September 2008 - Posts

• Playing Under House Rules

  The wife and I went to the house of gnome for dinner this past Saturday. My daughter and son-in-law invite us over every few months – the timing coincides with the expiration of their 90-day guilt warranty. I’m quite fond of dining with the alpha son-in-law – I can always count on Jay to be grilling a huge slab of Grade A New York strip and pumping me full of 12-year-old Scotch. Granted, the Scotch is so I’ll speak with a loosened tongue and share with him horror stories about my daughter and her youthful exploits, but I enjoy telling them almost as much as he takes pleasure in hearing what kind of life he’s really carved out for himself. Our youngest daughter and beta son-in-law never invite us over. They keep using lack of space in their apartment as an excuse, but the wife and I are hip to the real reason: neither one of them can cook. Either that, or as we know from daily glances into her bedroom when she lived at home, Chelsea suffers from a horrifying allergic reaction to cleaning. So as we entered the house of the grand gnome, the little imp met us at the door. Not regularly visiting the boy on his home turf has its drawbacks, the biggest of which is being brought up-to-speed on all the new toys collected since our last social call. The kid has so many playthings I half expect to see Geoffrey the Giraffe lounging about the basement. After seeing the play heap in the living room; scoping the ‘Justin area’ of his parent’s bedroom; and navigating the mounds of outdoor toys on the patio, the little gremlin prodded us to go up and see his newly redecorated bedroom. ‘Car up stair,’ he said, pointing his portly little finger at the ceiling. The ‘cars’ in question were actually Disney/Pixar Cars, and his new room had more Lightening McQueen memorabilia than an Orlando flea market. After the tour of toy landfill number four, we saddled up to the dining table and glommed a couple pounds of sizzling beef, baked taters and mounds of Caesar salad. And that was just my grandson’s portion. For dessert we had ‘cream.’ In toddler translation, ‘cream’ is actually the whipped topping that sits lightly on the summit of a perfect parfait crafted by one of our local grocers. I came bearing parfaits the last time I dined in the house of gnome, and the boy was so enamored with the delectable dessert that he ate an entire cup. And because I am grandpa, I let him. And to reiterate that I am indeed grandpa, he got his own cup of ‘cream’ this time, too.  Armed with two spoons and a vat of cherry-flavored heaven, Justin and I began a serious march through our dinner’s fruity finishing touch. That is until my daughter - or Chairman Mao as she’s known to my grandson – decided that the little guy’s dessert time had come to an end. “All right, Justin, one more bite and that’s enough,” the head of the communist party announced, “It’s time to get you cleaned up and into your pajamas.” ‘Un mo bite,’ the gnome replied, and I obliged with a hearty spoonful. ‘Last bite,’ was the dictator’s retort. ‘Un mo bite,’ the gnome repeated, and again I filled his cake-hole with, naturally, more cake. Finally, after the fifth, sixth and seventh last bite (and same number of exchanges with The Chairman), I informed Justin that I make the rules around here and he could sit in his high chair until he had natural cherry flavoring running from his ears. “Well, that rule-making stuff may apply at grandpa’s house,” my daughter growled, “But mommy makes the rules in this house.” Which certainly didn’t come as news to my son-in-law.  But I do think someone needs a refresher on the two permanent parental regulations. Rule one: grandfathers are not subject to rules. Rule number two: you can’t change rule number one. And just for the record, the boy and I finished that parfait. Here’s hoping my daughter was in charge of the first Sunday morning diaper change. By J. Doug Gill   Posted Sep 30 2008, 06:10 PM by poopaw with no comments Filed under: grandchild, grandfather, grandparent, poopaw, grandparenting [Edit Tags]

• The Binky Revisited

  A few months back, one of my fellow bloggers – the lovely Maryland Mom - lamented the task of trying to get her little urchin to abandon his pacifier. While her descriptors for the rubber-like dependency enablers (gow-gow being my fave) brought a few chuckles, there’s nothing funny about weaning these gnomes off the bloody things. And it seems they have the same multiplying gene as Floppy the Bunny; leave one unattended for a few moments and suddenly you have five more. Binkies bounce back more than a dividend check from Lehman Brothers. I relive Maryland Mom’s gow-gow moment because I, too, have reached my last binky nerve. My grandson, staring hard at 31 months, comes to visit every other Sunday. I wait at the front door for his arrival, and once his mother – or El Presidente Castro as she’s known to my grandson - releases him from the Houdini-like seat contraption he makes his way to Poo-Paw’s out-stretched arms. On most occasions he’s sporting a nifty ensem (if you’re a NASCAR fan) of dark sunglasses, a little red Disney/Pixar Cars baseball hat and a big blue slab of binky stuck in his face. As hugs, squeezes and kisses abound, I sweetly say to the little imp, “Give grandpa the binky.” And with nary a whimper he yanks it out and plops it in my hand. We’ve been doing this for months so Round One always goes to yours truly. The imp wins the day, however, because as soon as he’s tired, fussy, hungry, sleepy, loud, rambunctious, annoying, etc., grandpa is forced (at knifepoint) to give up the stashed binkster. I shouldn’t be surprised; my daughter was the victim of one of these dependency enablers until she was 17. Not a binky, but a dilapidated piece of silk that was cut from a blanket. And not really 17 (take your blood pressure meds, honey), she was more like 11 before she gave up her ‘silk.’ I was a single dad in those days. My current wife and I had yet to lose our mental capacity and Brady-Bunch this clan, so I would take every opportunity to – let’s be honest here – steal the damn, grubby thing and throw it out. But somehow, when she would return from visiting her grandmother or great-grandmother, the child would be clutching a shiny new piece of silk. I moved her bed to vacuum under it once (just once) and found about two-dozen silken snakes lying motionless on the floor. Of course, both old women denied complicity, but since my daughter wasn’t running a silkworm farm, the evidence was rather incriminating. Anyway, as I’m wont to do – especially when I don’t feel like writing… I mean suffering from writer’s block – I went to Google for a little direction. According to the Consumer Affairs website, there are times when binkies can be beneficial (such as a newborn deterrent to SIDS), but I was looking for evidence to support my crusade so I searched on. Pacifiers, the report goes on to say, are mostly made from either latex or silicon. Latex, according to most medical journals, is a health hazard because of its allergenic properties. Latex can be found in clothing, paint and the set of all-weather radials you have on your car. In other words, my daughter has been letting my grandson suck tires for two-and-a-half years. Silicon? Really? That leads to the inevitable question: if silicon is safe enough for a baby, what’s all the fuss about breast implants? Consumer Affairs also offers tips and ideas for banishing the bink. Making it distasteful is one such suggestion, but my little gnome eats anchovies and wasabi peas (not at the same time – what kind of grandparent do you think I am?) so anything with any sort of food flavor will not help break the habit. In fact, our little eating machine may decide to slap it on a biscuit. Especially if it’s smothered in gravy. Also suggested was using an ice pick to pierce the nipple or to cut the nipple down to a shorter size. Both result in a ‘reduction of sucking satisfaction.’ Let’s leave that one alone, shall we? Most telling, however, was the website warning issued by one Doctor Luke Matranga, who noted that, “Children should stop using pacifiers by age two.” I think it’s time I had a little talk with my daughter. I wonder what kind of response I’ll get if I give her back all those strips of confiscated silk? By J. Doug Gill   Posted Sep 25 2008, 01:52 PM by poopaw with 1 comment(s) Filed under: grandchild, grandparents, grandfather, grandparent, poopaw, grandparenting, binkies and pacifiers [Edit Tags]

• Glutton for Punishment

  One tends to get a little cocky when one excels in a particular arena. And the arrogance isn’t limited to sports stars, actors and evening newscasters – even those of us who live meaningless lives are prone to a fit of egotism now and then. Men, I’ve found, are more often susceptible to fits of haughtiness than women, even if the fairer sex (is that sexist?) spend many more hours in front of the mirror than we do. I’ve always subscribed to the Muhammed Ali theory that “It ain’t braggin’ if you can do it,” but throughout my nearly 49 years on this planet I’ve discovered there’s a razor-thin line between conceit and overconfidence. Much like…I don’t know… these idiots who strap-on ‘flying suits’, jump off cliffs or out of airplanes, and plan to land gracefully on the ground without the help of a parachute. We saw one such ma-roon on the “Today Show” the other morning. We watch the “Today Show” because we just adore financial experts with extensive stock portfolios telling us to sock away cash for our retirement even if it means skipping a couple weeks worth of meals. Just once I’d like to visit the world these folks live in. Anyway, Skippy the Flying moron filmed his latest bird-like exploit, and his camera captured each and every thud as the aerial acrobat ricocheted off a pair of rugged, canyon walls. He broke a couple of bones and tore off a few layers of skin, but remained nonplussed about future flying attempts. He even shared with the sleepy-eyed morning audience that this wasn’t the first time his ‘hobby’ had landed him in the emergency ward. This is more than smugness, and much more than overconfidence. This is a glutton for punishment. You know the type: a GFP walks this earth intent on making the kind of decisions that never end well – like mowing the lawn without shoes, playing cowboys and Indians with a nail-gun or walking through a neighborhood in Baltimore that’s not the Inner Harbor. I think I might be a candidate for such GFP branding. In fact, if anyone out there reading this has more than one child, I’d say the masochist tag applies to you, too. So as we gathered for yet another Sunday family get-together, I was in the kitchen readying the afternoon meal. The grand urchin always joins me for the dinner ritual - we goof around with spatulas and measuring spoons and such, and I like teaching the little guy how to dump in seasonings, stir macaroni salad and what constitutes the correct ratio of Scotch to ice in grandpa’s glass. I’m thinking he’ll be fetching repeated tumblers for me before he hits his 5th birthday. So, as little Justin and I are gathering the vegetables for our munchie tray, he turns his attention to his own little veggies and begins to pinch the area of his body that future females in his life will accuse him of thinking with. Now with male children of a certain age (and certainly male adults), this sort of motion has various meanings. It could be a matter of a simple comfort adjustment, or the male in question could be making sure he didn’t mistakenly leave them somewhere – like in his wife’s purse. But with a little boy, this grabbing endeavor can mean but one thing: the little dude had to wee-wee. “Do you have to pee, Justin?” “Yes,” came the pained reply. Now keep in mind that my grandson has yet to cross that diaper-to-toilet threshold, therefore, his rush to the loo created quite a clamor in the family room. Once in the bathroom and devoid of undergarments (him, not me), I propped the gnome atop the bowl and hoped for the best (I certainly wasn’t hoping for number two, mainly because of my supporting position). We talked about politics, the weather and the volatile stock market and then: viola, pee! And while Justin ran back into the living room pants-less (and to thunderous applause), I strolled out of the bathroom like I’d just strapped on a flying suit and stuck a parachute-less landing at the bottom of a canyon. ‘See, this potty-training stuff isn’t so tough,’ I heard myself say, ‘I think it’s time you kids give us a couple more grandchildren.’ Yep, the difference between cockiness and masochism is mighty thin indeed. By J. Doug Gill   Posted Sep 22 2008, 01:06 PM by poopaw with no comments Filed under: grandchild, grandfather, grandparent, poopaw, grandparenting [Edit Tags]

• Toddler Peer Pressure

  The grand gnome isn’t the only baby in my daughter’s life. No, she’s only given birth to one (that I know of), but she happens to be an aunt to three of her sister-in-law’s slobbering little diaper-fillers. As such, Justin (our own little grand urchin) spends lots of time with this trio doing what all kids naturally do – exchanging all kinds of abhorrent Third World-type infections to bring home to the family. But kids gathered together share more than deadly airborne viruses (viri?), they learn to mimic, emulate and even implement the behavior of their peers into their own easily-impressionable worlds. On one of her most recent visits, my daughter, Jackie – or Warden “The Captain” Mama as she’s known to my grandson (what we have here is a failure to potty train) – stopped drinking all of our beer just long enough to discuss a problem with the grand gnome’s recent behavior. Not the out-of-control heathen displays most often associated with toddlers 2.5, but with his actions after returning from one of the aforementioned gatherings with the cousins. The boy had apparently picked up the manners of his younger relatives and was now using the ‘point and grunt’ method to call attention to an object of his desire. “It really gets on my nerves,” Jackie shared with us, reminding me that patience was never really in the top five of her virtues. And in light of her making me a grandfather, I’m guessing chastity wasn’t high on that list either. Anyway, the nerve jostling my daughter was experiencing stemmed from Justin’s reluctance to verbally request an item, opting to instead thrust his index finger at the entity and utter, ‘Uhhh.’ Having personally applied this method to supplement the level of 12-year-old Cragganmore Scotch in my glass; snag additional helpings of mashed potatoes; and to garner a little lovin’ from the wife, I couldn’t find fault with my grandson’s newly-found cave-mannish-ness. But apparently, Emily Post has moved into my daughter’s home. “I keep telling him to stop that and talk,” she continued, “It’s like the boy never learned any manners. But as long as those other kids are doing it, he’ll keep doing it too.” Doing what ‘they’ do. Fitting in with the crowd. Influenced by the behavior of others. Hmmm… I think I’ve heard that before. Oh yeah, I believe it was every day of every year that our kids lived under our roof. Man did that bring back my daughter’s childhood in a flash. Now keep in mind that the oldest of our beloved female offspring – along with her three other ingrate siblings - grew up through the ‘80s and ‘90s, so if my references seem antiquated that’s why. In the early days she couldn’t possibly be seen in school without a Rainbow Brite lunchbox and simply had to cut her long hair into the short bob that Katie Couric (and 50 million other American females) was sporting in those days. Why? Everyone else was doing it. By the time she hit the ‘tweens’ an appearance in public without a Charlotte Hornets Starter jacket (not from allegiance, but the colors and bee logo were deemed cool) would have led to certain social death. And entertaining at home was out of the question unless she had Tupac and Biggie posters on her walls and a Sony Discman that not only ruined her hearing, but also sent me into bankruptcy owing the Energizer Bunny a quarter-million dollars on battery purchases. Why you ask again? Because everyone else had pictures of scary thug rappers in their rooms and she couldn’t possibly live another day in a bedroom with non-threatening pastel walls. Fortunately, she had a job throughout most of high school and was self-sustaining in supplying her own trendy garb and gadgetry. If ‘point and grunt’ is giving her high blood pressure now, she’ll be prime stroke material by the time the gnome hits the ninth grade. Wait until elementary school when he comes home singing the four-letter words he learned on the playground. And then there are the middle school realities of smoking (tobacco and marijuana), drinking, experimenting with sex and the temptation of delinquency. Then they whine about Iphones and Ipods and wonder why they can’t have new BMWs when they get their driver’s license. And I’m just scratching the surface. Mimicking the behavior of his cohorts? Yeah, it’s called peer pressure, baby, and you ain’t seen nothing yet. By J. Doug Gill   Posted Sep 17 2008, 05:28 PM by poopaw with no comments Filed under: grandchild, grandfather, poopaw, grandparenting, peer pressure [Edit Tags]

• Adding to the Noise

  The wife forced me to… I mean suggested… we hang out and ‘make a day of it’ this past Saturday. She’s been traveling a bit lately, so in spite of wall-to-wall college football and watching Geraldo get thrown around a Galveston seawall, the woman who determines just how pleasant my day will be decided we should abandon lazing around The Palace and spend some time together ‘shopping.’ I’m really not sure why our together time couldn’t have included watching the Maryland-California game or news reporters doing the backstroke in the Gulf of Mexico, so I won’t belabor the point here. She sweetened the pot a bit by suggesting we stop at a mega-liquor store – it’s that time of year where we swap out our summer libations (margaritas, vodka lemonades and Scotch) for more fall-friendly beverages such as Bailey’s Irish Cream, Godiva Chocolate Liqueurs and Scotch – so I relented.   The wife tired of the liquor shopping after just two short hours (they were having a wine tasting and I was only on the Cabernet’s that began with “C”) so we stopped for a little lunch and then ended up in one of those retail establishments that outrageously inflates the price of their goods and then gives you 50% off so you think you’re saving a little coin. Please, we Americans regularly purchase the stuff hawked by Billy Mays (if Mighty Putty was as powerful as claimed would we not be using it to fill potholes?), so we’re nothing if not educated consumers. After wandering through the women’s, house wares, bed & bath, furniture & décor, kitchen & dining and clearance departments I snagged a new pair of tennis shoes (can’t say I don’t support Chinese slave labor) and followed the wife on an encore tour of the aforementioned specialty sections. But while she looked through the clearance rack for another bargain to hang in her closet, I headed for the toy department. The toys here at Poo-Paw’s haven’t been sufficiently upgraded, so on the last few visits the grand gnome has been forced to relive his infant days by playing with colorful newborn-type gadgets and a stuffed duck that honks “aflac” when squeezed. When I last visited my grandson at home, I found him to be quite enamored with a product called “Shake N Go” cars. If you haven’t seen the Shake N Gos, they live up to their name: you shake them, sit them down and depending on how violently shaken, the cars will then motor quite a few feet across the floor. However, when they are shaken, you get obnoxiously loud sounds of an engine starting, tires squealing, and a mystery driver repeating (ad nauseum) a couple of car-related phrases. The version we purchased is the taxi model, and when it smacks into a table leg, door jam or big toe, you get the bonus cacophony of breaking glass and crunching metal. And, upon impact, the taxi’s hood flies up, the doors fly open and the trunk spoiler is ejected rearward with missile-like trajectory. I know this because I nearly lost an eye while crawling along the floor behind the vehicle. Now, to give you a glimpse into our Sunday gatherings, you normally have between 7 and 10 adults, one hyperactive (and overly protective) border collie who barks every time he feels the gnome is in danger, and a two-and-a-half-year-old sprite that has all the energy of a ferret on Dexatrim. Add in a kitchen radio perpetually tuned to sports talk and the stereo-sound majesty of our family room television, and the house possesses all the solitude of I-95 during the Friday afternoon rush. This week, we added to the symphony of noise with not only the Shake N Go taxi, but also a way-cool Matchbox motorcycle that revs its engine and does an Evel Knieval-type flip. Uncle Trav also supplemented the chaos when he showed the young ‘un that crashing the taxi into one’s forehead would cause the same amount of automotive destruction as the previously mentioned furniture barriers. More clamor arose when my daughter – or Mien Commandant as she’s known to my grandson – threatened to punch brother Trav in the very same forehead where the taxi crashed just moments ago. This violence would be carried out only if the grand gnome proceeded to mirror Uncle Trav’s actions and bash his own head with the plastic automobile. We all waited breathlessly for the boy to sign his uncle’s death warrant, but the crisis passed without incident. Well, that’s what they tell me – I was seeking the sort of solitude that can only be found in my newly-purchased fall beverage collection. If expanding the boy’s toy inventory continues to result in this kind of bi-weekly pandemonium, I’ll be stocking up on the winter wines and spirits before Halloween. By J. Doug Gill   Posted Sep 15 2008, 01:01 PM by poopaw with no comments Filed under: grandchild, grandfather, grandparent, poopaw, grandparenting [Edit Tags]

• The Mailbag

  Letters, we get letters. Not the magnetic kind that you stick on the fridge (my wife threw ours away when I kept spelling ‘chubby’ on the freezer that holds the Haagen-Dazs), but the ones that have sentences, words, comments and signatures and stuff. Who knew so many grandparents would seek the erudite advice of all things Poo-Paw? Over the past five months I’ve accumulated almost tens of emails and remarks about adjusting to the grandfather role. I can sum it up thusly: aside from not being burdened by the inherent judgment parents should possess, being a grandfather is all about bad behavior (yours, not the child’s) and knowing that no one in your family can hold you accountable for any dreadful deed. Grandparents, for all intent and purpose, have familial diplomatic immunity.  Anyway, to the letters: Dear Poo-Paw: I just found out I’m going to become a grandfather. Besides conventional worries like the baby’s health and the competency of the parents, I find myself feeling especially glum because it feels as if my life has met its inevitable fate – I’m about to become old. Why can’t I seem to deal with the age thing? – Joe from Hagerstown. Joe, you’re looking at this from the wrong perspective. It’s not becoming a grandfather that’s making you feel old, it’s the knowledge that you’re married to a grandmother. Buy yourself a cardigan and learn how to whittle. Dear Poo-Paw, I’m off to the Twin Cities to visit my four young grandsons. Any ideas on the trip? – Ed from Waldorf. Ed, if it’s too late to cancel your flight, be sure to have hotel reservations. I spend about 6 hours every two weeks with my toddling two-and-a-half-year-old grandson and could never imagine living with the child. Between his insatiable appetite, perpetual motion and constantly making sure the little bugger doesn’t injure himself, there’s very little time for alcohol, cigars and sports-viewing - and if you can get grandma to stay with the family all the better. Dear Poo-Paw, We had planned on taking our three grandchildren to Disney World this year, but it was contingent on school performance on their last report card. Unfortunately, one of the three didn’t perform so well and now his parents feel he shouldn’t be allowed to go. Any suggestions? We don’t want to go against the parents’ rules. – Joy and Jeff from Jessup. Joy and Jeff, who cares about the parents’ rules? Did they care about your rules when they lived under your roof? Of course not. Now is not the time to concern yourself with the feelings of the child’s parents, grandparenting is all about you. Plus, if our kids were kept in the house every time they didn’t ‘perform well’ in school, they would never have had the opportunity to make us grandparents in the first place. I say punish the whole platoon for the actions of one soldier and enjoy all-things-Mickey from an adult perspective. Besides, there’ll be thousands of other kids there; will three less even be missed? Dear Poo-Paw, It seems you spend more time ridiculing your family and mentioning your Scotch addiction than you do commenting on the joys of grandparenting. How about periodically cutting some slack to the people you supposedly love? - Really, truly, pinky-swear not from your family, and not from Lutherville, Timonium, Cockeysville or Columbia. Not from, I’d love to help, but FamiliesOnly has a no nepotism policy – I’m afraid you do not qualify for free giveaways, free subscriptions, free web access or free counsel. You’ve already blown your chance to heed the sage advice of Poo-Paw. Looks like you’re on your own with this one. The rest of you, however, please keep those cards and letters coming. By J. Doug Gill   Posted Sep 11 2008, 09:15 AM by poopaw with no comments Filed under: grandchild, grandfather, grandparent, poopaw, grandparenting [Edit Tags]

• Damn Bugs

  I’ll admit it: I have a cursing issue. Nothing like the tics that accompany Tourette Syndrome – it’s not like I’m shouting &^%, &*$# and %^& in the grocery store, church or the security line at the airport. In fact, one should avoid all conversation while waddling shoeless through the entire airport screening process. Nothing ruins the first day of vacation like being frog-marched off to the body-cavity room for mistakenly uttering something as benign as ‘government workers suck.’ No, my expletive-filled rants usually have a purpose, and are more often than not directed at our politicians, news media (especially weather people) and the blue hair doing 50 in the fast lane with his turn signal flashing like a lighthouse beacon. Now I know that some folks consider a foul mouth as a sign of low-grade intelligence and that others think such language represents a heathen upbringing, but of both groups I can confidently say: #@*& ‘em! In all seriousness, the grandchild has reached the stage of vocabulary development where he enjoys repeating things that are said to him. ‘Justin, did you get new shoes?’ “New shoes.” ‘Are you coloring a picture, Justin?’ “Color picture.” ‘Do you need to go potty, Justin?’ “Go potty.” (Which he still does in his Huggies, but it’s a start) The point is: if you say it to the grand gnome, the little sprite will say it back. Anyway, some time over the course of the summer my backyard became the gathering spot for ninety percent of Maryland’s mosquitoes. It’s gotten so bad that even our border collie refuses to go outside unless we dip him in deet. So as the family recently gathered on our back deck for a Sunday afternoon cook-out, hordes of blood-sucking insects descended upon our grilling festivities. No, not the bloodsuckers that rent you apartments or collect taxes, but the ones that leave the itchy red bumps on your skin. My 68-year-old mother and grand gnome 2.5 were the prime targets of the attack; my theory being they both smell of bath powder and protective undergarments. Having run through the yard with Uncles Adam and Trav and attempting to prematurely pluck fruit from our tomato plants, little Justin returned to the deck with half a dozen welts dotting his arms and legs. His Aunt Chelsea, sympathetic to his itchy, inflamed bites, picked this moment to coat the boy’s skin with Off resulting in something that – to a toddler – must have felt like he was suffering second degree burns to most of his body. Running in circles, dancing in place and cooling ice cubes placed on the now crimson skeeter chomps calmed the little dude, but Poo-Paw here thought that a more proper rescue was in order.  So I put my arms around the imp, rubbed his itchy, burning legs and articulated the immortal phrase: ‘damn bugs’ “Damn bugs” was squeaked back to me in one of the cutest little voices I’d ever heard. My daughter – Sergeant Mom as she’s known to my grandson - didn’t find it so delightful. This repetition revelation is going to put a serious damper on my fall sports viewing – as bad as our local professional and college teams are, my grandson should be cussing like a sailor on a Bill O’Reilly outtake by Thanksgiving.   By J. Doug Gill   Posted Sep 08 2008, 12:27 PM by poopaw with no comments Filed under: grandchild, grandfather, poopaw, grandparenting [Edit Tags]

• Sleigh Bells Ring, Are You Listenin'?

  Now that summer is over, every retailer will soon be swapping out their Halloween items (which have been out since the Fourth of July) for their Christma…. I mean holiday… displays. Well, every retailer except those absurd Christmas ornament stores that are open year round and of course, Hershel’s Discount Menorah Outlet. For our brood, the sign that the holiday season is just a scant 111 days away is the initial planning for our annual holly jolly party. The discussion began at our recent Labor Day cook-out. A couple of years ago – after dozens of celebrations of the Noel and tens of thousands of dollars spent on under-the-tree swag – the wife and I ran out of gift ideas. Not just for each other, but also for our now grown children. At least we were blessed with the grand gnome, which gives grandma and me an excuse to overspend on the coolest toys that I wish were socially acceptable for us to play with. Additionally, I’ve been forced to supply my mother with presents for the last 48 years – well, maybe 42 – the first six years of bounty consisted of cheesy crayon drawings or some unidentifiable ceramic animal from kindergarten class. The only things left to buy my 68 year-old mom for any holiday are life-saving surgical procedures and orthopedic shoes – and I’m pretty sure Medicare covers them both. To be fair, the stuffed stocking is also on the other foot. We are in need of absolutely nothing here at The Palace – unless someone wants to buy us a new Jacuzzi – so it’s equally as difficult for our offspring, siblings and other members of this human psychiatric experiment gone awry to buy presents for us. Since we had decided many years ago to treat each of our children to a birthday dinner at a four or five star restaurant instead of buying them clothes they won’t wear or a gift card that seemed tacky or thoughtless, we agreed on a similar celebration for the holidays.      Now, if you happen to be related to me – or if you happen to be a semi-regular reader of this blog – you know I’m a strong proponent of having any child under 12 arrested for patronizing a fine dining establishment. And, since we Americans do not torture, I’m still undecided on the punishment for the parents who bring the apprentice hoodlums to the aforementioned restaurants. Last year, we secured a ‘private area’ at Ruth’s Chris Steak House and the immediate family (including my mother, brother and sister-in-law) joined in to celebrate the season. The private area – booked, by the way, with the understanding that we would be in a private room – was no more than a dining table set for 12 surrounded by three sides of partitioning. We requested this type of isolated dining space as a result of my crusade against children in restaurants. How hypocritical would I be if our very own grand imp were guilty of interrupting our fellow diners’ evenings by screaming, wailing and running laps around the flambé table? The National Enquirer would have a field day with that one. But our fears were unfounded. The grandchild was quite content to sit in the high chair, glom portions of every entrée the rest of us ordered, and amuse himself throughout the two-and-a-half hour meal. This year – with the gnome being a full year older and a full-speed terror on two Crocs – our level of uncertainty is being to rise. When he finishes his at-home meals now he does so with an enthusiastic announcement: “DOWN!” ‘Yes, Justin, you can get down when we’re finished eating.’ “DOWN!” ‘Justin, finish your juice and you can get down.’ “DOWN!” Once released from his plastic-harnessed-hell, the sprite either bolts into another room (forcing an adult to give chase) or attempts to drive his all-terrain matchbox vehicle through someone’s Caesar salad. Either way, this variety of unruly public behavior is simply not acceptable. I think the wife and I will go back to giving each other gifts this year – a late December trip to Bermuda or the Bahamas sounds like a one-size-fits-all kind of reward. I just hope the rest of the family makes their dinner reservations early. Dining bunkers with extensive wine lists aren’t exactly a dime a dozen. By J. Doug Gill   Posted Sep 04 2008, 11:58 AM by poopaw with 1 comment(s) Filed under: grandchild, grandfather, grandparent, poopaw, holidays [Edit Tags]

• Happy Grandparents Day!

  Have you fought the crush of mall shoppers yet? Invaded the big box retailer and stuffed your shopping cart? Made your list? Checked it twice? If you answered no to all of the above, then here’s your last warning: there are only five more shopping days until what is easily the 33rd most popular holiday observance during the calendar year – Grandparents Day. Way back in 1970, a West Virginia housewife named Marian McQuade began a grass-roots crusade to have someone (anyone) set aside a special day for grandparents. She enlisted the help of civic, business, church, and political leaders and was convicted on 86 counts of bribing public officials with the best snickerdoodles ever baked. Just fooling – I can’t help myself when it comes to cookie humor. The efforts of the McQuade group caught the eye of West Virginia senator Randolph Jennings, who then became instrumental in getting other politicos (with apparently nothing else to do) to push for legislation recognizing grandparents.  In 1973, after an exhaustive three-year effort interrupted only by bingo nights, quilting bees and ‘her stories’, West Virginia Governor Arch Moore helped Grandma McQuade realize her dream by proclaiming the very first Grandparents Day in her home state. And once Hallmark Cards realized they could make absurd profits by selling even more pieces of poetry-filled, folded cardboard (for 5 bucks a pop), their lobbyists joined Senator Jennings and descended on Washington. Like any other legislation (non self-serving, of course) that goes to D.C., this bill languished for five years while our elected leaders voted themselves raises, took extended vacations, had torrid affairs with pages and staffers and pandered to their constituents so they could repeat the process upon reelection. Then, in 1978, President Jimmy Carter signed the National Grandparents Day bill into law. Thanks to Marian McQuade, this nation now celebrates the accomplishments and contributions of our family elders, and retailers have sold millions of dollars of low-end, Chinese-made tchotskies previously purchased on other card-maker holidays such as Mother’s, Father’s and Valentine’s Days.   Still, Congress couldn’t just sign the bill and leave well-enough alone, they had to take a parting shot at maw and paw by picking the month of September. National Grandparents Day, they reasoned, would be held in the ninth month because it symbolizes the ‘autumn’ of the grandparents’ lives. I’m guessing all the months that represent ‘happy thoughts’ were taken. I didn’t Google National Grandparents Day to see where it ranks on the ladder of holiday popularity, but I’m guessing it falls on the rung between the annual January celebration of Belly Laugh Day and the noted merriment of April’s Administrative Professionals Day. The celebrated search engine did, however, hit on dozens of websites that offer commemorative tips for ‘the holiday.’ One site recommended that small family gatherings include playing board games, implementing story-telling and listening (and dancing to) old family music. In the Gill household that would mean arguing over who cheated at Chutes and Ladders, tales of juvenile run-ins with the cops and singing along with The Beatles’ “White Album.” It’s best that our grand gnome not yet learn the words to “Happiness is a Warm Gun.” Still another website suggested translating grandpa and grandma into other languages – like the Hungarian “nagyapa,” the Dutch “grootvader” or the Cuban “abuelito.” Granted, we’re working hard to expand our grandson’s vocabulary, but the last impression I want to give is that it’s acceptable for the sprite to refer to me in the manner his diaper-wearing Korean peers address their elders. When it comes to a choice between Poo-paw and Halabujee, the former doesn’t seem so bad. I’ve decided on my own Grandparents Day celebration. This Sunday I will watch Charles Osgood, then Tom Brokaw and then I’ll settle on the channel of whomever first goes live with coverage of the NFL’s opening weekend. My mother will sit at home wondering why she hasn’t heard from her grandchildren, and I can firmly state right now that they were raised much better than that. My own kids (and sons-in-law) will be far away from my home, food, and alcoholic beverages, and my lone grandchild will be taxing the patience and draining the life from his parents. And as a special gift, the wife will still be in Cincinnati on business. This year, I’ve become a much bigger fan of Marian McQuade.  But that’s just this family’s plan. You, however, have just five days to rush to your local Wal-TarKohlsget-Mart. At this time of year, you just don’t know how long World’s Greatest Grandpa mugs and Grandma’s Kitchen potholders will remain on the shelves. By J. Doug Gill   Posted Sep 01 2008, 01:22 PM by poopaw with 2 comment(s) Filed under: grandchild, grandfather, poopaw, grandparents day [Edit Tags]