sock snack

So I'm pretty sure that you're wondering how Miley survived my most recent absence. She didn't whine outside the bathroom door and plop down with her little paws and nose under the door when I got back. No, she didn't do that. This is what she did:



In case you can't quite discern what this object is, allow me. It's a baby bootie that has been shredded by small doggie teeth. Hmm. Somehow symbolistic of her feelings in the matter? I'm not sure. But here's the really weird thing. I make these little booties, and I keep them on a shelf that is five feet off the ground. Miley is roughly twelve inches tall when on all fours and maybe just short of twenty inches when she does her dancing trick. This is actually really hard to measure because as soon as anything resembling a stick comes out, that dog is history out the doggie door. Sticks, especially long ones, are the most frightening thing in the world, just in case you weren't aware of this fact. She is also afraid of any large object, but sticks are apparently the spawn of Satan. I did, however, manage to get those rough measurements for you. Now where was I headed with this? . . . rereading . . . Oh yes, um, so the booties that are five feet off the ground. Miley is a really good jumper. She jumps up on a bed that is three feet off the ground with ease and grace, with an occasional hand up. It's particularly amusing to watch her try and fail, her little head popping up just over the side of the bed over and over. But it seems that this three foot jump is a pretty good stretch for her. So how, may I ask, did she get this little bootie off a shelf five feet up? And why? How she got it completely eludes me. Now ask me why. I have the answer to that one.

See this little freak, excuse me, I meant, darling puppy, came with this very odd obsession. She loves feet and anything associated with them. Sure, you're thinking, she likes shoes like any self respecting puppy does. No, I'm sorry, it most definitely goes far beyond that. I noticed soon after I got her that she would cuddle up to my feet whenever they stopped moving. Not only that, she suddenly becomes a little kitten, rubbing her head across the top of your foot, hmm, or bottom of your foot, it makes no difference to her. If I'm wearing flip flops, she will wiggle her little nose between the foot and the flip flop and happily snooze there. I'm pretty sure she thinks that feet are magical entities. (See here my blog entry think twice. It will take on new meaning for you now.) In fact, as I write this entry, she is sitting under my foot with what I am pretty sure is an I'm-in-heaven expression as I just swing my foot back and forth. It's kind of convenient actually. I can do all kinds of things while still giving Miley attention. So nicely low maintenance. Not only are feet her happy delight in life, but she also joyfully engages in playful romps with socks, something like you would see a kitten doing with say, a ball of yarn. She can sniff out a sock in a ten mile radius. Okay, okay, anywhere in the house. We can think we have safely removed all socks from her roving nose, and suddenly there she will be shamefully displaying the sock that she has stolen. She looks pitifully horrified at her own behavior. It's as if she is saying, "I'm sorry. I just couldn't help it. See, I found this delicious sock snack. I simply couldn't walk away from it. You can yell at me now." What I find amazing is that it is repeatedly socks. Occasionally she comes up with the snotty tissue or some other disgusting object from the bathroom garbage, which I shan't identify, but mostly she just forages for socks. If only we could teach her to pan for gold or silver or something valuable. But don't you think that a baby bootie is a little bit amazing? It's a kind of sock, yes, but really? Here's the most amazing one, however. When my grandbaby was here, there was a little package of baby socks in her luggage. A package, in plastic, packaged up and sealed, not even in the open air. I'll be a monkey's uncle if she didn't sniff it out and bring it to me with that I've-done-a-way-bad-thing-again expression. Perhaps I have a genius dog on my hands. She can even find socks in packages that have never been on feet! I don't know if I should praise her for her ingenuity or yell at her and put handcuffs on all four paws and arrest her for aggravated sock theft.

And you thought she snatched the bootie because she didn't like my sweet grandbaby! Piffle!

can i have her now?

So I asked my daughter when she was here, speaking of my grandbaby of course, "Can I have her?"

"No, Mom."

"So when you go back on home, do you think maybe I can have her then?"

"No. Mom, no."

"So can I have her now?"

"Mom! No!"

"How about now?"

"No!"

"Can I h . . . "

"No!"

I waited for a little while. Let the subject drop away.

"So, you know, I'm thinking I'll do grandma camps. I think that would be fun."

"That would be cool. Yeah, it would."

"Starting with next week."

"No! Mom! Just no!"

I think I'm really breaking her down now.

missing the little miss

It's funny how I suddenly have this burning desire to travel to a certain state all the time now, more than I did before. You see there's this Little Miss that's growing so fast, she puts weeds to shame. So I went for a little visit. In Reader's Digest fashion, days with the Little Miss go something like this: feed, burp, change, hold and stare at her, start all over again. We did manage to do other things. We went to dinner a couple of times. We even went birthday shopping for the Little Miss's mommy. But mostly, I was just happy if it was my turn to take care of her. Hey, I was even happy for it to be my turn the day that both Mommy and Daddy declared it Grandma's diaper turn since it was bulging and ripe and ready for the changing. I believe that was the day that I had just said something to the effect that in her short seven weeks of life she had managed to spit on me, throw up on me, pee on me, umm, have gas into my bare hand as I prepared to bathe her, but that she hadn't yet managed to poo on me. She remedied that oversight that day.

It finally came to the night before I was to leave. She was sleeping peacefully in her little bed. My daughter, seeing me staring at her, read my mind. "You can take her out and hold her if you want to." Want to? Knowing full well that I was going to have to get up before the sun even decided to turn over in its bed and yawn, much less rise, I slipped her out of her little bed. Then I sat there in the semi dark with her, just staring at the face that I knew I would miss so much. The next time I see her, she probably won't be that little squishy baby. She'll probably be holding her head up steadily and easily. She'll probably be able to sit. She'll probably be making little baby sounds of cooing and gurgling and giggling, along with her caveman sounds of grunting and groaning. She'll probably be so much bigger. So I stared at her into the night, daring the night to go on forever. But of course morning eventually came and found me saying goodbye. I started missing her as soon as I walked out the door.

Here are the many faces of the Little Miss that I will miss:

But I think that I will miss this one the most:

some things just don't change

So I went to the county parade today. I rushed to get there on time because my daughter was in the high school marching band, and I knew she was at the beginning of the parade. In my rush to make sure I didn't miss her marching by, I failed to grab the camera. Once I got there, I found out I was a half hour early. Then I wished I had my book.

In retrospect, I'm really glad I didn't have my book because I did something far more fun. I people watched. I found myself a nice shady spot near a fountain. And you know what? It was nice to see that there really are some things that just don't change. Since I was there early, I got to do a lot of people watching. I found it fascinating that it seemed like any other parade I've ever been to, including, you know, parades way back "in the day." In this changing, technological world of ours, a parade is still a parade. I enjoyed watching the children darting across the street chasing each other, the parents yelling after them. I saw four sets of twins! Yes, four. One set of twins was dressed in matching top and shorts outfits, and they had their radio flyer wagon with their little brother in tow. Have you ever been to a parade where the radio flyer wagon wasn't in attendance? I think not. I watched the one brother struggle with it to get it over the curb. Then he brought the baby brother to the fountain to show him the wonder of the water and the rocks. "There's something under there," he said mysteriously. People sat on the curbs, searching out the shade as much as possible. Then there were the smart ones who showed up with folding chairs and lined the curb with their families. And don't forget the puppy. A puppy on a leash showed up with its family. It bounced all over, just happy to be a part of the day. It made me wish that in addition to my camera and my book that I had brought Miley as well. All of it seemed so timeless. It could have been any year, any state, any county that I was watching them in.

Finally the parade began with its typical entrants. Leading off were the police officers on motorcycles, making fancy "eights" in the road. The flag was then proudly marched by in the arms of men in uniform, and we stood with our hands over our hearts, respecting this great country of ours. There were floats with beautiful young girls, old cars, typical advertisement floats, political floats, people throwing candy and small stuffed toys to the children. And finally the high school band came along. I saw them in the distance, their color guard in perfect sync with each other. I abandoned my shady, cool spot and stepped to the curb. (How I wished for that camera.) I searched for that beautiful teenage face in the band. She wasn't hard to find, and then, typical mom that I am, I felt that twitch of pride. Gee it was just a parade, and gee, she was just marching and pounding a drum, doing a little bounce side to side with the music sometimes, but I was just proud of her, her talent, her beauty . . . her.

It was the time honored tradition of a parade. Nothing much has changed in decades of years . . . nothing much at all.

first day of school

Yesterday was the first day of school. It's a tradition at our house to take a picture to memorialize this great day. In fact just last year, my daughter who is attending college in another state sent me her first day of school picture. She was wearing a beautiful mussed up side pony tail and a childhood expression. Call me skeptical, but I have a funny feeling she re-did her hair before she actually left the house.

If we took all those pictures out and lined them up side by side, we could see how each kid grew from year to year. We could see the grouchy face of the one who just didn't want her picture taken in that particular spot. We could see the funky clothes of the eighties. We could see the floofed up bangs (yes, I know I just made up a word, but you totally understand what I mean). We could see the fancy pink Winnie the Pooh backpack (that was Kindergarten not high school--I promise). How about the Mickey Mouse dress and the "Buzz Off" outfit. Who could ever forget the fancy dance poses? Oh, and then there are the brace faces and the sack lunch in hand. And then (giggle) there's the home-permed hairdos that never should have left the house. How about the side pony tails? Precious.

So as I was saying, yesterday was the first day of school, and like the dutiful mother that I am, I took pictures of my beautiful teenage daughter before she left for school. Well, I tried.

missing you

As you might have noted from my previous entry, my baby granddaughter and daughter came for a visit. Boy, life was different. My regular schedule and routine went straight out the window. But who cares?! Who needs a routine when you have a baby around? Or who can even manage to keep one for that matter? :) It was so wonderful to have them here.

The night before they left, my daughter let me have the night with my sweet granddaughter. It's an interesting little phenomenen really. I think she went to bed with a wicked grin, thinking, "Aha, tricked the grandma into staying up all night, and I get to sleep. Sucker, grandma!" And I went to bed thinking, "Aha, tricked the daughter into snatching a whole night from her and getting to hog the baby all I want! Sucker, daughter!"

Just about now you might be thinking I'm completely nutso, but it's the plain, silly truth. I just love nights with a baby. There's something so magical about it. First of all, there was no little vulture standing by waiting for a turn. And believe me, there are lots of baby vultures around here. She was mine, all mine for a whole night. I swaddled her up in her blanket, kissed her sweet, soft forehead, and watched as she searched for the bottle in hungry desperation. I got to hold her in my arms as long as I wanted to, listening to her little baby sounds of pure satisfaction as she gulped down her middle of the night feedings with eyes blissfully shut in half sleep. It was just plain a privilege to stare at her sweet little angelic face in the dim light. Then as I held her to my chest waiting for her not-so-ladylike burps, I cuddled her close, and wished for her to stay, but the dark of night slowly dawned into morning light. The magic was over, the sweet thing left, and now here I am, a grandma without a baby to cuddle. What am I to do?

Oh yeah, that stupid schedule and routine.

Missing you, sweet thing.

my baby meets my grandbaby

Hey, what's this?

Well, is it a permanent addition to this family?

So you're telling me I'm not the baby anymore?

Oh, fine then!