Distance from Grandma a good thing? Maybe ...

Here's yet another reason why Bubby is probably better off with me being a long-distance grandma rather than us living within close proximity of one another.

(Wait ... I don't recall there ever being previous reasons why he's better off with me living 819 miles away. Oh well ...)

Anyway, a recent study shows that children whose grandparents serve as their primary daycare providers are more likely to be overweight than kids in other daycare situations. And not by just a smidgen. Those wee ones watched by Grandma and Grandpa full time had a 34 percent increased risk of being overweight. That's THIRTY FOUR percent.

I can so understand why that is, though. I love watching Bubby eat. I love giving him food that he loves to eat. I love taking pictures of him eating. My favorite video of Bubby is one in which he learned to say "Mmmm..." -- over and over again as he ate food Grandma fixed just for him.

If I were Bubby's daycare provider, man oh man would that kiddo get to eat some yummy stuff. All day long. There'd be snow ice cream in the winter, root beer floats in the summer, macaroni and cheese for each and every meal -- if he wanted it for each and every meal; if not, I'd make him anything else he requested.

Oh, and there'd be ketchup. Lots and lots of ketchup. Bubby loves ketchup!

So yeah, it's probably a good thing Bubby lives in the desert and I live in the mountains and rarely the twain shall meet.

But we will be meeting this weekend. And I've got five full days to plump up my Bubby's skinny little legs.

Don't tell Megan, but I've already stocked up on ketchup ... and the fixins for macaroni and cheese ... and baked up a few loaves of banana bread ... and a couple dozen chocolate chip cookies ...

Today's question:

What was your favorite food as a kid?

My answer: Macaroni and cheese. Definitely. Oh, and homemade mashed potatoes. I still love the two more than just about anything else. (As long as the macaroni and cheese isn't made with that powdery cheese from a package!)

T minus six days

Megan and Bubby are coming to visit on Sunday -- for five full days! Which means it's time to babyproof the place.

It's not like Bubby's never been here before, but each time he's visited Grandma's, he's been relatively immobile. Now he gets around ... a lot. And my house has stairs ... a lot.

The other day on the phone, Megan gingerly brought up the topic of our zillions of stairs.

Megan: "Ummm, have you thought about your stairs, Mom?"

Me: "Yes, Megan, I've thought about the stairs." (How could I not? There's at least one step into and out of every room in our house, plus massive staircases from one level to the next.)

Megan: "Well, Bubby climbs stairs now."

Me: "I know. I remember you telling me that. But we have baby gates. Lots and lots of baby gates."

Megan: "No. That's why I'm saying this, Mom. Bubby doesn't need baby gates. He does stairs now."

Me: "Uh, I don't think so, Megan. Not our stairs."

Megan: "He does fine, Mom. Really. He's a big boy. He's allowed to go up and down stairs."

Me: "I'm not comfortable with that. Nope, not comfortable with that."

Megan: "I kinda figured as much, which is why I'm mentioning it now, Mom. Just think about it."

Is this a crazy conversation or what? I thought new mothers were supposed to be hyper vigilant, chastising Grandma again and again about all the dangers lurking in her home and how to babyproof those dangers away.

But here's my daughter telling me I don't need baby gates in my house of 10,000 stairs? With a 21-month-old toddler on his way? For five days? And with me so proud of myself that I have SIX baby gates in my possession for ensuring his safety during his visit?

Apparently that's six too many.

At least Megan knows me well enough to not spring such things on me at the last moment. She knows I need time to deliberate, time to think things through.

So I've thought this through. And -- call me crazy -- but we will be using baby gates while Bubby's here.

At least five two of the six I have on hand.

Now, is there anything else I need to be sure to not babyproof before Bubby gets here? Any suggestions would be appreciated, as I've clearly not yet figured out this whole grandma thing.

Today's question:

What's the worst accident that's befallen you or another in your own home?

My answer: I fell off the top of a ladder while Jim and I were remodeling our previous house and was quite bruised and battered by the fall and subsequent entanglement with the ladder that fell with me.

Gimme an "M"

During my visit with Bubby, he made it quite clear that he'd aced the child development stage related to object permanance: He knows an object exists even though he can't see it.

And when it comes to some of his favorite objects, Bubby dramatically expresses his sadness that his beloved this or that is existing somewhere other than right there by his side. Be it a toy, animal or loved one, Bubby lowers his head, scrunches his eyes ever so slightly and in the saddest of voices says "buh-bye."

For example, when he misses his best buddy, it's "Ro Ro buh-bye."

When the bunny outside his window decides to hippity hop behind the bush, it's "Bunny buh-bye."

After the garbage truck empties the curbside cans and heads on its way, it's "Truck buh-bye."

And when Megan and Preston left for their trip and Bubby was left with Grandma, it was "Mommy buh-bye. Daddy buh-bye."

All said in a sad tone, all sounding like the poor kid has had his heart broken.

Bubby was sleeping when I kissed him goodbye at the airport, so there wasn't true closure at our departure. One minute I was there, then I was gone. Megan told me that once home, Bubby clearly felt my absence and let everyone know, using his typical, sad "buh-bye." Even his daycare provider told Megan that the next day, Bubby moped around and when asked what was bothering him, he let her know in no uncertain terms that he missed his grandma.

So what did Bubby say to Mommy and his babysitter as he lamented my absence? He told them again and again, "Graya buh-bye."

Uh, what?

"Looks like your name is Graya," Megan told me, with what I thought was a more enthusiastic laugh than was called for. She knows I've been waiting to find out what special name Bubby has for me, the grandma moniker that belongs to only me, separating me from all the other women in his life that have the grandma label attached.

Now that he's talking more and more, it looks like Bubby's come up with that name.

And what do I get?

"Graya."

Yes, I hadn't colored my hair before visiting Bubby and my gray roots were pretty evident, but I didn't think a 19-month-old would notice.

Okay, yeah, I know it has nothing to do with my hair and everything to do with Bubby's inability to fully enunciate yet. But I really don't want to be called "Graya." It doesn't have the warm and cozy ring of something like Nonny or G-ma or Grammy. I want something sweet and loving and special.

If nothing else, I want at least an M in his version of the word "Grandma." I'll settle for being called just plain ol' "Grandma" or "Gramma" over "Graya" any day. Either would be sweet and loving and special coming from my Bubby.

Bubby's vocabulary skills still have much room for improvement, so I'm pretty sure he'll get down the "M" in "Grandma." And if that's who I'll be to him for ever and ever going forward, that's okay with me. Because more important than what he calls me, Bubby makes it clear already, at this young age, that he loves me. And when I'm not there, he misses me.

At least as much as he misses the garbage truck after it empties the neighborhood trash cans and toodles on down the road.

What more could a grandma ask for?

Today's question from the "Would You Rather..." board game:

Would you rather age only from the neck up -- OR -- age only from the neck down?

Assuming that "from the neck up" doesn't involve the actual brain and mental functions, I'll say I'd rather age only from the neck up. I'm starting to get a tad arthritic in my knees and am finding I'd much rather have my body work correctly than have a wrinkle-free face and neck.

True colors

Bubby was an absolute angel over the weekend while I babysat him. He played alone fantastically, and just as cheerfully brought toys and books to me so we could play and read together.

He jumped at the opportunity to take baths and brush his teeth, with nary a grumble.

He even happily trotted to his changing table when it was time to change his diaper and gladly nestled into my arms when I told him it was bedtime.

Like I said, he was an absolute angel.

  

Well, there were a few times when little Booger Bubby showed his face:

                    

But such times generally related to frustration with a puzzle piece not fitting in place or a toy working against him in one way or another. Frustration, not brattiness.

Then Mommy and Daddy got home.

And the brattiness arrived along with them.

As soon as Megan and Preston got home, Bubby alternated between the little angel I'd seen for three full days and the little monster Mommy had been afraid might scare Grandma. He whined, cried, gave dirty looks and refused to eat all of his meals.

I've been in the "Mommy" position, with friends, family, school teachers and others telling me how absolutely angelic my girls are, that they're model students and kind little team players who kiss the teacher's butt cheefully help without prompting.

Then we'd get home. And they'd be monsters -- whining, crying, giving dirty looks and refusing to eat their dinner.

And these were the teen years!

Okay, not really. (The teen years were far, far worse ... but those are stories for other days.)

When the girls were young, they were polite, well-behaved and did the right thing around others. It was only with me and Jim that they felt comfortable enough to voice their true opinions, true feelings, true frustrations and upsets. They knew our love was completely unconditional, that they could be as horrible as they wanted to be, and we would still love them. Completely, totally, unconditionally.

That's what Bubby was doing with Megan and Preston. With me, he was an angel; with them, he could be as upset as he wanted to be. (And very likely the upset stemmed from it being the first time they left him for more than a day. He felt the need to punish them just a smidgen for having the audacity to enjoy a little grownup time, I believe.)

I love that Bubby was so sweet and kind, wonderful and well-behaved during my time with him.

But I hope that one day, Bubby will be comfortable enough with me to show his true colors any time they want to bleed through. That he will know that no matter how boogerish he gets with me, I'll still love him -- completely, totally, unconditionally.

Today's question:

If you could call any living person to ask for advice, who would you call?

I would call the very smartest, most qualified doctor at Mayo Clinic -- to get some answers for my hubby.

Lessons from Bubby

During my recent tour of babysitting duty, I taught Bubby a few things, such as how to do a puzzle.

And that peanut butter play dough is an incredible, edible art medium. And the wonders of Baskin Robbins.

In return, Bubby taught me lots of things ... things I probably used to know but have forgotten along the way to grandmahood.

Here are a few of the lessons I learned while babysitting my Bubby:

Garbage trucks are the coolest thing in the whole entire world -- except for bunnies who live outside the bedroom window ... and bubbles.

BFFs come in a variety of shapes,  sizes and colors.

A pile of books beats out a pile of toys any day of the week.

Daily creative expression is good for the soul. As are regular haircuts and impromptu jam sessions.

Several days of rain and being stuck inside the house make the sun's return all the more glorious.

Macaroni and cheese and chocolate pudding are THE very best culinary creations EVER!

And that diversions make saying "goodbye" to loved ones a little bit easier to handle.

This post is my diversion.

Today's question from the "Loaded Questions" board game:

What one thing that you do can you genuinely admit is not that cool?

I recently bought a dorky pair of sweat pants that are designed to look -- from far away -- like a pair of jeans. I would never, ever wear them in public, but they are oh-so comfortable to wear around the house. Jim and Brianna have made it clear how very UNcool my comfy "jeans" are ... but I don't care.