Dad's cool profession

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My son-in-law, Preston — father to my two grandsons — is a financial advisor. Now, adults likely get the importance and necessity of a person who is whiz-bang awesome with money. Kids, though? You might think kids wouldn't see financial advising as all that cool of a profession, especially for their papa.

If that is what you think kids might think, I'm here to suggest that you just might want to think again.

You see, there are plenty of cool aspects to financial advising, especially from the perspective of kids whose dad just happens to be a financial advisor.

For one thing, financial advisor dads have supercool piggy banks they give their clients to share with their kids.

Supercool piggy banks that the financial advisor dads share with their own kids, too.

Piggy banks that look sort of like this (for copyright reasons, I can't share the real thing here):

blue piggy bank 

Even cooler? Financial advisor dads regularly give presentations on money to businesses and organizations.

Using a projector.

A projector that — every once in a while — the financial advisor dad brings home for his family to have the most awesome of movie nights.

Movie nights that look exactly like this:

movie night

Now how cool is that?

(And how cute is that? Especially that Mac's little body doesn't even fill the entire ottoman as he kicks back to enjoy the show, just like his big brother.)

Yep, financial advising is indeed a pretty cool profession for dads.

Even more cool for their kids.

Just ask Mac and Bubby.

Piggy bank photo: stock.xchng

Today's question:

My dad was a plumber. What was your dad's profession?

Like mother, like daughter?

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How are your kids like you?

My friend Lisa from Grown and Flown wrote an excellent piece on exactly that question this past week. Long after reading Lisa's thought-provoking post, I pondered again and again just how my daughters might be like me. I considered just how different they are from me, too.

Brianna, my eldest, is quite similar to me in many ways. From the time she was quite young, my younger daughters — and sometimes Jim, too — called Brianna "Mom 2" because she was a bossy little thing and always stepped in to control her sisters and unsavory situations if I didn't. Occasionally even when I did, to be honest. Brianna enjoys the same books and movies as I do. She has many other similar likes and dislikes, and many of my same mannerisms, too.

Megan, my middle daughter, is the least like me of all my girls. We're quite opposite in the most fundamental of likes and dislikes. She likes to shop; I don't. She likes to talk on the phone; I don't. She runs marathons, and I feel like I'm doing pretty well if I manage to walk the dogs around the neighborhood. The one area she is very much like me, though — which she may or may not willingly agree — is in our approach to motherhood and the parenting principles we hold dear. Since being a mom has been my most important role so far, I guess that in the end, Megan may be the daughter most like me after all.

Andrea, my youngest ... well, Andrea is a nut. The biggest nut of all my daughters. And the one that is probably most like me in many ways. Many ways that make us butt heads yet still consider the other among our most loved and loyal fans. We're both born under the astrological sign of Cancer, so perhaps that's part of it. Of my favorite resemblences: Andrea and I enjoy the same kind of music. The mix CDs she would send me from college are some of my most treasured possessions — and not just because I loved the music.

That's just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to our similarities and differences. I'm continually impressed by the ways my daughters are different from me, always pleased by the ways they mimic me — even when they balk at the thought they, heaven forbid, do and say things just like their mother at times.

In their words and their actions, it's fairly easy to see how my daughters take after me. Physically, though, is a different story. I'll leave it to you to decide which daughter looks most like her mother. If you ask me, there's not a bit of resemblance between any of us.

mother and daughter relationship

Like mother like daughter? From the top: Brianna, Megan, Andrea

Today's question:

In what ways do your kids resemble you, physically or otherwise?

Stylin' grandsons

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When I was a child, I don't recall ever going to a salon to get my hair cut. My mom cut it. I had long, straight hair, so it was fairly easy to trim up here and there. None of the styling sessions stand out as memorable except for one particularly disastrous cut when I pleaded to have my hair cut like my favorite Liddle Kiddles doll. And my mom gave me exactly what I asked for.

Thing is, there's a big difference between the (artificial) hair on Liddle Kiddles and the hair on my head. My wannabee fancy curls, meant to coil and curl gorgeously around my ears, instead looked like horrendous '70s sideburns that refused to coil, lying straight and flat against each cheek...except when the slightest breeze caught them and they flapped up and down no more gorgeously than mud flaps on a moving van.

Surprisingly, that horrid haircut didn't dissuade me from cutting my three daughters' hair. I did, though, unlike my mother, have a minor amount of training in trimming locks, gleaned from my senior year in high school. Having earned all the academic credits I needed, I was allowed to participate in a certification program at the community college during my school hours. I chose a certificate in cosmetology over one in cuisine.

I never actually continued in the program after high school graduation so I never earned my cosmetology license, but my training did come in handy for cutting my girls' hair. (And for once giving Jim a perm. Hey, it was the early '80s. But we won't go there for he might kill me. Nor will I show you the photo of such only because he'd surely kill me, not because I'm not dying to share it here now that it's crossed my mind and I know exactly where that photo is.)

Anyway...

So I cut my girls' hair for many years. They had a salon visit here and there, especially during the years I was a nail tech/seaweed wrap giver, but for the most part, I was their stylist. Even to this day, Brianna and Andrea will ask me at various times to trim up this and that for them between their visits to a real stylist. I don't cut Megan's hair at all anymore...and I certainly no longer cut—or perm—Jim's hair.

My grandsons have had a different experience when it comes to haircuts. Perhaps it's a boy thing. Bubby once underwent a home haircut from Preston and his buddy Scott. And Mac suffered through a near shaving from Mommy for his first cut. But other than those two trimmings—or maybe because of those trimmings—Bubby and Mac always visit a salon for their hair snippin' and stylin'.

I've been lucky to be in town to witness several haircuts with Bubby. A time or two, the salon visit was made into a guys' day out, as Bubby, Preston, and PawDad had their hair done together.

My first time visiting the salon with Mac, though—who loathes having his hair cut—came only recently, during my December visit, when he and Bubby both hopped into the chairs at Supercuts. Here is my record of the experience:

 

PawDad has yet to visit the salon with both grandsons. Maybe we'll be able to fit that in next time he goes to the desert with me.

(And maybe we can convince Mac to get a perm with PawDad. Just for fun...and photos. And I'll be sure to share those photos here, the prospect of murder and mayhem inflicted by Jim be damned! Stay tuned.)

Today's question:

What is the worst haircut you ever received and who was responsible?

Ornaments of Christmases past

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At tree-trimming time every Christmas, I gave each of my three daughters a new ornament, beginning when they were all still quite small. Some years the ornaments given reflected a passion or hobby of each individual girl; other years, all three received similar ornaments with only a slight variation on a common theme. Every year, all were dated and hung upon the family tree.

With three new ornaments added for the girls each year plus a new one for Jim and myself annually, too, our Christmas tree became jam-packed with ornaments by the time the girls were ready to leave the nest. The paring down of the baubles was far more abrupt than the collecting. First it was Megan's collection that we wrapped up and sent with her once she became a newlywed. Next, Andrea moved up and out and on, taking her ornaments with her. Then, just a few years ago, Brianna and her seasonal stash found a new home, as well.

Now that Jim and I decorate our tree with many old ornaments of our own, plus nearly just as many new ornaments to take the place of those relocated to our daughters' Christmas trees, it's been especially heartwarming this past week while visiting my grandsons to see many of the familiar ornaments of Christmases past hanging on Megan's tree. Not only those I had given her through the years, but ones she had made herself or received from others, too.

 

Equally heartwarming to see hung in a place of prominence at Megan's house was an advent calendar I had made for my daughters many years ago, now providing a chocolate-y countdown to Christmas for my grandsons.

It's bittersweet to see old, familiar seasonal decor adorning a home so far removed from mine, in years and in geography. Every once in a while during this visit, I've been hit with the overwhelming realization that things will never go back to what they were, that time has indeed ticked along, those days are gone, and this is where we as a family are, what we will be from now on. Not that I didn't realize that—or be okay with that—already, but the confirmation of such sometimes comes in unexpected and occasionally uncomfortable waves. No more kids' ornaments hanging on the tree was and is just the beginning...and the end.

That serves as the bitter. The sweet? Seeing the enjoyment my grandsons now get pulling foiled Santas and chocolate balls from the very same crudely numbered pockets their mom and aunts once did, counting the days until Santa's arrival. Days that to a child move far too slowly. Days that to a mom—and now a grandma— moved far too fast and somehow, without proper notice, became years.

Today's question:

What holiday ornaments have you passed down to your children?

From Huff/Post50: Who puts baby in a corner? Not this grandma

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This post, sans the photos, was originally published on Huff/Post50, my first post as an official Huffington Post blogger.


Different grandmas, different styles

My favorite grandma never spanked me. She also never yelled at me, reprimanded me, restricted me.

My not-so-favorite grandma? Well, she never spanked me, either. She did, though, once make me drink grape juice I didn’t want. I immediately vomited up the purple stuff; Grandma immediately yelled at me for doing so. From that moment on, my “Favorite Grandma” title went to my other grandma—and my “Least Favorite Juice” designation went to grape.

When it came to being disciplined by my grandmothers, things could have been far worse. Back in the day—yes, that day—it was common for grandparents, heck, even neighbors and strangers, not to spare the rod when they deemed necessary, even when it came to children not their own.

I got lucky. Not in that I was a child above reproach and reprimand, but that my grandmothers pretty much left such things to my parents. Except when it came to drinking one’s juice.

Now that I’m a grandma, I consider those grandparenting styles, the disciplinary actions of my grandmothers, as well as the way the grandparents to my own children—my parents, my in-laws—conducted themselves with their grandkids.

The (step) patriarch of my husband’s family regularly swatted upside the heads those grandkids who committed minor infractions. I often wondered as a new member of my husband’s family if his step-dad’s popping kids for this and that was how he became known as “Pop” to the family.

My own mother, grandma to my three daughters, didn’t pop grandkids upside the head, but she often spanked on the rears the children of my younger sisters, regularly made them sit in the corner for misbehaving.

My sister-in-law and my sisters were okay with Pop and Grandma coming down hard on their kids. Both grandparents played a prominent role in helping the single moms raise the kiddos, so that may be why they were given more authority. It worked for their families. To each his own.

I, though, wasn’t okay with such disciplining of my own.

Not that my children were perfect by any means, or that they didn’t deserve to be disciplined upon breaking bad. But if the discipline necessary went beyond a stern look or word, perhaps a slight swat upon a diapered bottom for safety’s sake, we had an unspoken “hands off” policy. Nobody puts my babies in a corner—except for their dad and me.

Yet my husband and I didn’t put our kids in the corner. Nor did we pop them on the head now and then. We did, though, hand out some fairly strict disciplinary action when our daughters needed it. We sent them to their rooms, and we took away privileges. On occasion, we even spanked them.

When it comes to my grandsons, though—ages four-and-a-half and one-and-a-half— spanking, shaming, popping upside one’s head just isn’t my style. I know some grandmas do it, but I won’t. I simply cannot imagine inflicting the slightest bit of pain upon my grandsons.

That doesn’t mean I’ve not inflicted emotional pain, though. Unintentionally, I assure you, just as my not-so-favorite grandma did with the grape juice.

Case in point: As a long-distance grandma, I pack a pretty hefty lot of luggage when I visit my grandsons. In that luggage is always what we call my “Grandma Bag,” filled with crafts, books, and fun to fill the time with the boys. The rule is that my grandsons must wait until I share treasures from my bag, not go into it themselves.

Also in my luggage—as surely applies to many a grandparent—is medication. Pills and more that should never, ever be touched by little ones and one of the reasons my grandsons are not allowed in “Gramma’s room” unless I’m with them.

Most can likely guess what happened: I entered my room one morning to find my oldest grandson sitting on the floor, happily going through the goodies in my Grandma Bag, the bag that had been in my suitcase, right beside those other things he was to never, ever, touch. He peered up at me with a grin over all the fun Gramma had in store—then immediately realized the mistake he’d made. He burst into tears, I calmly reminded him that he’s to never, ever touch Gramma’s things without first asking.

After lots of tears from him and lots of lecturing from me, my grandson apologized for the bad choice he’d made. I, of course, forgave him. The question is, did he forgive me? I know firsthand that grudges toward grandmas can run deep, and I didn’t want my grandson to forever hold against me the Grandma Bag incident.

Regardless of whether my grandson forever revokes from me the “Favorite Grandma” designation or not, I hope he will eventually realize my response could have been far different, could have included a spanking.

With the holidays upon us, what other grandmas might do may be tested. Families will gather, kids will act up. Some grandparents will spank or send kids into corners, some parents will bristle. Or not. To each his own.

I just know that when it comes to my own, nobody puts my grandbabies in a corner—except, maybe, their own mom and dad.

Today's question:

What is your experience with grandparents disciplining your children or you disciplining your own grandchildren?

Grandparenting as a second chance: 15 things I'd do this time around

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Broncos girls.JPG

Some grandmas and grandpas consider being a grandparent their second chance at parenting, their opportunity to do things right, do things forgotten.

Not me. I don't see my time as Gramma being a do-over for my time as Mom. I've already had the headache, hassle, heartache of being a parent. I'm happy now to enjoy my time with my grandchildren without feeling the need to make good on all the things I neglected, all the ways I screwed up with my children. For one thing, there's no way to make up for what was—with those kids or with the kids of those kids.

If it were, though, if being a grandparent really did provide an opportunity for do-overs, here are a few things I'd do better the second time around:

Mac and Ritz.JPG

• Go on more family bike rides.

• Complete a doll house for the girls. Boys, too, if they wanted one.

• Be more adamant about flossing.

• Allow them to order dessert now and then when dining out. Or an appetizer, instead of saying the budget's too tight for either.

• Teach them to sew, regardless of their gender.

• Not allow them to quit musical instruction, be it band, choir, guitar lessons.

• Not allow them to quit sports mid-season, either.

• On the other hand, I'd be more adamant about them quitting bad relationships sooner.

• Take them camping as teens, even if they didn't want to go. Once they got out in the boonies, they'd surely appreciate the s'mores, stories, and sky of endless stars regardless of their protests from home.

• Go on more picnics. And Sunday drives, with no particular destination, agenda, goal.

• Buy them each a camera at a younger age. (A far easier consideration now that the cost of developing photos is no longer a factor.)

• Allow more slumber parties. Though not co-ed, as seems currently in fashion.

• Sing more.

• Hug more.

• Remember more.

Today's question:

What would you do differently if given parenting do-overs?

I would do anything for love (but I won't do that)

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Remember the old Meatloaf song, the over-the-top and emotionally draining "I Would Do Anything For Love (but I won't do that)." If not, feel free to take a moment and refresh your memory here.

That song has run through my head several times in the past few weeks, in response to recent news reports. For when it comes to my family and friends—my daughters in particular, in this instance—I sincerely would do anything for love. Whatever that anything may be, whether time, money, attention, affection, I will do and give to the full extent I'm able.

But, as that earworm of a song says, I won't do that. That being what some incredible and amazing mothers—grandmothers, really—have recently made the news for doing.

SO BLESSED MY GRANDSONS CAME NATURALLY.You may recall the many stories online and off about the kind and courageous—and physically fit, I must add—grandmother who served as a surrogate for her infertile daughter. The daughter was repeatedly unsuccessful in carrying a child to term, so the sixty-one-year-old mother, who had gone through menopause ten years prior, agreed to hormone supplementation and in vitro fertilization of her daughter's egg and her son-in-law's sperm. She successfully carried to term and in August, delivered via Cesarean section her daughter's biological daughter. Her own grandchild.

What an amazing gift to give a beloved daughter. And this most recent woman is not alone, as such surrogacies have taken place countless times in the past.

I truly, madly, deeply love my three daughters. But I don't think I'm selfless enough to commit to being a surrogate for any of them.

Serving as a surrogate isn't the most recent act of selflessness on the part of a mother, a grandmother-to-be, that has made the news. Yesterday's newspaper (yes, I read the actual print paper) featured a story abouttwo Swedish women who underwent the world's first mother-to-daughter uterus transplants, in hopes they will be successful in getting pregnant and giving birth. That's two daughters with two mothers who gave up their uteruses (uteri?) for the love of their child. One daughter had her uterus removed because of cancer, the other was born without a uterus. Now, thanks to their moms, they each have one. Now the quest to bear children is on.

I honestly cannot imagine the point of desperation one must reach in order to consider, much less do such a thing. Such a heartbreaking state it must be. Regardless, if any one of my daughters came to me entertaining such a thought, suggesting such a plan, I couldn't do it. I really am not that strong, not that selfless.

And I really am not so committed to becoming a grandma that I'd birth my own grandchildren.

Although, I already am a grandma, so I can't say for sure.

I'm not judging any of the grandmothers who sacrifice in such a way, I promise. I truly think they are incredibly loving, giving women who have gone above and beyond the call of duty of a mother, of a grandmother. I'm just trying to understand the degree of cojones it takes. And why I don't have them, what I'm lacking that makes me, as a mother, unwilling to do such a thing for my own daughters, if need be.

In all honesty, because of various health issues, I'm pretty darn sure I would not be physically able to be a surrogate or offer up my uterus to be transplanted into my daughter. My oldest happened to be visiting as I wrote this, and I asked her if she'd ever consider requesting I be her surrogate or uterus donor. Her immediate response was "no," because of what the health repercussions may be to me, her mother.

I admit to being a wee bit thankful for those health issues that make me a poor candidate. They save me from having to find out for sure how deep is my love, for my girls, for my future grandchildren. At least when it comes to doing that. Because—more honesty here—I can't be one-hundred-percent certain that I wouldn't do such a thing, if it would make all the difference in a daughter's world if I did.

I pray my girls never reach the point of such desperation for children that surrogacy and transplants requiring my participation are a consideration. For any of us.

When it comes to my daughters, I really, truly, honestly would do anything for love.

But I won't do that.

I don't think.

And I hope I never have to find out for sure.

(Photography by Alison Baum. Full stories on the women mentioned can be found here and here.)

Today's question:

How about you? Would you do that?