The scene is Googie's kitchen nearly three years ago. Pa-pa is just finishing a little plastic cup of yogurt, when the following exchange takes place:
Sooby: (eyeing the yogurt) Peez?
Pa-pa: (regretfully showing her the empty cup) All gone.
Sooby: All gone?
Pa-pa: Yep. All gone.
Sooby: Uh-oh.
Not a lot of content here, granted, but the dialogue is nevertheless significant: it was Sooby's first actual conversation, and she was just a couple weeks away from her first birthday.
One of my favorite things about the grandparenting experience has been watching the kids learn to talk. Even when I took linguistics in college, I was always fascinated by studies of how children acquire the vocabulary, semantics, and syntax of language despite its idiomatic expressions and contextual complexities. As you may be starting to suspect, I have sometimes been guilty of overanalyzing my grandkids' language patterns.
Sooby says, "Give me a cookie." I say, "Did you hear that? She used imperative mood with both a direct and indirect object!" She says, "Give me a cookie now," and I marvel at the judicious placement of a well-chosen adverb for emphasis. I also give her a cookie.
Pooh says something as simple as "That was funny!" and I make a mental check mark in the columns under demonstrative pronoun, past tense, linking verb, and predicate adjective. Having just turned two, Pooh has been busy sorting out his personal pronouns. But last weekend, I heard him correctly use the second-person you. I gave him a cookie too.
I love best the cute things kids say that catch you offguard and overwhelm you with their simple, heartfelt sincerity. A couple days ago, Pooh looks up at me with those big blue eyes. "Googie," he says, "you are my boy." Noun of direct address, second-person pronoun, linking--oh heck, never mind all that.
I am Pooh's boy. For now, let me just grab a kleenex. I will try to straighten him out on the subject of gender some other time.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Monday, March 28, 2011
101 Carnations
I must have read it a hundred times this weekend: that beloved story of Pongo, Perdy, the odious Cruella de Vil and the ninety-nine black and white spotted puppies she tried so maliciously to kidnap. "Would you read 101 Carnations?" Sooby asked again and again, book in hand. Two things about her repeated request amused me--her confusion over those two similar words and her obsession with the character of Cruella.
Time after time, we stopped to dwell on the pages with images of Cruella, whom Sooby (a drama queen in the making) would actually address: "You can't have those puppies, Corella [sic]! You mustn't!" These conversations afforded me ample time to consider the obvious negative influences contributing to Cruella's character, leading me to the conclusion that she may be more tragic heroine than villain.
First, every day for Cruella is a bad hair day, because her half black and half white hair is parted right down the middle, a severe breach of fashion etiquette. Truly, she is the unwitting victim of an inept hairdresser.
Another strike against Cruella is the fact that she smokes. Not cool, Cruella, not cool at all. She obviously began this nasty practice to try to fit into a peer group of equally repulsive loser thugs. That fancy cigarette holder she flaunts does nothing to glamorize what is, in reality, a filthy, stinky habit.
Dangling at the end of Cruella's other arm is a purse adorned with the bushy black and white tails of a host of unknown, but nevertheless unfortunate, animals. This, plus the fact that she wears a floor-length white fur coat, puts her right in the crosshairs of PETA, already suspicious of her motive for stealing the dalmatian--er, carnation--puppies. No political correctness for Cruella.
Next, Cruella's car, apparently a convertible, is downright ugly. Its pink top clashes hideously with the red body. A shot of the inside ( p. 5) shows no gear shift, light knobs, or radio controls. Most certainly, Cruella was duped by a fast-talking car salesman or she would be driving a more attractive and serviceable vehicle.
Finally, Cruella seems unable to get good help. Her goons, Horace and Jasper, remind the reader of Harry and Marv, the bungling burglars of Home Alone (Joe Pesci would have made a good Horace.). They are easily outsmarted by Pongo and Perdy, otherwise known as Mommy and Daddy Carnation. Horace and Jasper should know better than to fool with mad dogs.
Cruella de Vil, then, is nothing less than tragic, meriting more our pity than our disdain. With all this going against her, she never had a chance to be a decent villain. Sooby had the right idea: who knows how differently she might have turned out if, as a young high school girl in black and white pigtails, she would have received 101 carnations from an admiring suitor? Not to mention how much better her house would have smelled minus all those dogs.
Time after time, we stopped to dwell on the pages with images of Cruella, whom Sooby (a drama queen in the making) would actually address: "You can't have those puppies, Corella [sic]! You mustn't!" These conversations afforded me ample time to consider the obvious negative influences contributing to Cruella's character, leading me to the conclusion that she may be more tragic heroine than villain.
First, every day for Cruella is a bad hair day, because her half black and half white hair is parted right down the middle, a severe breach of fashion etiquette. Truly, she is the unwitting victim of an inept hairdresser.
Another strike against Cruella is the fact that she smokes. Not cool, Cruella, not cool at all. She obviously began this nasty practice to try to fit into a peer group of equally repulsive loser thugs. That fancy cigarette holder she flaunts does nothing to glamorize what is, in reality, a filthy, stinky habit.
Dangling at the end of Cruella's other arm is a purse adorned with the bushy black and white tails of a host of unknown, but nevertheless unfortunate, animals. This, plus the fact that she wears a floor-length white fur coat, puts her right in the crosshairs of PETA, already suspicious of her motive for stealing the dalmatian--er, carnation--puppies. No political correctness for Cruella.
Next, Cruella's car, apparently a convertible, is downright ugly. Its pink top clashes hideously with the red body. A shot of the inside ( p. 5) shows no gear shift, light knobs, or radio controls. Most certainly, Cruella was duped by a fast-talking car salesman or she would be driving a more attractive and serviceable vehicle.
Finally, Cruella seems unable to get good help. Her goons, Horace and Jasper, remind the reader of Harry and Marv, the bungling burglars of Home Alone (Joe Pesci would have made a good Horace.). They are easily outsmarted by Pongo and Perdy, otherwise known as Mommy and Daddy Carnation. Horace and Jasper should know better than to fool with mad dogs.
Cruella de Vil, then, is nothing less than tragic, meriting more our pity than our disdain. With all this going against her, she never had a chance to be a decent villain. Sooby had the right idea: who knows how differently she might have turned out if, as a young high school girl in black and white pigtails, she would have received 101 carnations from an admiring suitor? Not to mention how much better her house would have smelled minus all those dogs.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Making a List, Checking It Twice
This morning I taped the door to the pendulum of the grandfather clock shut. I removed all the Wallflowers fragrance bulbs from their outlets. I set up the porta-crib in the spare bedroom. This can mean only one thing: Sooby and Pooh are coming for the weekend. All I have left to finish is my grocery list of all the nutritious items my grandkids need to grow strong and healthy. No junk for those two at Googie's house. So here goes:
- milk (strong bones and teeth, of course; a no-brainer)
- grapes (Pooh's favorite food in the world; a fruit group staple)
- Cheerios (Pooh's favorite breakfast cereal; 3 grams of fiber per serving)
- Fruit Loops (Sooby's favorite breakfast cereal; not quite so much fiber, but it does contain the word "fruit," which should be worth something)
- Spaghettios ("Uh-oh," perhaps a little high on carbs, but the kids do need energy)
- chocolate chips (The cookies we will make will benefit their emotional health and enhance their social skills.)
- popsicles (These come in a healthy variety of fruit flavors.)
- jelly beans (I am getting a lot of mileage out of the fruit-flavor thing.)
- Wonder Bubbles (fresh air?)
- kites (OK, I admit it. My list is a bit out of control, just like most of the shopping trips I make in preparation for the kids' visits. Oh well, let's just call it a healthy consistency.)
Monday, March 21, 2011
Chickie and Bunny: A Tough Act To Follow
Lately I have been perusing the Easter aisles of Walgreen's with no small degree of anxiety. With Easter barely a month away, baskets for Sooby, Pooh, and Bootsie are crying out to be filled. Generally, that would not be a problem, but this year, I'm afraid, I may run into an exception. There is no way I will be able to compete with Chickie and Bunny.
Chickie and Bunny were last year's Easter gifts to Sooby and Pooh. They are battery-operated, animated plush creatures snatched from the shelves of Walgreen's amid a mob of other day-after-Easter shoppers nearly two years ago. Because the kids' parents consider these toys loud and obnoxious and because they sometimes exhibit abolutely no sense of humor, Chickie and Bunny have resided for the past year on a shelf in the toy closet at my house. I don't admit this to many people, but sometimes I get them out and play with them even when the kids are not here.
Chickie, as his nickname suggests, appears at first glance to be an innocent yellow baby chick hatching from a lovely, pastel-striped egg. However, when you push a button hidden inside his wing, he begins to crow, flap his wings, light up, and waddle around in a circle to the syncopated rhythm of "The Chicken Dance." The longer the song plays, the faster it goes, and the faster Chickie waddles. It is one of the cutest, funniest things I have ever seen.
Bunny is a light blue and white Kenny G wannabe complete with sunglasses and a saxophone (which Pooh calls a "sackophone"). Push Bunny's little foot, and he becomes a musical prodigy, swaying masterfully from side to side and belting out sixteen measures of the jazziest brass you've ever heard. Bunny and Chickie are especially effective when played simultaneously, which often happens when Sooby and Pooh have them out. The word cacophony comes to mind, but theirs is a discordant duet I never tire of.
You see my problem. I am going to have to work really hard this year to top the joy and musical finesse of Chickie and Bunny. So rather than shopping at random, thus trusting any chance of success to serendipity, I have narrowed my search to three specific items that I think just might top Chickie and Bunny for originality and musical genius. Here they are:
Chickie and Bunny were last year's Easter gifts to Sooby and Pooh. They are battery-operated, animated plush creatures snatched from the shelves of Walgreen's amid a mob of other day-after-Easter shoppers nearly two years ago. Because the kids' parents consider these toys loud and obnoxious and because they sometimes exhibit abolutely no sense of humor, Chickie and Bunny have resided for the past year on a shelf in the toy closet at my house. I don't admit this to many people, but sometimes I get them out and play with them even when the kids are not here.
Chickie, as his nickname suggests, appears at first glance to be an innocent yellow baby chick hatching from a lovely, pastel-striped egg. However, when you push a button hidden inside his wing, he begins to crow, flap his wings, light up, and waddle around in a circle to the syncopated rhythm of "The Chicken Dance." The longer the song plays, the faster it goes, and the faster Chickie waddles. It is one of the cutest, funniest things I have ever seen.
Bunny is a light blue and white Kenny G wannabe complete with sunglasses and a saxophone (which Pooh calls a "sackophone"). Push Bunny's little foot, and he becomes a musical prodigy, swaying masterfully from side to side and belting out sixteen measures of the jazziest brass you've ever heard. Bunny and Chickie are especially effective when played simultaneously, which often happens when Sooby and Pooh have them out. The word cacophony comes to mind, but theirs is a discordant duet I never tire of.
You see my problem. I am going to have to work really hard this year to top the joy and musical finesse of Chickie and Bunny. So rather than shopping at random, thus trusting any chance of success to serendipity, I have narrowed my search to three specific items that I think just might top Chickie and Bunny for originality and musical genius. Here they are:
- a kangaroo that thumps her tail and juggles Easter eggs while the baby in her pouch sings "Put on Your Easter Bonnet";
- a chicken that, to the theme song of Breakfast at Tiffany's, lays an egg, scrambles it, and serves it on a pastel Fiestaware platter with bacon and toast; and
- a pair of toothless ducks, dressed in bib overalls, that play the banjo duet from Deliverance. (These should be especially easy to find, since all ducks are basically toothless.)
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Barefoot and Blognant
The other morning I was swinging a leg over the side of the bed when Pa-pa (to whom I sometimes allow partial credit for the fact that we have grandkids) asked the obvious: "Are you getting up?"
"I have to," I said. "I have a blog in my head."
"Should we call the doctor," he asked, "or do you just need to blow your nose?"
"I just need to get to the coffee pot and the computer," I said. "In that order." The truth was, I was rapidly nearing the end of my most recent blognancy, and I was about to pop. I grabbed my robe and headed downstairs.
I have always found that this is the way writing works for me. Somewhere deep inside of me, without my being fully aware of it, an idea is conceived and begins to grow. Over time it takes nourishment from me, and I detect a faint heartbeat. Turns of phrase, description, and metaphor begin to flesh it out, and it begins to wriggle and kick. It grows large and makes me uncomfortable. Finally, that idea reaches full term and is ready to be delivered.
Inevitably, I find that the labor process itself gives an actual shape to the piece, which sometimes delivers easily and sometimes has to be induced. Although each piece has some genetic resemblance to its siblings, it assumes its own unique appearance and personality. I feel really proud when my family and friends compliment me on the new arrival.
One thing about it, the subject of grandparenting promises to keep me fertile for a long time. In fact, I need to end this piece now. It seems I may have been blognant with twins.
"I have to," I said. "I have a blog in my head."
"Should we call the doctor," he asked, "or do you just need to blow your nose?"
"I just need to get to the coffee pot and the computer," I said. "In that order." The truth was, I was rapidly nearing the end of my most recent blognancy, and I was about to pop. I grabbed my robe and headed downstairs.
I have always found that this is the way writing works for me. Somewhere deep inside of me, without my being fully aware of it, an idea is conceived and begins to grow. Over time it takes nourishment from me, and I detect a faint heartbeat. Turns of phrase, description, and metaphor begin to flesh it out, and it begins to wriggle and kick. It grows large and makes me uncomfortable. Finally, that idea reaches full term and is ready to be delivered.
Inevitably, I find that the labor process itself gives an actual shape to the piece, which sometimes delivers easily and sometimes has to be induced. Although each piece has some genetic resemblance to its siblings, it assumes its own unique appearance and personality. I feel really proud when my family and friends compliment me on the new arrival.
One thing about it, the subject of grandparenting promises to keep me fertile for a long time. In fact, I need to end this piece now. It seems I may have been blognant with twins.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Kids, This Is Your Great-Grandma
Dear Sooby, Pooh, and Bootsie:
Something very important happened on this date in 1922. That was the day your great-grandma Florence was born. Grandma Florence would be 89 today if she were still here with us. I'm sure she would have loved to stick around long enough to know the three of you, but, since she couldn't, I would like to introduce her to you in this letter.
Your mama and your Uncle Tebo remember Grandma Florence very well. They sometimes spent the night at her house and did the same kind of fun things we do when you stay with me and Pa-pa. They remember that she could take a two-pound block of Velveeta, a jar of chopped pimentos, and a container of Miracle Whip and perform a miracle of her own on two pieces of bread. They will never forget the powdered-sugar strawberries and gumdrop cake at Christmas or the heaping platters of fried fresh crappie that she caught herself. In their minds forever will be the sunroom full of thriving green plants next to the old TV, where she would outscore everyone who dared to challenge her to Pac-Man or Donkey Kong on her old Atari.
They remember that she was as tough as a tiger on the outside, but inside she was as gentle as a kitten. Her voice was low and gruff and her words sometimes sharp and pointed, but when she spoke, the twinkle in her eyes and the way her lips would curl up at the edges softened both. By example, she taught us about courage and strength and loyalty. Those are big words for you guys, but let me show you what I mean.
Grandma Florence faced life's trials and heartbreaks with courage (like the Cowardly Lion got from the wizard) and grace. She cared for your great-grandpa at home the whole time he had a bad disease called Alzheimer's. Grown-ups who have Alzheimer's can't think very well anymore, and they forget lots of important things. Having this disease is kind of like turning into a baby again. When your great-grandpa turned into a baby again (even though he stayed a grown-up size), Grandma Florence was right there to take care of him. She fed him and gave him baths and helped him to stay clean and comfortable, just like Mama does for Baby Bootsie. She was loyal to him until the end.
Grandma Florence had to be strong at other times too. A long time ago, when she was even younger than your mama, she raised Pa-pa and two other kids all by herself while your great-grandpa was across the ocean fighting for our country in a war. When Pa-pa grew up, he had to fight in a war too, and Grandma worried about him a lot until he came home safe. When Pa-Pa's little sister died in a bad car wreck, it broke Grandma's heart, but her heart never changed color. It was always a heart of gold.
Grandma Florence's heart got sick and quit working a few years before you were born. That is why you won't be able to meet her in person during your life in this world. But if she were still here, I know she would love you just like Pa-pa and I do, so here is what we should do on this special day.
Sing "Happy Birthday," and sing it from your heart. Cover a cake with candles and then blow them all out. Close your eyes and make a wish that, as long as we live, we will be strong and brave and loyal for each other. Today is Grandma Florence's birthday, and we need to celebrate the gift that she gave to us all.
Love always,
Googie
Something very important happened on this date in 1922. That was the day your great-grandma Florence was born. Grandma Florence would be 89 today if she were still here with us. I'm sure she would have loved to stick around long enough to know the three of you, but, since she couldn't, I would like to introduce her to you in this letter.
Your mama and your Uncle Tebo remember Grandma Florence very well. They sometimes spent the night at her house and did the same kind of fun things we do when you stay with me and Pa-pa. They remember that she could take a two-pound block of Velveeta, a jar of chopped pimentos, and a container of Miracle Whip and perform a miracle of her own on two pieces of bread. They will never forget the powdered-sugar strawberries and gumdrop cake at Christmas or the heaping platters of fried fresh crappie that she caught herself. In their minds forever will be the sunroom full of thriving green plants next to the old TV, where she would outscore everyone who dared to challenge her to Pac-Man or Donkey Kong on her old Atari.
They remember that she was as tough as a tiger on the outside, but inside she was as gentle as a kitten. Her voice was low and gruff and her words sometimes sharp and pointed, but when she spoke, the twinkle in her eyes and the way her lips would curl up at the edges softened both. By example, she taught us about courage and strength and loyalty. Those are big words for you guys, but let me show you what I mean.
Grandma Florence faced life's trials and heartbreaks with courage (like the Cowardly Lion got from the wizard) and grace. She cared for your great-grandpa at home the whole time he had a bad disease called Alzheimer's. Grown-ups who have Alzheimer's can't think very well anymore, and they forget lots of important things. Having this disease is kind of like turning into a baby again. When your great-grandpa turned into a baby again (even though he stayed a grown-up size), Grandma Florence was right there to take care of him. She fed him and gave him baths and helped him to stay clean and comfortable, just like Mama does for Baby Bootsie. She was loyal to him until the end.
Grandma Florence had to be strong at other times too. A long time ago, when she was even younger than your mama, she raised Pa-pa and two other kids all by herself while your great-grandpa was across the ocean fighting for our country in a war. When Pa-pa grew up, he had to fight in a war too, and Grandma worried about him a lot until he came home safe. When Pa-Pa's little sister died in a bad car wreck, it broke Grandma's heart, but her heart never changed color. It was always a heart of gold.
Grandma Florence's heart got sick and quit working a few years before you were born. That is why you won't be able to meet her in person during your life in this world. But if she were still here, I know she would love you just like Pa-pa and I do, so here is what we should do on this special day.
Sing "Happy Birthday," and sing it from your heart. Cover a cake with candles and then blow them all out. Close your eyes and make a wish that, as long as we live, we will be strong and brave and loyal for each other. Today is Grandma Florence's birthday, and we need to celebrate the gift that she gave to us all.
Love always,
Googie
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Girls Are From Hither; Boys Are From Yon
You have probably heard of the work of John Gray, PhD., famous for his book Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus. In it and its various offshoots, Gray contends that--guess what--men and women are very different. For example, based on his observations, Gray concludes that, to be their happiest and most fulfilled, men must feel "needed," while women prefer to feel "cherished."
Apparently, Gray has amassed a great deal of money drawing profound conclusions like this one, so who am I to poke fun? I shouldn't fluff off the man's research just because he annoyingly leaves a comma-splice error in his book title and still makes millions (You will notice that my own title correctly uses the semi-colon between the two independent clauses.). This leads me to think that my own observations about gender differences--learned from my kids and grandkids--are just as valid as his. Let me give it a try.
Although I may have suspected it beforehand, I saw for sure that girls and boys are different when taking first my daughter and then my son to their 15-month developmental screenings. Given a small, skinny bottle containing a lone raisin, my daughter just could not figure out how to get the raisin out. Never mind that she hated raisins, she screwed her little index finger into the mouth of the bottle again and again, trying to extract the little dried-up morsel resting smugly and tauntingly there. Surprisingly, every time she tried, her finger was still too short to reach the raisin. Unfortunately, we did not have time to stay there and wait for it to grow. Four years later, my son took one look at the bottle, turned it upside down, and shook the raisin right into his mouth. The obvious conclusion: Girls find food very frustrating. Boys eat in a hurry so they can have more. There. Take that, Dr. Gray.
Now that I am on a roll, let me share with you several incidents involving Sooby and Pooh that occurred over Valentine's weekend. First, while icing and decorating our heart-shaped sugar cookies, the two kids approached the task very differently. Sooby spread her frosting on her cookies very artfully, with only an occasional, very delicate lick of the knife. Pooh, on the other hand, devoured his icing right out of the bowl. In the end, he had more frosting in his eyebrows that on his cookies. Conclusion: Girls want to have their icing and eat it too. Boys are pigs.
Next was the Great Coloring Book Study. I gave each grandkid a big Valentine-themed coloring book that came with three fat round crayons sharpened on both ends. Sooby opened her book to a kitty picture and promptly began to color the kitty red. I swear I was only in the bathroom for a minute and returned to find a big red "H" printed quite nicely on the bedroom wall. Pooh, however, never opened his book. Instead, he propped it like a ramp against a pillow and watched the crayons roll down. Conclusion: Girls demonstrate a knack for interior decorating. Boys understand how gravity works.
My final insight came during our Play-Doh session. The ever-artful Sooby crafted herself a pair of curvy, luscious-looking red lips and affixed them to her own mouth with great aplomb. Not to be outdone, Pooh took a whole can of pink Play-Doh and smashed it onto the lower half of his face. Eventually, we had to pry it off so he could breathe. Conclusion: Girls have an innate desire for pretty lips. Boys sometimes have a problem with their body parts.
This exhaustive and highly scientific Valentine's Day experiment should prove my hypothesis that girls are from hither and boys are from yon. Except, of course, for those occasions when boys are from hither and girls are from yon. In which case, there are kids all over the place, and that is when a Googie has the most fun.
Move over, Dr. Gray. A Googie in a lab jacket is about to make your research obsolete. And since you will soon be out of work, you will have plenty of time to take a grammar course.
Apparently, Gray has amassed a great deal of money drawing profound conclusions like this one, so who am I to poke fun? I shouldn't fluff off the man's research just because he annoyingly leaves a comma-splice error in his book title and still makes millions (You will notice that my own title correctly uses the semi-colon between the two independent clauses.). This leads me to think that my own observations about gender differences--learned from my kids and grandkids--are just as valid as his. Let me give it a try.
Although I may have suspected it beforehand, I saw for sure that girls and boys are different when taking first my daughter and then my son to their 15-month developmental screenings. Given a small, skinny bottle containing a lone raisin, my daughter just could not figure out how to get the raisin out. Never mind that she hated raisins, she screwed her little index finger into the mouth of the bottle again and again, trying to extract the little dried-up morsel resting smugly and tauntingly there. Surprisingly, every time she tried, her finger was still too short to reach the raisin. Unfortunately, we did not have time to stay there and wait for it to grow. Four years later, my son took one look at the bottle, turned it upside down, and shook the raisin right into his mouth. The obvious conclusion: Girls find food very frustrating. Boys eat in a hurry so they can have more. There. Take that, Dr. Gray.
Now that I am on a roll, let me share with you several incidents involving Sooby and Pooh that occurred over Valentine's weekend. First, while icing and decorating our heart-shaped sugar cookies, the two kids approached the task very differently. Sooby spread her frosting on her cookies very artfully, with only an occasional, very delicate lick of the knife. Pooh, on the other hand, devoured his icing right out of the bowl. In the end, he had more frosting in his eyebrows that on his cookies. Conclusion: Girls want to have their icing and eat it too. Boys are pigs.
Next was the Great Coloring Book Study. I gave each grandkid a big Valentine-themed coloring book that came with three fat round crayons sharpened on both ends. Sooby opened her book to a kitty picture and promptly began to color the kitty red. I swear I was only in the bathroom for a minute and returned to find a big red "H" printed quite nicely on the bedroom wall. Pooh, however, never opened his book. Instead, he propped it like a ramp against a pillow and watched the crayons roll down. Conclusion: Girls demonstrate a knack for interior decorating. Boys understand how gravity works.
My final insight came during our Play-Doh session. The ever-artful Sooby crafted herself a pair of curvy, luscious-looking red lips and affixed them to her own mouth with great aplomb. Not to be outdone, Pooh took a whole can of pink Play-Doh and smashed it onto the lower half of his face. Eventually, we had to pry it off so he could breathe. Conclusion: Girls have an innate desire for pretty lips. Boys sometimes have a problem with their body parts.
This exhaustive and highly scientific Valentine's Day experiment should prove my hypothesis that girls are from hither and boys are from yon. Except, of course, for those occasions when boys are from hither and girls are from yon. In which case, there are kids all over the place, and that is when a Googie has the most fun.
Move over, Dr. Gray. A Googie in a lab jacket is about to make your research obsolete. And since you will soon be out of work, you will have plenty of time to take a grammar course.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Just Another Morning on Sesame Street
A One-Act Play
Cast
Prairie Dawn . . . . . Sooby
Bert . . . . . . . . . . . . Pooh
Oscar the Grouch . . Googie
Scene
Googie's guest bedroom at Sooby and Pooh's house very early on a typical morning
(Scene opens with Oscar in the bed between Bert, on the stage right side, and Prairie Dawn, on stage left. The covers are over Oscar's head, representing the lid of his trash can. Lights come up and Oscar peeks out at Prairie Dawn and Bert, both chewing furiously.)
Prairie Dawn: Ask me what I'm eating.
Oscar: OK. What are you eating, Prairie Dawn?
Prairie Dawn: A banana salad with burnt walnuts.
Oscar: Oh, yum, yum, yummy. That sounds so good.
Bert: What am I eating, Bert?
Oscar: (correcting Bert's incorrect usage of the first-person pronoun) What are you eating, Bert?
Bert: French fries. Mmmm-Mmmmm-Mmmmmm.
Oscar: Oh, french fries! I love french fries! Won't you put some into my trash can, Bert?
Bert: No.
Prairie Dawn: Ask me what I'm eating.
Oscar: What are you eating now, Prairie Dawn?
Prairie Dawn: Jello with scrambled eggs and ice cream.
Oscar: Oh, yum, yum, yummy. Just my kind of breakfast.
Bert: What am I eating, Bert?
Oscar: What are YOU eating, Bert?
Bert: French fries. Mmmm-Mmmmm-Mmmmmm.
Oscar: You sound like Cookie Monster, Bert. Are you sure you're Bert and not Cookie Monster?
Prairie Dawn: Ask me what I'm eating.
Oscar: What are you eating NOW, Prairie Dawn?
Prairie Dawn: Mashed potatoes with chocolate chips. And some fish.
Oscar: Oh, Prairie Dawn. You are making me so hungry.
Prairie Dawn: Let's close your trash can. (She covers Oscar's head with the blankets.)
Bert: Hey! Come back here. What am I eating, Bert?
Oscar: (emerging from under the blankets) What. Are. YOU. Eating. Bert?
Bert: French fries. Mmmm-Mmmmm-Mmmmmm.
Bert: French fries. Mmmm-Mmmmm-Mmmmmm.
Oscar: You must really like french fries, Bert. And now . . . for breakfast . . . I think Oscar is going to have . . . one delicious Prairie Dawn and one yummy Bert. (Oscar goes on a muppet-eating frenzy amid much raucous thrashing and giggling. The bed is completely trashed. The day has begun.)
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Rocking My World
Scientific studies confirm that rocking a grandbaby to sleep uses all the major muscle groups, expends calories by the hundreds, and produces unexpected aerobic benefits. If you add singing or storytelling, the respiratory system benefits as well. By the way, don't consult WebMD for confirmation of these health claims; these are the kind that only personal experience can prove.
I love rocking Sooby, Pooh, and Bootsie at bedtime or naptime. It is the ultimate sensory delight. I love nothing more than feeling the gentle weight of a little head in the crook of my arm or on my shoulder. I revel in those big blue eyes peeking out from blonde shags amid the lingering scent of milk and cookies or Sponge Bob toothpaste. If Bath and Body Works could bottle that in their Wallflowers bulbs, I would have one plugged into an outlet in every room of the house.
Nothing I know equals rocking for quality one-on-one time with a child. For that twenty or thirty minutes (or longer, if I am lucky), that child and I are the only two people in the world who matter. We can tell stories, joke around, or sing one of my vast repertoire of rocking songs, which includes an eclectic mix of 70s pop, American folk songs, country classics, church hymns, and Broadway show tunes--interspersed, of course, with selections from the more traditional children's canon. Sometimes, the kids pick the songs, and sometimes they sing along. There is no purer, sweeter sound that a little voice in song.
Right now, Pooh is the most rockable of my babies. Sooby is almost too big, and Bootsie is at the squirmy stage. But at barely two and small for his age, Pooh can make his little body fit my lap perfectly. Last time we rocked, he was in a joking mood. No matter what song I would start to sing, he would chime in with "O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree." "Oh, you," I would tease, it's not Christmas. You can't sing that!" But indeed he could, time and time again, and he loved the idea of putting a big joke over on Googie.
When sleep finally joins us, I take time to just watch Pooh at rest and to listen to his deep, rhythmic breathing. His day is done, and the million squabbles with his sister are behind him. The boo-boos don't hurt anymore. He has drifted into a sweet oblivion where the last thing he remembers is having the sole, undivided attention of someone who loves him beyond measure.
Yes, rocking a baby to sleep has numerous, undeniable health benefits. But I am convinced that the most important one is what it does for the heart.
I love rocking Sooby, Pooh, and Bootsie at bedtime or naptime. It is the ultimate sensory delight. I love nothing more than feeling the gentle weight of a little head in the crook of my arm or on my shoulder. I revel in those big blue eyes peeking out from blonde shags amid the lingering scent of milk and cookies or Sponge Bob toothpaste. If Bath and Body Works could bottle that in their Wallflowers bulbs, I would have one plugged into an outlet in every room of the house.
Nothing I know equals rocking for quality one-on-one time with a child. For that twenty or thirty minutes (or longer, if I am lucky), that child and I are the only two people in the world who matter. We can tell stories, joke around, or sing one of my vast repertoire of rocking songs, which includes an eclectic mix of 70s pop, American folk songs, country classics, church hymns, and Broadway show tunes--interspersed, of course, with selections from the more traditional children's canon. Sometimes, the kids pick the songs, and sometimes they sing along. There is no purer, sweeter sound that a little voice in song.
Right now, Pooh is the most rockable of my babies. Sooby is almost too big, and Bootsie is at the squirmy stage. But at barely two and small for his age, Pooh can make his little body fit my lap perfectly. Last time we rocked, he was in a joking mood. No matter what song I would start to sing, he would chime in with "O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree." "Oh, you," I would tease, it's not Christmas. You can't sing that!" But indeed he could, time and time again, and he loved the idea of putting a big joke over on Googie.
When sleep finally joins us, I take time to just watch Pooh at rest and to listen to his deep, rhythmic breathing. His day is done, and the million squabbles with his sister are behind him. The boo-boos don't hurt anymore. He has drifted into a sweet oblivion where the last thing he remembers is having the sole, undivided attention of someone who loves him beyond measure.
Yes, rocking a baby to sleep has numerous, undeniable health benefits. But I am convinced that the most important one is what it does for the heart.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Praise God! The Baby Pooped!
I remember the day Sooby was born a little over three and a half years ago. Certainly, the birthdates of all the grandkids were special, but Sooby's alone was pivotal. It was the day of my coronation as a grandmother. It was the day I became Googie, and I proudly wear that crown now ornamented with three shining little gems.
My daughter's hospital room that day was unfamiliar territory for our family. Shortly after Sooby's birth, we all ventured into it like so many clueless explorers, at once excited and wary of this new terrain. We passed Sooby around like a ritual object. We forged our way into the disfavor of the nursing staff with a bottle of champagne.
My son was holding Sooby when we all got the first indication of the great event to come. Solemnly (and, I might add, without wasting any time), he laid her in the middle of the hospital bed, and we all gathered around, looking down, anticipating. Then came the sweetest, faintest little grunt followed by a most discernible squirt-squish. We meet one another's eyes in wonder and awe: Yes, another new trail had been blazed: Sooby had pooped.
If a nurse had walked by the door at that moment, I can only imagine her rolling her eyes, clucking her tongue, and wagging her head in something akin to pity at the six grown men and women circling the red-faced, stocking-capped Sooby. "Figures," she probably thought. "That's what you expect with a champagne-induced stupor." Indeed, we must have looked ridiculous, reacting to a baby's first little dump as though it were some kind of miracle.
The truth is, it was a miracle. Think about it. Every day thousands or millions or however many babies burst out of bags of water and squeeze their way through impossibly small passageways into the light of this world. On some kind of cue beyond all human understanding, the tiny lungs begin to take in air and the vocal chords engage. The sucking reflex kicks in, and the digestive system is primed.
Without taking her eyes off the object of our admiration, my daughter reaches for the phone. "My baby just had her first bowel movement," she tells the nurse. We all look at each other, silently thank God for this miracle, and prepare for our refresher course on how to change a diaper.
My daughter's hospital room that day was unfamiliar territory for our family. Shortly after Sooby's birth, we all ventured into it like so many clueless explorers, at once excited and wary of this new terrain. We passed Sooby around like a ritual object. We forged our way into the disfavor of the nursing staff with a bottle of champagne.
My son was holding Sooby when we all got the first indication of the great event to come. Solemnly (and, I might add, without wasting any time), he laid her in the middle of the hospital bed, and we all gathered around, looking down, anticipating. Then came the sweetest, faintest little grunt followed by a most discernible squirt-squish. We meet one another's eyes in wonder and awe: Yes, another new trail had been blazed: Sooby had pooped.
If a nurse had walked by the door at that moment, I can only imagine her rolling her eyes, clucking her tongue, and wagging her head in something akin to pity at the six grown men and women circling the red-faced, stocking-capped Sooby. "Figures," she probably thought. "That's what you expect with a champagne-induced stupor." Indeed, we must have looked ridiculous, reacting to a baby's first little dump as though it were some kind of miracle.
The truth is, it was a miracle. Think about it. Every day thousands or millions or however many babies burst out of bags of water and squeeze their way through impossibly small passageways into the light of this world. On some kind of cue beyond all human understanding, the tiny lungs begin to take in air and the vocal chords engage. The sucking reflex kicks in, and the digestive system is primed.
Without taking her eyes off the object of our admiration, my daughter reaches for the phone. "My baby just had her first bowel movement," she tells the nurse. We all look at each other, silently thank God for this miracle, and prepare for our refresher course on how to change a diaper.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Encore, Please!
When you turn 50, you automatically find yourself in the crosshairs of the AARP. One day you are obliviously enjoying your 40's, and the next day, while standing at the mailbox in disbelief, you are a senior citizen being courted for AARP membership. With that comes your subscription to the organization's monthly bulletin, chock full of articles like, "What To Do When You're Not Quite Dead Yet," "Let's Keep the FUN in FUNeral," etc.
This month, however, in an article titled, "In Truth, 60 Is the New 60," writer Marc Freedman departs from the usual depressing fare to tread on ground that hits somewhere between "uplifting" and "profound." In summary, he theorizes that we Baby Boomers live and think in a way that creates a whole new stage of life between middle and old age. In his own inimitable words, "[T]he whole 60-to-80-year-old period is simply new territory, and the people in this period constitute a 21st-century phenomenon." He names this period "the encore years," which, as a theatre major and enthusiast, I simply adore.
My grandbabies--Sooby, Pooh, and Bootsie--are my encore. During Act I of my little life drama, I raised my daughter, and during Act II, I raised my son. I am pretty sure the whole thing was either a comedy with occasional tragic elements or a tragedy with lots of comic relief. At any rate, my face often resembled one or the other of the classical drama masks. The curtain has closed on that particular performance--but wait--I hear clapping. No, I hear thunderous applause. The audience is on their feet. They want an encore, and I graciously comply.
When you are maintaining a household, working 40 hours a week, and grading student essays until midnight, it is sometimes hard to feel appreciated for the sacrifices you make for your children. Looking back, I am sure I failed many times to let my own mother know how much I appreciated her. It is simply the nature of children, period.
But grandchildren are different. The curtain has re-opened and here I stand on stage again. I am glad to be here. I feel the vibrations from the applause and I soak up the spotlight. It is warm here, and I am loved.
This month, however, in an article titled, "In Truth, 60 Is the New 60," writer Marc Freedman departs from the usual depressing fare to tread on ground that hits somewhere between "uplifting" and "profound." In summary, he theorizes that we Baby Boomers live and think in a way that creates a whole new stage of life between middle and old age. In his own inimitable words, "[T]he whole 60-to-80-year-old period is simply new territory, and the people in this period constitute a 21st-century phenomenon." He names this period "the encore years," which, as a theatre major and enthusiast, I simply adore.
My grandbabies--Sooby, Pooh, and Bootsie--are my encore. During Act I of my little life drama, I raised my daughter, and during Act II, I raised my son. I am pretty sure the whole thing was either a comedy with occasional tragic elements or a tragedy with lots of comic relief. At any rate, my face often resembled one or the other of the classical drama masks. The curtain has closed on that particular performance--but wait--I hear clapping. No, I hear thunderous applause. The audience is on their feet. They want an encore, and I graciously comply.
When you are maintaining a household, working 40 hours a week, and grading student essays until midnight, it is sometimes hard to feel appreciated for the sacrifices you make for your children. Looking back, I am sure I failed many times to let my own mother know how much I appreciated her. It is simply the nature of children, period.
But grandchildren are different. The curtain has re-opened and here I stand on stage again. I am glad to be here. I feel the vibrations from the applause and I soak up the spotlight. It is warm here, and I am loved.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Who or What Is a "Googie"?
There are many synonyms for "Googie." Some of those I hear most often these days are "Nana," "MeMe," and "MeMaw." I myself had a "Grandma," but that name is rather unoriginal. When my first grandchild was born three and a half years ago, I wanted a name that would be truly one-of-a-kind. I wanted it to be repetitive and easy for my grandchild to say and remember.
It was actually my 83-year-old mother, who, as a joke, suggested "Goo Goo." That would come easily to the baby, she reasoned, because isn't that what babies say anyway? The more I thought about it, the more the nickname appealed to me. I did not know one other person who was called "Goo Goo."
That first grandchild knew me as "Goo Goo" by the time she was a year old. Her little brother, born when she was only 19 months old, did as well. Now at ages 3 1/2 and 2, they more often call me "Googie." When they are in a hurry, I am simply "Goog." I love being the uniquely named Googie of these two precious little people. I look forward to October, when their equally precious little sister will turn a year old and join in the Googie chorus.
This blog will feature short pieces composed to, for, and about my grandkids. It will explore the world of grandparenting as viewed and appreciated by this relatively new Googie. I have chosen the word "Attic" to represent my own "top story," or head, where I think through and store the experiences I am blessed to share with the kids.
An "attic" is often a place where precious things are stored away for others to enjoy at a later time. When the kids are grown, I hope they will be able to rummage freely through "Googie's Attic" and see how much I treasure the things I have stored there. In the meantime, I invite you to visit my attic as well, enjoying what you find there and perhaps sharing an heirloom or two of your own.
Welcome to "Googie's Attic." Happy rummaging.
It was actually my 83-year-old mother, who, as a joke, suggested "Goo Goo." That would come easily to the baby, she reasoned, because isn't that what babies say anyway? The more I thought about it, the more the nickname appealed to me. I did not know one other person who was called "Goo Goo."
That first grandchild knew me as "Goo Goo" by the time she was a year old. Her little brother, born when she was only 19 months old, did as well. Now at ages 3 1/2 and 2, they more often call me "Googie." When they are in a hurry, I am simply "Goog." I love being the uniquely named Googie of these two precious little people. I look forward to October, when their equally precious little sister will turn a year old and join in the Googie chorus.
This blog will feature short pieces composed to, for, and about my grandkids. It will explore the world of grandparenting as viewed and appreciated by this relatively new Googie. I have chosen the word "Attic" to represent my own "top story," or head, where I think through and store the experiences I am blessed to share with the kids.
An "attic" is often a place where precious things are stored away for others to enjoy at a later time. When the kids are grown, I hope they will be able to rummage freely through "Googie's Attic" and see how much I treasure the things I have stored there. In the meantime, I invite you to visit my attic as well, enjoying what you find there and perhaps sharing an heirloom or two of your own.
Welcome to "Googie's Attic." Happy rummaging.
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