Grandmas

Sage Says: 

I woke up thinking about grandmas this morning.  

I was thinking about Shayla's daughter - she is fixing to have her first baby.  She is glowing and I can only imagine the excitement, the joy, the apprehension and the "lets get this baby out, there is no room left in there" feeling our momma to be is probably thinking. 

What I can't imagine is how Shayla is feeling...  My kids are still little, so the thought of them having their own children feels like a long way off.  

Squirrel!  My littlest daughter asked me what "Nimples" are the other day.  After a long cows and calves discussion of all things mammary gland, the poor girl couldn't figure out why her friend would say she had such things on her face.  It occurred to me then that she was asking about dimples.  I may have scarred that kid with my frank discussion.  At any rate, Shayla gets to lead the way for me again.  

I'm sure Shayla is feeling all the usual feelings alongside her daughter.  But, is she also thinking about all the things she learned when she had her first child?  Or is she thinking about the fun things she gets to do with her grandson to be?  Or maybe she forgot all of those details (I am forgetting them as we speak... in fact, my mom and I have had several discussions about how you forget the hard parts as you go, to keep your sanity.)  

My grandmother Gigi spoiled me.  She also taught me lessons that are still with me today.  Gigi was so incredibly independent.  She fell in love with a brilliant man who became a full-time alcoholic.  They had two children, and she worked, kept house and did all the parenting.  He, unfortunately, drank too much and missed a lot of family time.  Gigi taught me to love no matter what.  She also had a way of saying "You people" that let you know she was not in approval.  She took me to the department stores to shop for special outfits, good underclothes...

Squirrel! She was a nurse and she said you just never know when someone will see your underclothes, make sure they always look nice.  I used to really freak out at the thought of someone seeing me in my underclothes - who wants to be seen in their under-roos?  Thats why they are under. 

My other grandma, Grandma Tommie, also spoiled me and gave me some neat lessons.  She was a survivor, too.  When she was going through cancer, the very last time I saw her, she took me bra shopping.  Apparently, she also worried about my underclothes.  She saved every single baggie, washing it out and reusing it.  Her pantry had a years worth of food, and she always tucked a little cash into my wallet in a secret spot.  She was ready for that rainy day, having lived through a few of them. 

Both of my grandmas loved me, and I know Shayla will love her new grand-baby fiercely.  I bet she will have fun little quirks that her grandchild will adore...I can picture the two of them eating ice cream for breakfast together.  Gigi and I ate a lot of ice cream together.  Her favorite was butter pecan.  I can still see the table (set with placemats and good napkins, too) and our bowls of ice cream.  Sometimes we would sit on her bed and eat ice cream while a hockey game was on.  Grandmas are special that way.  Shayla will be special, and I am looking forward to hearing about it.

Shayla says:

Unlike Sage, I woke up this morning thinking about grandbabies, not grandmas. That was of course after thinking “I need to pee” and “Ugh. I guess I have to walk all the way out to the kitchen and feed these dogs.”

My first grandbaby is due in four days so every day is “is this the day?” 

I mostly don’t feel like a grandma so much as I feel like a mom—anxious and nervous. While I suppose I should be sitting back and enjoying my daughter’s baby, the truth is I am more focused on my own baby as she goes through this rite of passage.

I’ve spent the past nine months swimming through a sea of emotions. My daughter only got married and moved out the beginning of August. She started her senior year of college, her final year of soccer which, like Sage and her kids with the rodeo became like that favorite relative you visit and spend every free moment with.

It’s been a hard year of transitions for me as a mom so sometimes wrapping my head around the “grandma” part is overwhelming.

If I’m going to be honest, it’s been kind of a lonely process. In my circle of friends I tend to be “the first” in many milestones—marriage, kids, kids growing up, now grandparenthood. (ADD sidebar: When I was a kid I used to want to be the first at everything. I would get docked on my report card for handwriting and my mom would ask me why I wrote so sloppily and I would say, “Because I wanted to be done first.” My mom’s response was, “Well you could be first and do it neatly” to which I answered, “So.” Yes. I know I sound like a dream child. I suspect you are all jealous that you didn’t raise me or are laughing because you have one just like me. Being the first in turning in an assignment in first grade is one thing. Being the first as an adult in trying to achieve life goals is sometimes like running a race and getting to the finish line only to discover there were no other participants.)

I try to picture myself as a grandma and it’s something that is hard for me to envision. 

(ADD sidebar: Lately I’ve been particularly stressing out over what this baby will call me. It’s not because I’m so vain that I take the term “grandma” as a slight, it’s just that being called “Grandma” seems so boring. I told my daughter I would be fine with being called “my favorite Grandma” but she said something about it being hard to pronounce and hurting the other grandmas feelings or some other blah blah blah.) 

(ADD sidebar sidebar: I also spend a lot of time trying to picture myself changing his diapers. My daughter is using cloth diapers which both make me nervous and gross me out. In reading about Sage's grandmas' obsession with undergarments, this diaper concern made me feel slightly more grandma-ish though. Thanks Sage!)

It’s kind of scary not knowing the kind of person you will be. (ADD sidebar: That right there is what I’m talking about. It seems really un-grandma-like to be scared. I feel like grandmas should be fearless and brave and know how to knit and stuff.)

My grandmas were two varying extremes.

My Grandma Wailly was heavyset, quiet, and passive. 

When I was little we would visit once a year and all I really recall is the time my sister and I wanted donuts and soda for breakfast and, though my mom objected at first, grandma won with the argument of “Let them live a little! They’re on vacation!” 

The last time I visited her, I was fifteen. 

She was pretty much an invalid in the early stages of Lou Gherig’s disease. 

We bonded by watching ‘As the World Turns’ together.

My Grandma Faulkner was a tiny, outspoken, chain smoking chocoholic.

I usually saw her once or twice a year.

She loved fiercely which could bring out the best and the worst of her.

One time when I was visiting her I was looking at a picture of my uncle with his daughters hanging up in one of the bedrooms. As I was admiring it, I noticed that he had an arm missing and then realized half of my cousin’s body was missing too. Upon figuring out that she had literally cut my uncle's ex wife out of their family picture and piece it together I felt a combination of amused and slightly frightened.

And more than one of us had been locked out of the house late at night because she was pissed off that we didn’t come home at a reasonable hour despite the fact that my sister and I were well into adulthood or my parents were in their 50s. When she finally opened the door we got the angry eyebrows and a long lecture.

And while both of those stories may seem like examples of a mean little old lady, she was more complicated than that.  

 She was just as forthcoming with the love (the other stories are just more fun to talk about) and even though it’s been thirteen years since she passed away, it still pains me sometimes to know that I can’t call her to hear her uniquely joyful, “Hello sweetheart” on the other end of the phone or develop second hand smoke lung cancer by visiting her in person to see the angry eyebrows…or hear her deep voiced, slow, and breathy laughter…or fall into one of her warm, lingering hugs.

So, I don’t know what kind of grandma I will be. 

My kids have amazing grandparents. 

That’s not an exaggeration. 

They are amazing. 

Sometimes I worry that I won’t be able to live up to that gold standard of grandparenthood. 

And I don’t have the addiction to soap operas or cigarettes to pull off being like my own grandmothers.

My daughter and I get pedicures sometimes and the little Vietnamese ladies call me “young mommy.”

I guess one thing I have going for me is I will be “young Grandma.”

I guess I’ll just have to be my own kind of grandma. What that means exactly, I don't know. 

I'm not sure that I'll be fun enough to be giving him ice cream for breakfast like Sage imagines but oddly enough she does have me feeling compelled to go buy him some underwear. 

Summer Grumbles And Musings

Shayla says:

It’s summer time, or as we call it here in Phoenix, “boob sweating season.” I see the commercials for anti-depressants during the winter for those who suffer from something called “seasonal affective disorder” and think, “I’m 85% sure that I have that in the summer.”

ADD sidebar: I’m also a hypochondriac so I spend a fair amount of time thinking I have most of the diseases that are on television from rheumatoid arthritis to Crohn’s disease.

ADD sidebar to my ADD sidebar…if you discovered a disease that is associated with chronic diarrhea like Dr. Crohn, would you want it named after you? I looked it up and two other doctors discovered it with him. I feel like they were probably like, “No dude. That’s cool. You can name it after you.”

So as I was saying, I’m 85% sure I suffer from summertime seasonal affective disorder.

What about the other 15%?

I have to take into account the PMS moments that will occur during those three months. Sometimes my hormones, not the heat, make me a hot mess.

Plus I’m a writer, not a mathematician. I’m much better with word problems…I take my problems and put them to words.

Summers in Phoenix mean a few things:

I may need to sell an organ or child to be able to afford to set my air conditioning at a comfortable level;

By July, I have developed the rage of a UFC fighter vowing that if one more person from out of town tells me “but it’s a dry heat” I will put them in a headlock and shove their behind in a 500 degree oven while yelling, “Stop crying! It’s a dry heat!” Of course, in the end I realize how much this will cause me to sweat and decide it’s not worth it;

I must wear shoes (Great. One more area on my body that will be sweating);

My pets don’t know if it’s day or night because opening the shades, blinds, and curtains is forbidden;

I will reach a new level of debilitating laziness. This laziness will be explained as such: “I was going to__________ but it was too hot to do anything.”

ADD sidebar: Last night my husband got us take out for dinner. At first I told him I wanted a baked potato. Then I told him never mind. I wanted mashed potatoes instead because I generally just mush up the baked potato anyway and the thought of having to mush up my own baked potato seemed too overwhelming. 

That’s some serious summertime seasonal affective disorder laziness right there.

Today, as I woke up, I knew I would be forced to venture out into the blazing sun because we were out of dog food and my dogs were doing the “it’s time to feed the dogs” dance. This dance is quite entertaining actually. We can never use the words “time” “feed” or “dogs” without having our 90lb black lab/Weimeraner leaping in the air like a gazelle or the fat little beagle/Chihuahua mix barking like a demented seal.

I am neither a morning person nor a summer person so I wholeheartedly resented having to get dressed and look somewhat presentable to society.

ADD sidebar: Sometimes I wonder if Sage has to worry about looking presentable out there in the country.

For instance, I try to schedule outings on the day I get my hair done because I know it’s the one day ever five weeks that my hair will be doing what I’ve intended it to do.

Does Sage even go to get her hair done?

I once saw a picture of her kids after the oldest daughter had cut the youngest daughter’s hair. The youngest daughter looked traumatized with bangs cut to her scalp while the oldest daughter looked sassily at the camera like “Uh huh. That’s right. I did it.” 

Just picturing it in my head makes me giggle.

I cut my own daughter’s hair once when she was a toddler. She ended up looking like a little boy from a Mayan village.

Here in the city we are expected to get our hair done unless you’re homeless. Sometimes it’s a pain in the ass, but on the plus side, I’m 44 years old and rarely have grays…

So I strapped on the big girl bra and resting bitch face and headed to Target which is about a mile away…just far enough for me to only get 2nd degree burns on my hands from touching the steering wheel, just close enough that the air conditioning doesn’t even have time to get cold.

I picked up a 20lb bag of dog food and a 12 pack of toilet paper (ADD sidebar: I have an irrational fear that I will run out of toilet paper so pick up a package nearly every time I’m at the store), two bulky items that my little t-rex arms can’t juggle so I have to use a cart.

As I get to the checkout, I notice the woman in front of me has what appears to be an empty cart. And then I see a tiny little box of tampons in the seat. For a moment I wanted to say something hilarious to her about needing a cart for a tiny box of tampons.

ADD sidebar: I like to try to joke with people I don’t know as much as with people I do know.  My mom says I never met a stranger. I know we weren't supposed to talk to strangers as kids. I'm pretty sure it was all my talking that kept me from being kidnapped though.

75% of the time strangers enjoy my humor. 

That of course is writer’s math right there.  

While it was tempting to be a smart ass, I looked at the woman and thought I better not. 

Like the saying goes, hell hath no fury like a hormonal woman.” (Okay. Maybe that’s just my saying.) 

Besides, who’s to say she doesn’t suffer from Phoenix summer seasonal affective disorder too?

I suppose I could’ve said something encouraging to her but it was too hot to do anything.  

Sage Says:

Its June 11th, and I am wearing a long sleeve western shirt, cowboy hat and khaki pants.  

Its a toasty 70 degrees out.  At 6:00am it was 48 degrees.  We don't have a whole lot of heat here in the mountains, though it is more of a dry heat. (snicker snicker)   

I go to the cities and rush home, thankful I survived.  I've been to Phoenix a few times.  Never in June.  Or July.  But I did do southern Florida in June, once.  I survived.  In fact, I liked it, but I was ready to come home and not wake up with my pjs soaked from my own sweat.

Squirrel!  We leave for South Carolina in a week for a wedding for my all-time favorite young man.  He is just one of those people that makes the world better because he is in it. You know, like Shayla.  Just don't bother her in the heat.  Anyway - Thomas tells me, "Its hot.  Theres no cool breeze like you have, there is no breeze at all...its not like Chama."  He is genuinely worried I might melt, after all he has seen me quit working in the middle of the afternoon because humidity reached 40% and it hit 82 degrees.  

I'm not as tough as Shayla.  I work early and late and avoid the blistering mountain heat waves of 82 degrees as much as I can.  I help my kids wash show animals, I irrigate and get my feet in that 50 degree water and heat is not on my radar.  Thank goodness.  I get cranky when its over 82 and Shayla survives triple digits regularly.  I smile all the time here.  I've always thought it was because I am trying to be a nice person.  Nope.  It is the heat.  If Shayla was here, there would be no resting bitch face.  It would be a nice, relaxed smile.  And, if I was in Phoenix, they would probably have a whole new bad face name just for me.  "Ugh, it is hot.  That lady sure has her Sage face on."

I think city heat is different, though.  Here, our ground is still only about 60 degrees.  I am sure pavement is at least 200 degrees.  If not hotter.  If I lived there, my hair wouldn't ever be 'done'.  Though it isn't here, either.  

Squirrel!  Wait, I forgot the hair part!  I did just got my hair done.  I took out my braid, my friend that came over to help me fence made me brush it out and she cut straight across my back to trim my hair.  I braided it back up and we put on our gloves and went to fence.  OK, while I am not a hair-do-doer, I am a hypochondriac.  In fact, I just diagnosed myself with a new disease...Orthostatic hypotension.  I love the serious way it rolls off my tongue.  What is it, you ask?  I get lightheaded when I stand up quickly.  All these years, I thought I was just tall and the incredible distance between my head at the top of my body and close to the ground meant some serious adjustments for all the operational parts in between.  Nope.  It has a real name.  It is a disease.  I am pretty excited to add that one to my resume.  Oh, right.  back to the blog....

The kids and I cleaned up to go to Santa Fe (closest city) and watch a movie a month ago.  My son had his last basketball game and we went in and watched, planning to leave as soon as he was done.  I didn't get my hair done, but I did put on mascara and take off my hat.  I even put on a short sleeve shirt and earrings!  After we had gone, my friend told me, laughing, her son didn't even recognize me.  He had never seen me without work clothes and a hat on.  

There are a few hair salons in the area, but I've only gone once.  That involves committing to a time frame way out in the future, at least two weeks, and I am not even sure what the rest of my day looks like, much less hitting a bullseye appointment a full two weeks out.  I don't know how people operate on schedules.  Cows certainly don't follow them.  And, as the cow caretaker around here, I don't much, either.  

Squirrel!  I do have strands of glitter (ok, plain old gray hair) nowadays.  And I am proud to have them.  My grandmother grayed very early and very suddenly as she finished up nursing school.  As the oldest daughter during the depression, she left Canada to attend nursing school in New York.  She then went to Los Angeles to nurse.  She sent her money home to help with the younger siblings.  She must have earned that gray hair.  I always thought it would be a cool thing to inherit.  Alas, I just have a few grays that stick straight up.  

Where were we?  Oh, heat and hair-dos.  I have to say, most days, I just see my family and the cows, and so far, not a one of them has ever commented on my do.  I actually kind of like going for the crazy neighbor lady with the wild hair look because we do have a gated community with mostly weekend homes for city folk near the ranch, and sometimes they get pretty outrageous ideas about our cattle and ranch... I've been yelled at on more than one occasion by trespassers trying to help a brand new baby calf by pouring water on its head, or by people running their dogs after our cattle so they could feel like real wild dogs.  I have learned to yell back, when I need, and the crazy lady look just works in my favor in the mean time.  Maybe they can tell its been a long time since I had my hair done.  Most of the neighbors really are nice...and they seem to smile a lot, so the cool air must be helping.  

Either way, I am glad I am not in a scorching city this time of year.  Ok, I am glad of that every waking second I get to spend on this ranch, mostly because I know I wouldn't do well with hot pavement, hair appointments and dry heat comments. 

Mamas and Superpowers

Sage Says:

It seems its a given that parents have superpowers.  

My dad had the look.  

If he sent it your way you knew you had one shot to straighten up, and you better do it now.  He could send it through walls and across town.

My mom had this zen straightforward thing going on.  She wasn't one to dodge a question.  Ever.  You could ask anything and she would calmly answer, with love and no judgement.  I still ask her questions!

Her and Dad raised my brother and I into pretty decent, kind, hardworking adults.  Their superpowers had punch!  They worked!  

I've got momma friends now with spectacular superpowers.  Shayla is one, she probably has several momma superpowers.  She has given me advice and shared concepts like being your child's advocate.  I can honestly say that one hadn't crossed my mind until she used it.  Her kids are kind, intelligent, neat, individuals.  It is working!  

So, I asked myself what my superpower is.  I've thought about this most of the morning.  I've narrowed it down to one thing.  

My superpower is holding it.  

Parents of small children can relate, right?  Mine are 10,9,7 and when they were smaller there was no way I could go somewhere and use a restroom without causing a cleanup on aisle 3, fearing that my oldest would walk off; hand in hand, with the first person she took a fancy to, and at least one would be climbing the highest obstacle in a matter of seconds.  So I held it.

Kids rodeos, and the outhouse is on the other side of the arena from where we parked...all day, I could hold it.  

No way was I going to take my eyes off of my ornery bunch on horseback.  They would probably try and rope someone, bail off a horse to chase lizards; leaving the horse to roam freely while said child disappears, ride up into the grandstand and trade horseback rides for candy.  Actually, they have tried most of those things, even with me watching.  So, you can see why I held it.  

Squirrel!  I read somewhere that your bladder is like a rubber band, the more you stretch it, the more it wears out.  I probably ought to buy stock in Depends, if that is the case.  Oh, I could be a rich old lady with my own line of leaky bladder products!

I am not sure how useful my super power is, and as I think about it, I realize it stems from not trusting my kids much.  

There is a term in parenting these days, 'helicopter parent.'  

I think that is me, and they probably use my picture in all the definitions of the term.  

No worries, I am pretty excited it isn't a picture in stripes or on the Channel 4 news.  Yet.  I'm ok with my copter-ness.  My kids are ornery, and I buzz to keep us all alive.  And, off of Channel 4.  

My hopes are that as my children age, my superpower will morph into a new, cool superpower.  Like eyes in the back of my head.  Or the ability to tell when one is lying...  that could really be useful at my house.  When I have a "Not-Me" case show up, I have to punish all three of mine equally, because at this point, I would never get it right, and the one who did it would never get punished.  At least this way, I get the culprit...and his or her innocent siblings.  

Yes, my parenting is far from perfect.  But right now, I bet you that I can outhold you any time, any place. If there was an Olympics of holding it, I would be proud to carry our flag and know I actually could be in contention for the Gold.  

Squirrel!  The kids and I are off to saddle up horses and check cows...could be a long day and I'll be holding it until I am sure no one is getting bucked off, roping calves, chasing squirrels or riding through wire.  

Shayla says:

I think my cousin is a little generous with her praise of my parenting skills.

Attention Deficit sidebar confession: Things my cousin probably doesn’t know: I was behind the wheel of a vehicle that ran over my oldest child once. 

I’m calling BS on that whole “a mother gets super human strength when her baby is in danger” National Enquirer crap. I ran around hysterically screaming for neighbors to help me before finally deciding I needed to move the car off her arm myself. She didn’t even get a bruise and I spent the next three days in bed sobbing.

Maybe mama super powers don’t kick in until later but even when I had my next kid and went to give him a swat on the behind for something, I couldn’t muster up super speed to catch his ornery little four year old self and ended up snatching him by the collar and performing an NFL drop kick that caused us all to laugh hysterically instead of actually inflict punishment but I digress…

So my dear Sage, I think it's more experience than super powers that afford me the opportunity to offer you any sort of wisdom. Similar to combat veterans, I am able to give you an idea as to how to disarm a timebomb or outflank the enemy, but when you surely understand, we’re all just hunkering down, fighting the good fight, and praying we come out alive.

Now as far as having the super power of being able to hold it, well my cousin has me beat there. 

After having a nearly 10lb baby, I thought I would have to buy a purse to carry around my bladder. Thank God for surgical intervention and the fact that in the big city there is a bathroom nearly on every street corner. 

 Attention Deficit Sidebar: If you ever find yourself attending a weekend soccer tournament, your ability to hold it will be of great service to you. It only took me one encounter with a porta-potty to come up with the new strategy of being able to spot a convenience store or restaurant near the fields. Somehow, usually through clenched teeth while muttering, “Please let me make it,” I was able to get to a flushing commode every time.

So what would I consider to be my mom super power? Hmmm….

My own mother has the ability to make her children’s butts tense up by talking through her teeth. While I haven’t mastered that, I’m pretty damn good.

And I think all moms develop similar super strengths like that magic mommy spit that is the universal solvent to remove anything from a child’s skin or the rubber arm that can, in one all powerful swoop, reach across the entire width of a car to keep a child from flying out the windshield (Or at least we think it does. Sometimes we moms are legends in our own minds…)

But I guess my super power is that I am “Worst Case Scenario Girl.” 

Everything my kids do causes me to jump to the worst case scenario.

My daughter has gone for a jog and has been gone for more than twenty minutes? Obviously she’s been raped and is cast aside in a ditch and I must get in the car to search for her.

My son’s cell phone is off? He’s been kidnapped.

My adult son is “working late”? Dear God...he’s being held at gunpoint I just know it!

Maybe I am a helicopter parent like Sage.

Maybe running over my own baby caused some reaction akin to being bit by a radioactive spider.

Maybe I have issues. 

Okay. That’s a probably.

But the one benefit of being “Worst Case Scenario Girl” is that it has boded well for me in some circumstances because my kids jump to their own worst case scenario conclusions.

My daughter got a detention one time for talking. She got in the car after school, sobbing because she was sure that I was going to go ballistic over her classroom infraction. Instead, much to her surprise, I burst out laughing.

“You’re not mad?”

“Oh good grief Alex. It was for talking.”  

“I told my teacher you were going to kill me!”

“Really? I was going to ‘kill’ you? Let’s be realistic. What would’ve been the worst that could happen? I might ground you?”

“Yeah...I guess.” She almost looked disappointed that she had predicted incorrectly. We Faulkner women sometimes take being right so seriously that we would almost rather die than be wrong.

In truth, I didn’t even ground her.  

In fact, I probably just told her to put on her seatbelt...ya know, just in case my super human rubber arm didn’t work that day...because we were likely to get sideswiped by a semi on the mean streets of Phoenix and die.

Thank goodness there were plenty of places to stop and use the restroom on the way home.