Granny, just as I like my Grand sitting beside me at my kitchen table.

“You know, I had a granny and your mother had a granny,” I told Lou.  “I thought about having you call me Granny, instead of Gran.  What do you think?”

Lou looked at me with raised eyebrows.  “I think a granny wouldn’t swim with me.”  She’s probably right.

 

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Grandparents Day – September 8

Posted on September 4, 2013 by susanrray

images   I hate to admit that when my children were young, I ignored Grandparents Day.  In fact, I thought that designated Sunday in September was probably a day that Hallmark and other greeting card companies created to sell more cards.  I may have encouraged my children to say, “Happy Grandparents Day!” to their grandparents, but that was it.

I was wrong.  Recently, I researched and learned that in 1970, a West Virginia housewife, Marian McQuade, initiated a campaign to set aside this special day.  Throughout her life, she was an advocate for the elderly, especially shut-ins and those in nursing homes, and she wanted a day to publicly honor this generation.  With the help of civic groups, businesses, churches, and political leaders, her campaign for Grandparents Day went statewide.  The first Grandparents Day was proclaimed in 1973 in West Virginia, and that state’s senator introduced a Grandparents Day resolution in the United States Senate.

Then Mrs. McQuade and her team contacted governors, senators, and congressmen in every state.  They gained the support of national organizations interested in senior citizens, as well as churches and businesses.  In 1978, the United States Congress passed legislation proclaiming the first Sunday after Labor Day as National Grandparents Day, and President Jimmy Carter signed the proclamation.  September was chosen for the holiday, to signify the “autumn years” of life.

And I learned that Mrs. McQuade and her committee set three purposes for this day.  One as I expected:  to honor grandparents.  Another, to give grandparents an opportunity to show love for their children’s children.  And finally, to help children become aware of the strength, information, and guidance older people can offer.  To me, these purposes say that Grandparents Day is about making memories.

The official Grandparents Day website, http://www.grandparents-day.com, even suggests activities to strengthen the bond among three generations.  Grandparents can share stories of the past, telling about “the old days.”  Then the door for children, both adult parents and grandchildren, to ask questions is open.  Look at photos together and label the pictures with details of who, when, and where.  Play games and sing songs that grandparents played and sang when they were young.  Construct a family tree so that children see the names of their ancestors.

I like when I’m wrong and right is right.  The creation of Grandparents Day was about talking and sharing and playing and singing.  On Sunday, September 8, I plan to share pictures of my Grands’ parents when they were young, and tell my Grands about the day a pet guinea pig hid behind the refrigerator.  We’ll play a family game of ‘Button, Button, Who’s Got the Button?’  And I’m sure my Grands will be glad they weren’t named after either of my grandmothers – Gladys and Etta Juda.

The founder of Grandparents Day lived to celebrate it for thirty years.  At the time of Mrs. McQuade’s death in 2008, her family (15 children, 43 grandchildren, 15 great-grandchildren) requested that that in her memory that others pass on family histories to grandchildren, visit with the elderly, or volunteer in a local nursing home.  Her children knew their mother’s idea was to “Make every day Grandparents Day.”

As it should be.

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Wait ’til Next Year’s Fair

Posted on August 15, 2013 by susanrray

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We were stuck.  Front bumper against the railing.  Cars whizzed past.  I turned the steering wheel.  Our car didn’t move.  A yellow car bumped ours.  My four-year-old Grand held on for dear life.  “Ruth, help me turn the wheel,” I said.  Her blue eyes opened wider as she gripped the metal bar in front of her even tighter.  Three cars bumped ours as they went past.

I looked toward the man in the red vest.  The man leaning against the side of the bumper car track and who’d mumbled, “Put your arms in a strap,” as he lower a round metal bar over mine and Ruth’s heads.  I made eye contact with the red-vested man and threw up my hands in despair.  “PUSH THE PEDAL!” he shouted.  My feet were scrunched under my twisted legs on the left side of the bumper car, far from the pedal on the right side.  The pedal, under the steering wheel and a long leg length in front of Ruth’s short legs.

Husband and I took our three oldest Grands – ages 4, 6, and 8 – to the county fair.  I’d given each Grand some money to spend however they wanted.  We walked through the arts and crafts building and checked out the petting zoo.  “Now, can we go see the rides?”  Asked Lou, age 6.  We checked out every ride.  The older two Grands decided they’d ride two rides and buy cotton candy.  Or one ride, cotton candy, and take money home.  Lou and Ruth rode the fish that went up and down and around in a circle.

“Pop,” said David, “will you ride the bumper cars with me?”  He stood beside the painted board that proved he’s tall enough to drive a car.  “Not with me – in a different car.”  Pop headed toward the ticket booth.

“Pop!”  Lou called, “I want to ride.  Can I ride with you?”

“Me, too!” shouted Ruth.  In the time it took me to blink my eyes, it was decided that Ruth and I would ride together and Husband had the tickets in hand and all five of us were hustled toward bumper cars and we got in three separate cars.  I was concerned that my Grand beside me was safe and could steer the car.  It never occurred to me that anyone had to push a pedal.

“PUSH THE PEDAL!”  shouted the man in the red vest.  I untangled my legs, stretched out my right leg, and stomped the pedal.  “Hold on, Ruth,” I said.  I turned the steering wheel all the way to the left and we swerved off the rail.

Smack!  We hit the boy who’d laughed when he bumped our car.  We made a turn at the end of the track and five cars, including two that my Grands were riding in, were headed toward us.  I swerved to bump David’s car and maneuvered between two others.  Open track ahead.  Those five cars were stuck in a traffic jam behind us.  We made two complete circles on the open track.  The yellow car, driven by a teenage boy, broke loose and headed toward us.  I avoided the bump and hit the back of his car.  And then the ride stopped.  “Everybody out,” said the man in the red vest.

Husband, our Grands, and I walked toward the cotton candy booth.  “That bumper car ride went by really fast,” David said.

“Did you see me and Pop hit that red car?” said Lou.

“I like that ride,” said Ruth.  Me, too.  Just wait ‘til next year.  We’ll be ready.

 

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Observant and Inquisitive

Posted on August 7, 2013 by susanrray

canstock2636420 Husband found a quiet lake cove and anchored the pontoon boat.  The Grands, wearing their snug life jackets, jumped off the front of the boat, swam to the back, climbed up the ladder, and splashed into the water again and again.  What a happy way to celebrate my birthday – with family, on the water, under a cloudless sky, surrounded by trees.  I floated and watched.  Quite comfortable in my one piece, cover-all-it-can, bathing suit.

The Grands’ parents finally declared rest and snack time.  All of us sat on the boat wrapped in towels.  Six-year-old Lou snuggled close and rubbed her hand over my shoulder and down my arm.  “Gran,” she said, “how do you get that fat there?”  Lou patted my back, right under my armpit.  Husband, Daughter, Son in Law, and Lou’s three siblings looked at her and me.  I tugged on my bathing suit to hide that fat there.  “I don’t know.  How’s that?”  I asked.

“Better, it’s not so fat now,” my sweet Grand said.

My Grands notice everything.  When David was six years old, he and his two younger sisters crowded close as I read aloud.  With one Grand in my lap, and one on each side, I held the book high, front and center, so we could all see the pictures.  David, sitting beside me, rubbed his hand lightly down my arm.  With one finger, then two, and then his whole hand.  And then he patted under my arm right above my elbow.  “Gran, stop a minute,” he said.  “How do you get your arm to do that?”  He thumped that part of my arm that some people call a bat wing.  And he thumped his own underarm.  “Look.  When I do my arm like that it doesn’t jiggle.”  I immediately lowered my arms and the book.

“What?  I want to see,” said both his sisters.  I couldn’t convince them that the book was more interesting than a bat wing arm.  So we played show and laugh, and I silently swore that I’d never again lift my arms from my sides in public, unless I was wearing a sleeve below my elbow.

And then there’s a question that all my Grands have asked at age four.  Recently, Ruth and I sat on the playroom floor and dressed Strawberry Shortcake dolls.  We pretended that they smelled as they did when they were new, more than thirty years ago.  That’s when Ruth popped the question.  The same one that her older brother and sister had asked.  “Gran, is there a baby in your tummy?”  My reply was simple.  “No.”  And I’ve learned to not give explanation.

You know, if I’d lose a few pounds or grow about half an inch taller, I’d be an ideal weight according to most medical charts.  But somehow, my body bulges in places that it didn’t at this same weight twenty years ago.

I’m glad my Grands are observant and inquisitive.  Just not about my body.

 

 

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Peppermints and Cupcakes

Posted on July 18, 2013 by susanrray

Picture 2             “Can we play the peppermint game after lunch?”  my Grand, age 6, asks.

“Sure,” I say.  “Do you remember who taught you that game?”

“Aunt Doris,” eight-year-old David, answers quickly.  “Remember the time I found a peppermint under the couch and she didn’t even know it was there?  It was kind of hard, but I ate it anyway.”

“I wanna’ play too,” says Ruth, age.

“Play, too!”  shouts my two-year-old Grand.  It’s Thursday.  The day these four Grands are Husband’s and my lunch guests.

Aunt Doris, the Grands’ great-great aunt, always had York Peppermint Patties to share with children.  But she didn’t just give them to the children – they played Aunt Doris’s game, Hot and Cold.  A game most everyone has played.  The children hid their eyes or went into the kitchen while Aunt Doris hid peppermint candies in her living room.  “Okay, you can start hunting now,” she’d say.  And then one at a time, each child looked for a peppermint while Aunt Doris gave clues as to how close the hunter was to the hidden treat.  Cold – far away from the candy.  Warm – getting closer.  Hot – very close.

I don’t know who had more fun.  Aunt Doris, my Grands, or maybe Uncle Hugh and I as we watched.   “Hide it again,” my older Grands would say, “and this time made it really hard.”  The same candy might be hidden two or three times, and Aunt Doris refused to give any clues except cold, warm, and hot.  A simple game and a simple candy treat, that connected two generations, separated by more than 80 years.  And now I hide the peppermints.

It occurred to me that so much of what grandparents do, we do to make memories and connect our grandchildren with those we love.  One afternoon when our oldest Grand was about four, Husband came home from work with a box of fancy cupcakes.  “Aren’t the kids (meaning our daughter, son-in-law, and two Grands at the time) coming for supper?  I bought dessert.”  I wanted to know what the special occasion was, but I didn’t get an answer.

As the table was being cleared of dirty plates and meat and potatoes, Husband left the kitchen and came back carrying a picture of my dad.  “Today’s a special day.  It’s your great-grandfather’s birthday,” he told our Grands.  “He made this kitchen table.  This one where we just ate supper, and he was your Gran’s daddy.”  And with that, a tradition began.  On the birthdays of my deceased parents and Husband’s father, we eat cupcakes, look at pictures, and talk about Papa, Grannie, and Grandfather.  Our Grands will never know and love these three great-grandparents as they do Grandmother, who visits and brings macaroni and cheese and chocolate pudding, but maybe they’ll remember that Papa was a schoolteacher and a postmaster, and that Grannie sewed beautiful clothes and owned a flower shop, and that Grandfather owned a grocery store.

  It’s all about the memories and connections.  And peppermints and cupcakes.images

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Life Goes Around

Posted on July 4, 2013 by susanrray

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            Many years ago, Husband and I lived the life that Son and my favorite Daughter-in-law are living now.  I’d forgotten some things about life with a two-year old toddler and a newborn, but it all came back to me during a weeklong visit with Son and his family.

When a toddler goes to bed at 7:00 p.m., he gets up at 5:30 a.m.  When he goes to bed at 8:00, he gets up at 5:30.

Newborn diapers are the size of a standard letter envelope.

Bananas taste better when you hold the whole banana.  Why did I ever think my toddler Grand would like a banana cut into slices?

Newborns relax and sleep when they are swaddled tightly in a blanket, and swaddling takes practice.  My three-week old Grand squirmed enough to free his arms when I wrapped him, but he stayed tightly cocooned when his mother swaddled him.

Newborns spit up within thirty minutes after being dressed in a clean outfit.

It’s fun to see the big green garage truck stop in front of your house.  A city worker dumps the contents of your fifty-gallon trashcan into the back of the truck and then the trash is all gone.

Don’t say ‘outside’ unless you plan to go outside.  And don’t say ‘take a walk,’ unless you are ready to go outside right that minute and take your toddler with you.

A walk around the block is an adventure.  Yellow flowers, smooth rocks, and Linden tree leaves are treasures.

Choose a book that you truly like to read aloud.  After I read the last page of Dr. Seuss’s There’s a Wocket in My Pocket, my toddler Grand immediately said, “Agen!”  By the fourth reading, I wished I’d chosen a different book.

When you take a newborn to the grocery store, other shoppers who are close by walk slowly and speak softly.

A towel draped over a kitchen table chair is a perfect hiding place, and a toddler is quiet when he hides.

Peek-a-boo is a laugh out loud game.  I covered my face with my hands and said, “Where’s Dan?”  My toddler Grand dumped the wooden blocks out of a plastic tub and covered his head.  He lifted the tub and giggled when I simply said, “Peek-a-boo!”

Newborns cry when they are hungry or have a dirty diaper or need to burp.  And sometimes a newborn cries and only he knows why.

A toddler can be one second away from a melt down, especially when he is tired or hungry.

It’s makes you happy when you serve a second helping of your home-cooked spaghetti to a toddler, and he pumps his fists and says “Oh, yeah!”

A wooden train set can entertain a toddler for at least twenty minutes, several times a day.  Eight train cars can be lined up in many different ways.

When a newborn sleeps in your arms, you should sit perfectly still and savor every moment.

It’s okay to go to bed before dark.  The toddler in his room.  The grandmother in hers.

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