Unsolicited Advice

 I am one of those rare people who will offer you unsolicited advice. Wait—hear me out. Unsolicited advice is the best advice. 

Often, when we seek advice from others, we give careful consideration to whom we ask. For example, parents usually don’t seek parenting advice from their child-free friends. Although, when I hark back to my child-free days, I had plenty of opinions on proper parenting—it’s just that few people cared to hear them. I’m not saying that stopped me...but my friends with kids didn’t come knocking when they need to know how to deal with little Becky’s biting.

Guess which one of this adorable babies
is *not* my grandchild?
Hint: It's not the little girl...It's cousin
Wes Burbee and he's delicious.

  Anyway, I lost my point. Ah!  Here it is! My point is that unasked for advice is unbiased advice.

When I want to do something—say travel to Mexico-- I ask my adventure-oriented friends if I should go or not. If I were trying to avoid an upcoming trip south of the border, I’d ask my cozy, stay-at-home friends if I should go or just stay home? Staying home would most likely be their advice.

Unsolicited advice, on the other hand, comes to you free of biases. It’s spontaneous, it’s free, and it may contain encouragement you didn’t even know you needed.

Spontaneous advice can be closely related to “Wild Hair” advice, but you really shouldn’t over think either one. When someone approaches you and suggests, “You know what you ought to do...” don’t dismiss them out of hand. Hear them out. It can be good to open your horizons, stretch your wings, and kick over the boundaries fencing you in. Try saying “YES!” Book the trip, go bungee jumping, run with the bulls...

I mean, I’m not going to do that—it sounds dangerous and crazy. But I bet you’d have fun...

If you were wondering what any of these pictures have to do with this post, the answer is NOTHING. They are just bonus content of adorableness...You're welcome!

Christmas Traditions, a New Generation

 Christmas is a time of traditions, some old, some new, and this year-some come 'round again. When my children were little, my mom started buying wooden Brio train sets for her three grandsons. Every year, for Christmas and birthdays, she would purchase more track, or bridges, or battery powered engines. All during the year the boys would head to Grandma and Grandpa's, drag out the blue Rubbermaid tub, and set up lavish railroads; tracks and tunnels sprawling across the living room floor. Grandchildren and grandparents shared the adventure. It was hard to know who enjoyed it more.

But time flies. Eventually, the boys packed the tracks up in the blue Rubbermaid tub for what turned out to be the last time and moved on to other interests: sports and motorcycles, video games and girls. But Grandma held onto the tub, knowing that-- if you're patient, and lucky--sometimes things come around again.

John Shane contemplates the best box car line-up.

My mom is gone now, my children grown-becoming fathers themselves---that girl thing having worked itself out admirably. When my grandchildren visit Nana Sugar's, we dust off the old blue Rubbermaid tub and sort out the pieces. Dads and uncles turn into little boys again, and we all---young and not so young--turn the pieces of the track, this way, and that way, figuring out the best path around the room.

Oh no, there goes Toyko...here comes Lane!

My Amazon cart is full of presents for Christmases Yet to Come: suspension bridges, curves and elevation blocks, straight tracks and small couplers; an old tradition, come 'round again. 

Please excuse the anti scratch tape on the furniture
We have some Very Bad Catz

The completed track with bonus siding

In-laws, Outlaws, Bus, Part Two

 

Once upon a time, I used to describe a painful time in my life as “getting hit by a bus.” Disaster Bus had hit me. My life was busted open, its contents strewn about. All was painful and messy, and it seemed unlikely that all would ever be well again. Eventually, of course, life went on but ever since then “hit by a bus” has been my go-to phrase for emotional disaster.

I was reminded last week of how much things have changed, and how some things are never what you think they might be. Turns out, being hit by a bus isn’t all that bad.

One of my fellow Nanas and I were tag team spoiling our shared grandson last week and we stood in the driveway for a moment, catching up on the latest events in our lives—AFTER we spent 20 minutes agreeing how amazing/perfect/smart/beautiful our Aiden is. Eventually, the conversation turned talk of his sister’s eventual arrival and the preparations for a “baby sprinkle” in her honor. (Side note: if, like me, you thought a Baby Sprinkle was another name for baptism, prepare to be enlightened. In this context “Baby Sprinkle” is what you call a Baby Shower for a second baby. Sort of like “Baby Shower Lite.”)

Nana Judy invited me—Nana Sugar—to ride with her to Nana Lisa’s house for the Baby Sprinkle. Of course, I said yes. Then Judy reminded me that the last time we carpooled to a family event, we got hit by a bus.

Yes. A literal bus. And it wasn’t even our fault. Nor was it at all like I had imagined—it was more of a gentle bump, really. Let me explain.

The Bus

Remember the ice/snowstorm of ’17? When Portland got hit really hard with multiple inches of ice and snow on the same weekend we were headed into the city to go wedding dress shopping? You all had that on your calendars, right? Anyway—icy roads, city bus, bridge, stopped traffic, not our fault—use your imagination. Except—bump.

Since the Baby Sprinkle is in June—a month not known for its snowfall, and the Sprinkle will be held to the north, not in Portland, and the fact that Nana Judy is excellent company—I said yes. What could possibly go wrong? Besides—her SUV has enough room to fit the pony I bought...AND the receipt.

In-laws, Outlaws or Help, Help, I’ve been Hit by a Bus

I’ve been thinking a lot about family lately. The Circle of Life adds and subtracts members from our midst. The subtracting part really sucks. Sometimes it’s easy to let my mind linger there, counting my losses.

But counting my losses is not helpful, and eventually, I turn my mind to counting my blessings. I am so thankful to have had those loved ones as long as I did, so thankful for the million and one memories of them.

I’m thankful for the additions Life has brought. I am thankful that my sons have such amazing women in their lives, and that their families are growing. Grandchildren are pretty freaking amazing inventions and I highly recommend acquiring them.

 One of the best things about the Circle of Life has been something I hadn’t even thought about prior to its occurrence. When my sons married, they married into families that then became a part of our family-- and those additions have been a boon. I highly recommend acquiring in-laws as well.

 The other day I was “out town” babysitting my grandson Aiden, and as I was leaving, I met another set of his grandparents in the driveway. Aiden is a very lucky boy, he has three set of Grands that love him beyond measure. Occasionally, we have overlapping shifts when it comes to Spoiling Duty, and when that happens we like to compare notes. During our conversation the topic of his sister’s pending arrival was discussed.

Now, I don’t talk much about Baby Girl Sume’s expected August arrival. Yes, I’ve seen the sonogram and yes, they all tell me “she’s a girl!” But there is some small part of me that doesn’t quite believe it. There is a part of me that expects this is all some sort of long game on my children’s part and the moment I break down and buy something pink, they’re all going to spring out and me and say “GOTCHA! We were just punking you, OF COURSE it’s a boy. What are you, daft? Sumes only come in Boy.” And then they laugh and laugh, and I have to search thru the bottom of my purse for the gift receipt. 

Funny, you might be thinking, but what, pray tell, does that have to do with a bus? I promise to tell you. Next time. 

May Flowers

 May is an excellent month for gardening. And by gardening, I mean buying flowers. Lots and lots of flowers. 

Besides all of my usual flower buying sources, May is the month of Gardening Groups Plant Sales and student horticulturist sales. If you play your cards right and plan your route carefully, you can make a single weekend into a plant-buying bonanza. Or so I hear.

It is also possible to tack on a little plant buying onto whatever activity you have scheduled. Need a new spark plug for your mower? Bet there’s a garden center where they sell spark plugs. On a family weekend away to the beach? Bet there are at least three nurseries that you’ll drive by on the way home...couldn’t hurt to stop in and see what they have to offer.

In addition to my flower buying habit, I have recently started vegetable gardening. The addition—finally-- of an electric fence to keep the elk out has made vegetable garden a lot less frustrating. Strawbale gardening has made it easy to grow tomatoes and cucumbers, beans and peas, zucchini, and pumpkins. To be honest—the zucchini and pumpkins grew a little too well; so much so that occasionally I would hack the vines back to keep their quest for neighborhood domination in check.

Tim Kelly brought his tiller over last week and smoothed out my future corn patch. I aspire to grow a bumper crop of corn this year. Last summer I planted about ten hills of corn as an experiment and it was promising. I harvested about 6 ears total, until there was the unfortunate incident of the Elk that ATE EVERYTHING. All because I left my fence unplugged when I went away for the weekend...stupid dang elk.

My garden would be a lot further along if it weren’t for the lawn that needs constant mowing, and the grandbabies that need kissing, and all those good books won’t read themselves. I don’t let any of those things discourage me from buying more flowers though, anytime the opportunity to crosses my path.

Garden Q & A, Part One of a Zillion

Welcome to Over My Garden Gate—a gardening column/blog in which I make jokes, talk about my grandkids, complain about elk—and the weather—occasionally politics—sometimes I might manage to complain about all three simultaneously-- but usually I like to keep my complaints more organize into separate bones of contention... Where was I? Oh, yes—sometimes I even talk about gardening, the pleasures--and perils-- thereof. 

 Recently, I was “doing some on-line research/relationship building”—AKA hanging out on Facebook with a local gardening group—when I realized two things: 1) I had just written about 300 words on FB about gardening challenges specific to elk and 2) I have a column due. Now. 

Because I am an excellent problem solver, I instantly decided to plagiarize myself. Below is a sample of the kinds of questions that are on local gardeners’ minds: 

Q: What plants won’t elk eat? 

A: No one knows. Elk might not “like” it—but that doesn’t mean they won’t eat/otherwise destroy it. There are some excellent lists out there for “low risk plants” —although your mileage may vary wildly. Elk taste is ever evolving. Something they avoid one season they can’t seem to get enough of in another. Sometimes it seems that taste is geographical. Cline Road elk may not eat the same things High Valley elk adore. My rule of thumb for the likelihood of elk eating it is: 
1)How much do you love it or
2)How much did you pay—because that proportionally increases the likelihood that they will *love* it too. 

Q: What about native plants? 

A: Good choice! if the elk find it boring they might not destroy. They might head right for that exotic, Blue Himalayan Poppy next door. Then again, they might view native plants as comfort food and chow down on your Rhodes that taste just like the one’s their mom used to nibble on. 

Check back later* when Sue answers even more questions, like what about stinky spray? 

* Unless her grandkids have done something incredibly cute—odds are good they might-- or the weather has done something extra egregious—let’s hope it doesn’t. Then she’ll undoubtably talk about that.

SPOILER ALERT:

Grandkids ALWAYS do something cute!

John holds "his baby," Lane

John cooks with Nana Sugar

Aiden entertains at breakfast

Adventures in SugarLand Part 2

 

Welcome back to Adventures in Sugar Land, where I share the hijinks my grands and I get up to. I also overshare the mayhem and mishaps, so buckle up—this ride might get a little bumpy.

When we last saw our heroes, they had just successfully completed a diaper change, stuck the landing, and were now relaxing in front of The Big Cat Cage at the Zoo. Editor’s note: It’s not really the Zo—never mind. Whatever. It’s “a” Zoo.

Where was I? Oh yes, THE Zoo—watching the big cats when suddenly my snuggly little grandson seemed a bit more squishy than usual...and sort of—dampish. AND OH DEAR GOD WHAT IS THAT SMELL I DON’T THINK IT’S THE LIONS. Editor’s note: It’s not the “lions...”

Aiden, being the overachiever that he was born to be, has outdone himself. And outdone the confines of his diaper. Everything that one would expect to find in the diaper of a baby beginning to eat solid food is there—just not IN the diaper.

It’s up his back. It’s out the sides, it’s quite possible even in his ears, but by that point I was beyond the ability to retain my powers of observation and was in full-blown crisis management mode.

I know I’ve said before that changing a diaper is a lot like riding a bike—your skills may have gotten rusty but it all comes back to you. What I should have said is “changing a baby is a lot like LEARNING to ride a bike—there will be wobbles and spills, some tears-- and somebody is bound to wind up with a band aid on their knee.” SPOILER ALERT: No babies where harmed in the recounting of this Diaper Event, nor the re-telling of. Only my pride got a little bruised.

At one point in the diaper change I had a super squishy baby, with the shoulders of his Onesie down around his mid-section, hovering somewhere between the changing table and the floor; wishing I had six more hands and/or the ability to cause small humans to levitate. I was also lamenting the nation-wide shortage of PPE, because at that moment I sure could have used an Ebola-proof haz-mat suit. And some salad tongs, possibly a garden hose.

Baby Toes!

Mercifully, most of the rest of that event remains a blur. It’s quite possible I put the Onesie in the garbage and the disposable diaper in the laundry, but you know what? It doesn’t really matter--Aiden still squeals and smiles when he sees me, my knee has healed nicely, his parents are still speaking to me and I’m sure it’s just coincidental timing that his mother quit her job to stay home and run a wedding consulting business with a baby on her hip. 

Probably.

Adventures In Sugar Land

     The other day I got to babysit my newest grandson, Baby Aiden, while his parents had to do Grown Up Stuff. I call him “baby” Aiden because I’m in denial about how BIG he’s gotten—five-almost-six- months old, 17 very solid pounds, and a little man hairdo; a serious hair do that makes him look like he’s ready for Baby’s First Briefcase.

   

Aiden and Millie, best of friends.

Aiden's parents went out to be Grownups, Aiden and I stayed home to hang out and play with his toys, and his doggie, and tell each other all kinds of nonsense-- it was great. I even got to feed him mangos and avocado baby food—because why even have a baby if you don’t get to put delicious stuff in his face? For the record, he thought the combination was delightful. I managed to refrain from licking the lid to the jar of baby food—something I always did when my kids were little, because I need to know if it tastes good before I expect them to eat it, right?

    There is a darker side to feeding a baby that time had mercifully blurred in my memory: in a bite of mango-avocado, out a diaperful of something more nefarious.

    Diaper changing is just like riding a bike—you might be a bit wobbly at first, but you get the job done. And diaper technology is light years a head of where it was 25 years ago, so that’s nice. Restickable Velcro-like tabs mean if you don’t get it right the first time you can try, try (try) again. And his parents even have a wipe-warmer, so that the wet wipes aren’t cold on his little tushie.

   Mission accomplished, Baby A and I went out to look at the Zoo. Ok, so maybe it’s not really a

Petting Zoo

zoo, maybe it’s an enclosed cat-patio his parents made for their two giant cats, but Aiden is young and impressionable and I like him thinking of Nana Sugar as Zoo Nana. “Oh, yes,” I’ll say to him, “when you were a baby I took you to the zoo all the time.”

  While we were watching the Big Cats, I became aware of something warm and squishy making its way up Aiden’s back...

To be continued

Soothing The Savage Beast

When last we saw our heroine, she had lost her pluck, her happy thoughts, and a great deal of her shine. Everything sucked. She was bored. She hated rain. She hated work now that work was only comprised of All the Worst Things and none of The Good Things.

Now work was taking turns in the office, instead of hanging out together. Work was stupid. If our heroine had to put on pants and leave the house, she dang sure wanted to have her co-workers and lunch hour waiting for her. AS A REWARD. BECAUSE PANTS. Stupid Pandemic. Stupid Dam Panic*. Stupid Rain. Stupid Pants. Stupid Everything.

So, there was stomping, some muttering. Perhaps some threats were made—a few crayons lost their structural integrity. Perhaps an ill-tempered beast stomped around; a fit was pitched--perhaps it was more of an impassioned plea to the Universe—I can’t really say. But at the end of it, our heroine felt a little bit better. She took a bubble-bath and got a good night’s sleep and in the morning, when the stupid work from home computer locked her out did she get mad and cry? No, she did not. Cry, anyway. She put on her plucky, and her pants. She packed up the computer and headed in to work before the start of office hours. She could work from work before anyone else was slated to show, fix her problem and be gone—because plucky! While wearing pants! Superman, probably. Except. Now that I think about it—he didn’t wear pants...

Superman? Or Brave Little Toaster?
You be the judge.

Anyway, the point is--  she was taking action. She was pro-active! Sure, in her heart of hearts she was still anti-pants—but if that’s what society required of her, the robe could stay home. She is a brave little toaster, in pants. With too many curls and a mask. It’s an interesting look, I’ll admit that.

Grands are GRAND:
Aiden Allen & John Shane

Now, I’m not saying that our heroine reacquiring her pluck is what turned the tide. I’m not saying that the epic fit she pitched swayed the Universe to her side, all I’m saying is, that when our heroine recovered her pluck and went to work on solving her problem—magic happened. Suddenly, and without any forewarning, her county was granted Phase Two status, effectively immediately. People could get haircuts again! Or sit at outdoor cafés, in small groups, social distancing from other small groups—at up to 50% occupancy! It was exactly like that scene in a Fairytale when the Princess wakes up and the world suddenly goes back to technicolor!

What I am saying is---you’re welcome.

*Also—I stole the “Dam Panic” spoonerism from artist Susan Branch. The internet is fun!

Ill Tempered Beast

Welcome back to this episode of Over My Garden Gate, in which we discover our plucky heroine isn’t quite a plucky as we thought.

Oh sure, she got on board the This Is a Serious Pandemic train early on and settled in for the long ride with nary a complaint, mostly. She had her snacks for the journey, and plenty of TP, and with that mess of curls she calls a hairdo who could tell she already overdo for a haircut in March? She packed her favorite soapbox and at every whistle stop along the way was happy to preach the gospel of Stay Home Save Lives.

When you shelter at home—who is going to see the whole hair mess anyway? Not to mention the later addition of masks—GENIUS! No haircut, no mascara—no problem! Put on a mask when you go out in public and voila! No one can recognize her! It’s like putting glasses on Superman—no one knew who he was! Secret Identity! Also, she stopped wearing contacts and only wore glasses—so exactly like Superman! Maybe she IS Superman!

Superman. Probably
Who can know?

It’s true, she had a brand-new grandson she hadn’t held since he was not quite a month old, and a slightly-used 20 month old grandson whose vocabulary was developing daily with out her there to influence it. But thank goodness for the invention of Snapchat and FaceTime! Our plucky heroine could receive multiple pictures of Baby Aiden in real time and do a nightly book club slash story time with John Boy Shane, and it was a lot to be thankful for. Word of advice? Toddlers shouldn’t be served wine in their sippy cups—but it’s totally fine for Nannas. Sippy cups save spills, amirite? Cheerios and string cheese are delicious snacks. It’s almost like being there!

Our heroine’s pluck took on some serious damage when one of her sons underwent emergency surgery mid hospital crisis, and no one could go visit him. But God is good--all the time--and her friends pulled her through; after a second hospitalization he was finally on the mend and Life in Lockdown continued on.

The sun was out, there was grass to mow and flowers to plant and multiple home improvement projects start—in a super plucky fashion, our heroine bravely started project after project without actually completing projects One, Three and Seven because—well, because she’s an idiot, but that’s a story for a different time.

But the wear and tear on her pluck became cumulative. And when the rains came, and day after day became darker, and soggier, her pluck went AWOL. Our heroine suddenly snapped one day last week and became an ill-tempered beast who could be neither soothed nor solaced, nor sung to. She stomped around the house, cursing the rain and the virus. She declared she was bored, and mad, and sad; she hated rain, threatened to break all her crayons, and run away from home. Did I mention it was raining? Still? Again? And that it would probably never stop? Ever ever ever? The cats sought shelter under the bed, and the neighbors vacillated between calling a Realtor or calling a Priest...and then the strangest thing happened...

Tune in to next week’s episode, where we discover the fate of our heroine. Does she get her pluck back? Or do the neighbors end up lighting torches and storming her castle? Does she get one of those cute little white jackets with the sleeves that buckle in the back?

Happy New Year!

If you came here thinking you would read a new and improved, updated for 2019, list of brand new New Year’s resolutions—I’m shocked. Shocked and disappointed. I thought you knew me better than that. Also: I was in Las Vegas. FOR WORK. Seriously. Anyway.

It’s that time of year when most people have already broken most---if not all---of their New Year’s Resolutions.

I have not.

Made any, that is. Which I find puts me squarely in in the 100% Unbroken Resolution Camp. Yay me!

But I will. Make them, I mean.

Eventually. “Stop Procrastinating” never seems to make the cut.

To those of us who had a good 2018, to those of us who did not, may 2019 be better, for all of us.

In the meantime, enjoy this picture of my grandson helping me at work:

Busy Busy Busy

I’ve been kinda busy lately. I’ve discovered a new passion-- an obsession really-- with small release, independent, art films. I view, and then review these films, watching them again and again, and often send comments to both the producers and the star.

Ok, full confession—I’m watching SnapChat videos of my grandson and texting his parents, but it does take up a lot of my time. And if it weren’t for the transitory nature of these videos—SnapChat videos poof! after a set number of views/amount of time—I’d never get anything done.

John Shane is four months old, 15 lbs., a total chunky monkey, a perfect little Little, and incredibly delectable. I give grandparenthood five stars, and highly recommend it. If you can get a gig as a grandparent, you should probably take it.

Oh sure, there are downsides, responsibilities, trials, tribulations.... First, I had to by a bigger cell phone, one with more memory/storage capacity. Occasionally, I must pretend to be politely interested when people rudely want to talk about something that isn’t about John Shane’s amazing ability to blow spit bubbles at such a tender age, or what a good bath taker he is, or any one of his fascinating characteristics. And just this afternoon, I spent an exhausting two hours trying to get wrapping paper to stick to a pony.

Flying in the house--with Dad!!

I get to spend every Wednesday with my grandson, his parents entrusting him to my care while they go out in the world and function as fully-realized adults. John and I stay home and plot our future mischief. We play games, sing songs, practice “flying,”—even if his daddy says there’s no flying in the house. (I raised his father and I must say I’m a little surprised by his sudden fondness for Rules. Where did that come from?) We read books and take naps, and Wednesdays are my favorite day of the week.

And as for Christmas? This year, I just can’t wait.