The Burrow

Our visit is coming to an end. FlapJilly and her parents will have to get by without live-in sitters and errand runners. The grandparental units will have to survive without this: It's not going to be easy on any of us. We went to the park this morning, for swinging and greeting our public with a queenly wave. The sandbox came home with us in her diaper, but she wasn't worried at the moment. Once we got home, crawling between Mommy and Grandpa  left me with plenty of time to admire her curls. There will be many milestones before we see her again. She'll be walking and sleeping through the night and cutting her molars. One thing will never change, though. Grandma will always love her.

I'm not going to make any excuses. It's FlapJilly's birthday and we've been celebrating all day. Grandpa helped her downstairs  and then we went out to breakfast. She was the belle of the ball, amusing the owner, the waitress, and the grumpy old man who entered with a frown and ate with a grin, waving and playing peek-a-boo with our little darling. She brings joy wherever she goes. We're the passive participants, reveling in the reflected glory. It's among the most fulfilling roles either of us has ever held. After a nice, long nap, Little Cuter set up the water park in her backyard. She didn't want to break out the air pump, so the palm tree and the slide were left uninflated. Grandma's lungs filled the orange ring,   but the water was much more interesting. She brought her mouth closer and closer,  tried to grab the droplets,  and then SUCCESS!   There was a gentle breeze, a sunny sky, and a happy baby. ...

I tried, denizens, I really did.   I was four paragraphs into a more serious post, and then FlapJilly woke up from her nap.   That was it for thinking.  It was time for loving.  There was a lot of that going on.  When that tush started toddling away,  my heart followed right behind. The pink kitchen was a birthday gift. It's a perfect foil for the toss everything onto the floor stage she's inhabiting right now. We can discuss the politics of pink kitchens in another post. For now, I can only discuss the adorableness of playing Where's the Baby?  with the living room drapes. The balls are on loan from FlapJilly's own Mary Poppins.  She brought them with the mesh bag, but FlapJilly prefers them on the floor. (cf. pink kitchen comment above)  The baby tosses and the grandparents clean up. The baby is not amused.  and takes action on her own. Grandma doesn't seem to mind at all. Look at ...

Because I am having so much fun, because I am overwhelmed with the wonderfulness that is my littlest relative, I am incapable of typing anything resembling profundity. I could write about the books I've read lately, but Goodnight Moon  and Sandra Boynton's Pajama Time  don't lend themselves to in depth analysis.  They do, however, lead to snuggles and that is, at this point, much more important to me. Yes, it's true, I have baby brain. We took her out to lunch yesterday. SIR carried her on his shoulders because the stroller lost its space in the trunk to our suitcases and never made the return trip. She grabs on with a serious grip; TBG's senior citizen follicles are no match for the tugging. SIR has no such problem; he enjoys the trip as much as his daughter does. The front of her shirt has pictures of The Avengers - Captain America, The Hulk, and two others whose names escape me at the moment. The back of the shirt has ruffles.  That encapsul...

One year ago today, I was here in Illinois.  Little Cuter, pregnant and nesting, took me to the garden center where her neighbor's child gave us a great deal on a pink and white hyacinth.  We planted it in a pot destined for her deck, and decided it was a lovely present with which to greet her baby. That baby arrived on July 29th, but parties in the middle of the week aren't the most convenient for working parents.  So, family  and friends   gathered on Saturday at FlapJilly's house to celebrate 52 weeks of babyhood.   It was perfect, just like the birthday girl herself. Little Cuter painted the antique high chair to match the decor.   The local grocery made wraps and croissant sandwiches and there were salads and sangria but mostly there was this  and this  and this   The personal smash cake was much too hard for her to penetrate.  Grandma had no problem using fingers as c...

Off to see the grandbaby, because she's turning one and she'd notice that we weren't there... right? No, TBG, it's not a surprise party.... although we did have fun with that thought after you verbalized it.  According to our daughter, " it can't be a surprise party because FlapJilly doesn't know what a party is."   I disagree with that - the party is wherever SHE is! And that, dear readers, is in Illinois.  I am still creating birthday gifts and doing laundry and haven't even begun to think about packing, but that all paled when Little Cuter called this morning, with a mommy question. " Talk me down off a ledge, please,"  came right after her subdued "Hi" ... the Hi  with the tremor right behind it.  That tone clutches at my heart and sends my stomach into my throat, but I calmly tell her that I have nothing else to do but listen, and help. That's the same kind of story Michelle Obama told me in my hospital room w...

In yesterday's post , I described myself as a person who is often more tentative than I'd like to be. That surprised Little Cuter, who took ten minutes out of her busy work day to put her feet up on her computer tower and call me to wonder.   "Really, Mom?  I never think of you as tentative.  You are a hard charger." It's nice to know that the illusion I strive to create has been accepted.  I'm always anxious inside.  I carry with me a sense of unworthiness.  I can trace it back to my first day of 1st grade.  I spent the first 8 days of the school year in kindergarten, then skipped up to the big kids' realm.  The playground was different.  The rules were different.  There were so many more children running around, all of whom seemed to know exactly where to go, and with whom. My neighbor, a "real" first grader, all of 2 months older than I, escorted me to the #4 painted on the playground's asphalt, and instructed me t...

A fellow BlogHer '15 attendee  called it falling into Wonderland.  Sharing my Kathleen-provided bottle of Prosecco with total strangers seemed an absolutely natural thing to do. I began to use hashtags in my texts and emails; Little Cuter was quite impressed with me. Anyone was welcome to sit anywhere.  If only Junior High School had been like that.  Imagine the Grand Ballroom of the Midtown Hilton filled with women who wanted you to be their friend. Everyone had something to offer; the only problem was finding the time to learn it all. I took notes on the recto. I wrote the phrases which touched me on the verso. SheKnows Media was thoughtful enough to include a bound journal in our welcome bags.  That right there encapsulates the entire experience - a social media mavens gathering whose organizers gave us paper notebooks to record our thoughts. Soledad O'Brien made a return appearance,this time with three of the scholars her  Starfish Foundation ...

There are some stories only a best friend can share.  There are some stories a mother might not share with her daughter... or might no longer be able to share with her daughter.  Those stories were front and center last Tuesday, and I'm still basking in the glow. G'ma grew up next to Gladys; G'ma on the right, with the porch. There were no metal gates or awnings then, nor when I visited in the 1950's and '60's.  We played stoop ball, out in the street, tossing the Pensy Pinkie against (obviously) the stoop.  We played handball in the narrow alley on the right. I never thought about what it was like for my mother to be a little girl on that stoop, in that alley.  I knew about some of the neighbors, but the stories were just that - stories.  I didn't see the relevance to the woman who was my parent.  I couldn't and didn't imagine her as a child. But I knew about Gladys.  I knew that she and G'ma had some grand adventures - taking the train ...

There will be much to say about BlogHer '15 and New York City and seeing old friends and friends of friends, but I can't get past what I saw and what I felt in the Dallas/Ft. Worth airport this morning. The seats at Gate 12 were grouped comfortably around a big screen tv. It wasn't dangling from the ceiling, it was on a bench at eye level. It was very hard to ignore. CNN's talking heads were taking on Donald Trump. The New York Times reporter and the Republican advisor (What does that mean? Who is taking his advice?) were bemoaning the fact that the media had been sucked up into the Trump universe without investigating his positions. The Huffington Post's announcement that their coverage of Trump's campaign would now be found where it belongs – on their entertainment pages – was grist for their mill. The moderator made reference to those of us in New York who know about his scandals more intimately than other Americans but he never went ...

I learned a valuable lesson this afternoon. It came at me unexpectedly, and rather loudly. It made me smile and brought more than one tear to my eye. It erased all the angst of getting myself and my suitcase and my overloaded giant purse from Long Island to mid-town Manhattan. It left me with a gigantic smile on my face and a lovely, warm, gushy feeling in my heart. It all started three years ago, the last time BlogHer held a conference in New York City. The venue was the Midtown Hilton, a mega-hotel on 6 th Avenue. I arrived late in the evening, after watching the Olympics' men's beach volleyball competition. Those tiny little bathing suits and those perfect pecs stayed with me as I waited patiently for a registration clerk. She was as tired as I was, but we both agreed that thinking about those tiny little bathing suits could cheer us up in no time. She'd been watching it, too. We marveled at the feats the human body could accomplish while lookin...

First printed in 2009.  The feelings are still the same. I am living an embarrassment of riches. After several months of waiting not all that patiently, I reached the top of the reserve list for  Sara Paretsky's latest oeuvre  . It now shares a shelf with Linda Fairstein and James Patterson and Anne Perry and Faye Kellerman, occupying the space just vacated by Patricia Cornwell. I am surrounded by library treasures and they didn't cost me a dime. I just had to show up with some identification and a utility bill proving that I actually live where I said I live and that was that. They gave me a pretty library card (actually, it was mailed to the address I gave them..... just in case I had forged my gas bill, I guess...) and welcomed me to the community. I've thanked Ben Franklin for the idea before, so I won't go there right now. Instead, I'm just going to gush. I've loved libraries in .... Chicago under the Fullerton El tracks, from whose stacks I ...

This is reprinted from 2014.  I'm on my way to visit G'ma's best friend, the girl next door, the woman who introduced her to my dad.... and my mom is in my heart right now.   ***** She's everywhere today.  I don't know why.  I'm not complaining.  I'm merely stating the facts. I got through all the lights this morning on the way to Pilates.  I don't know why, but I thanked G'ma for the help. On my way to pick up the paper from the end of the driveway this morning, I noticed that the bunnies had eaten yet another zinnia; I'm down to 12 of the original 15 I planted in the ground last weekend. Peeved and grimacing, I made myself laugh by remembering G'ma's advice on avoiding mold on zinnias - don't plant them.  It took the edge off my angst. Little Cuter wants help hemming curtains.  My first response was  "Where are G'ma and Bubba when we need them?!?"   I could drag out G'ma's sewing machine and try to m...

TBG was a trooper and drove me to the airport.  We left the house at 6:15 in the morning; I hate setting my alarm for 5:anything so I zoomed around from 6.  There wasn't much to do - shower, dress, pay a bill I had forgotten - which was a good thing.  I was tired. The Tucson airport is a dream come true for a traveler.  With my printed out boarding passes, I zipped through the security line with only one person ahead of me.  I didn't get the pre-check this trip; sometimes I do and sometimes I don't and I can't figure out why or when.  My Converse came off, my laptop came out, I was scanned and sent on my way. Our gate was changed from A8 to A7; I kept my seat.  American Airlines offered me an upgrade to Gold Status; that put me in the fourth group to board the plane.  My aisle seat, a small enough man in the middle, a smooth take off and landing and I was in Dallas/Ft. Worth before I finished my book.  It was a simple, easy trip.  I ...

I'm excited. I really am.  I've been looking forward to the adventure all summer long.  Now, it's almost here, and I'm all atwitter. My tummy is roiling, jumping, flopping, on the verge of aching.  Why?  I cannot say.  I just report the facts. My clothes are in piles on the closet floor; decisions to whittle the selections down to those which make the cut are stymied.  I look at the clothes - new, old favorites, bright colors, sedate blacks, light shoes and sneakers and everything comfy and clean and why oh why is it giving me the willies? My original plan had been to take only my Vera Bradley doggie carrier.  Yes, it's a doggie carrier but I didn't know that when I bought it.  It's the perfect size for visiting FlapJilly and her parents, because I leave my basics in their house.  The carrier holds gifts and a few select items perfect for whatever occasion sent me their way.  It's light and bright and makes me smile.  I love t...

I'm off to the East Coast on Monday, all by myself. I'll be visiting G'ma's oldest and dearest friend from her childhood.  I'll be staying with a cousin I see far too seldom.  I'll hang with Roomie and other high school friends, dancing under the stars at the beach, eating pastrami, riding the Long Island Rail Road. There are dinners with friends from California and more friends from (junior) high school and, perhaps a niece or two, if I can fit them in. I'm going to be sure to eat a slice (that's how you speak of pizza in The Big Apple) and have a pretzel from a street vendor.  I may indulge in a hot dog from a street cart (did you know they are illegal in Los Angeles?) or I might splurge on a full lunch, including fries and a coke, from Nathan's. The trip is planned around BlogHer'15, the annual conference sponsored by my syndication company.  They've recently merged with She Knows, a giant female social media conglomerate; it will ...

United Airlines, the New York Stock Exchange, and the Wall Street Journal's online presence were all hacked today.  At least, that's what the interwebs are calling it.  Homeland Security says it's not a terrorist attack, that they are three separate incidents, that each is an internal issue, that no one should worry.  The companies are saying it's the software and nothing to worry about for the long term. I'm sorry.  I'm worried. Sure, bad things come in threes and accidents will happen and no one is claiming responsibility but I'm still worried.  I don't believe in coincidences.  I don't think that glitches , the Exchange's word, are the best description for whatever halted trading on the NYSE at 11:31 am.  This is the backbone of the American financial system; glitches seems far too minor a term for something that shut it down. UAL used the same verbiage, but if I were in the airport this morning I'd be looking for something more seri...

I watched her drive past the house.  It was twenty minutes before our appointment, and I was catching up on Facebook, sitting at the desk, watching the world go by.  It's a small slice of the world outside my front window; our neighborhood leads nowhere, just back out to the main artery.  The cars driving past are neighbors or vendors, for the most part. A white cross-over proceeding slowly, pausing for house numbers, stands out.  When that car sped up after passing our address on the mail box, I knew that our consultant was going to hang out in the cul de sac at the bottom of the hill.  When that car drove back and parked in the driveway nineteen minutes later, I fitted a smug smile on my face and opened the door. I'm my own personal neighborhood watch. Lugging two cases-on-wheels and a purse, she struggled with the garden gate, then turned with a smile.  That was a great first impression; it felt as if she really was glad to meet me.  She's sma...

There was something to that John Philip Sousa inspired music I was playing all weekend.  It opened up posts and memories and kept a smile plastered to my face. Considering that the sun has barely shone, that the beasties are devouring my gallardia, that it's humid and hot and I might as well be sweltering on a beach in these conditions, that my car needs a bath but I don't want to wash it because it rains every day... well, let's just say that the smile was no mean feat. Pandora's mix included Bizet's March of the Torreadors  from Carmen.   After two notes, all I heard was Daddooooo; Bernstein could have been conducting the Oceanside Junior High School Marching Band for all the difference the music made. My head was filled with my father's bombastic baritone, bellowing the words through a gigantic smile and a puffed out chest.  No, he didn't know Bizet's lyrics.  He had the New York version, which went like this: TOR-E-O-DORO, don't spit on th...