Hi-ho, hi-ho, it's off to work she'll go

My daughter Megan, mother to my grandsons, is going back to work. She was and is an early childhood educator. After taking one year off of work to try her hand at being a stay-at-home mother to Bubby and Mac, she's decided to go back to work. Full time.

I'm not thrilled.

But I support her.

One hundred percent.

Megan needs to work. Not because her household needs the money, but because Megan needs to do and be what she is. And what she is is the very most awesome teacher of young ones. A very most awesome teacher who, in order to be the very most awesome of mothers, too, needs to do what she—without a doubt—has been called to do.

This wasn't an easy decision for Megan. She wanted desperately to be the kind of mom who stays at home with her sons, who does crafts and activities and outings with them. And is content with that. She tried her hardest—her busy calendar and plethora of Pinterest projects around the house and put into use for parties in the past year prove it.

But she wasn't content. And that's understandable. Squishing yourself into a box in which others want you to fit makes for a most uncomfortable position. And a most unhappy mommy.

By going back to work as a teacher, Megan will be a better mommy. A content mommy. As her mother, I want Megan to be content. A content mommy, a content teacher. Thankfully Preston agrees, supports her return to work and the extra work that might make for him, too.

So why am I not thrilled?

Well, I must be honest: It's because I want my grandsons to be with their mother. At least most of the time. Most of Megan's time come August 1, though, will be dedicated to full-time teacher mode, as no part-time first-grade teaching opportunities currently exist in her town.

A part-time teaching position would be best for all concerned, Megan and I both agree. But this full-time opportunity, despite the challenges that will accompany it, will be far better for her, her kids, her household than the full-time mommy gig she worked—and really did often enjoy, I must add—this past year.

The full-time mommy gig is hard. It can be frustrating, endless, monotonous, thankless. Most importantly, it's not for everyone. I'm glad Megan realizes that, accepts that instead of trying to be someone she's not. (As well as someone who's not putting to use that expensive private-school education many of us are still paying on, if you'd like to know another brutal truth.)

Yes, part-time work might provide a little more balance in Megan's wants and needs, but a full-time position as a first-grade teacher is what she has to work with. And she will indeed make it work—while making sure things work for my grandsons, too.

Bubby managed to survive and thrive with Mommy working part-time during his first couple of years. This won't be all that different for Mac, as his hours beyond those Megan worked as a part-timer with Bubby will be spent napping at a well-researched and thoroughly vetted daycare center. As long as the bed's comfy and cool, Mac likely won't give a hoot if it's Mommy or daycare personnel twiddling their thumbs in the next room while he sleeps the entire afternoon, as he's wont to do. I have no doubt Mac will survive and thrive, too. Probably even better than he might have if Mommy didn't work, thanks to the social interaction he'll get with kiddos his own age at the daycare center.

And Bubby? Well, Bubby will be delighted to see Mommy off and on throughout the day as he will attend preschool at the very same school where his Mommy's working. When Megan gave him the news she was returning to teaching, a big ol' smile spread across Bubby's face, she reported, as he expressed genuine pleasure at hearing Mommy's good news.

Bubby's reaction to the news of Megan returning to her true calling is admirable. And it's how all of her family, friends, fans should be responding—by being genuinely supportive. A mommy's got to do what a mommy's got to do. And what Megan Mommy's got to do is get into the classroom and be awesome with other kids. So she can be awesome at home with her own kids, my grandkids.

What more could a mother want for her daughter?

What more could a grandma want for her grandsons?

Congratulations, Megan! I applaud you. I support you. One hundred percent.

Today's question:

Removing the child factor and what you did/do as a working or stay-at-home mom, would you rather work outside the home full time, part time, or not at all?

Repost: One woman's pleasure is another's worst job ever

As I look forward to a job interview this week that just may result in my "best job ever" — and as I recuperate from my visit to the desert (those triple-digit temps did a number on this grandma) — I'm again taking the easy way out and reposting an oldie but goodie. This time it's about my worst job ever...in hopes that I may soon be awarded the best job ever. Well, the second best job ever, as being grandma certainly ranks for me as the first.

One woman's pleasure is another's worst job ever (originally published February 4, 2010)

I've been thinking a lot about jobs lately. I'm sure it has something to do with my friend Debbie's retirement, my bloggy friend Tammy's job search, and the quest of my former coworkers/current friends as they seek out freelance writing gigs to replace those drying up.

Or it could have everything to do with the fact that my savings account is coming perilously close to the empty mark.

Whatever the reasons, I'm thinking about jobs and how I really need one and how I don't want to settle on one until it's the best job I've ever had. Crazy, I know, especially in this insane economic climate we're all learning to live in. But the clock is ticking on my time here and I want to have the best job ever -- and plenty of years doing it and enjoying it -- before my time is up.

I recently had a pretty good job, but it was far from what I'd classify as the best job ever. I've also had mediocre gigs, plus a few horrid ones that I hated but they helped pay the bills.

I've also worked in a position that downright made me cringe, literally. It's the one I'll not hesitate to share when I become rich and famous and am asked by some reporter "What's the worst job you've ever had?"

Heck. I'll probably never get that rich and famous, so I'll just answer that question here.

When I was about 25, I worked in a beauty salon. I was a "nail tech," applying the biggest, longest, stupidest-looking fake nails on women with lots of money. In addition to doing nails, I occasionally did "wraps." The weight-loss kind of wraps (that really were a bunch of bunk!) and the mother wrap of them all, the highest gig in the salon: the seaweed wrap.

The seaweed wrap was billed as a fabulously relaxing way to pull toxins from the body -- the whole body -- and soften the skin. It was also the smelliest. Rich ladies with too much time and money on their hands Customers would pay about $200 (and this was nearly 25 years ago!) to be painted with reconstituted dehydrated seaweed and lay there in the stinking mess for upwards of an hour.

And who painted the seaweed on their bodies? Me. I was responsible for all the steps it took to make their skin toxin-free and baby-butt soft. For my work, I made $125 -- an unthinkable amount for two hours of work ... at least unthinkable for a 25-year-old with three babies and a husband already  working two jobs to support the family.

So I mentally tallied up how many diapers I could buy with $125 and went through the steps.

Step 1: Show the ladies the restroom, where they could remove their clothes, throw on a robe and return to the wrap room, where they were to remove the robe and settle in on a massage-like table -- in the buff. (It was always ladies. Men requested the service, but that was too freakin' weird for me and I refused to take those customers. Luckily the salon owner understood ... and wrapped the males herself.)

Step 2: Exfoliate the skin -- of the entire naked body -- with a soft-bristled brush. The entire front side ... and I mean entire. All as I held my breath as much as possible because I have a thing about smells -- and these women often didn't smell so great. Then flip for the other side.

Step 3: (After brushing all the gunky dead skin off the table and myself!) Go over the entire naked body with a little rubber massager thingee to stimulate the deeper tissues. Continue holding my breath. Flip for the other side.

(Do note here that I'm kind of a prude. I never was one of those liberated gals who "experimented in college" or any other place and was not used to brushing or massaging or doing anything else to another woman's naked body. The ladies never seemed to notice, as their eyes stayed closed and they appeared asleep through the entire process, but it was the height of discomfort for me. Well, not the "height," as the next step was even worse.)

Step 4: Mix up a batch of seaweed paint using the dried seaweed and warm water, while holding my breath and refraining from gagging; seaweed stinks! Using a paintbrush the size of those found in hair highlighting kits, paint the stinky seaweed slime all over ... no, ALL OVER the already stinky bodies of the women. Flip for the other side.

Step 5: Wrap the stinky seaweed slimy woman in a plastic sheet, put a warm towel over her eyes, turn down the lights, turn on the soft and stupid new-age crap music, and let the woman stew in her juices for 45 minutes.

This is where I would go in the bathroom, scrub my hands nearly raw and try not to cry. I hated this more than anything in the world. If there were cell phones back in the day, I would have then gone out to my car, called Jim and cried. But there were no cell phones so I held back the tears and kept myself busy with other beauty-salon-like chores until the timer went off and my customer was done.

Step 6: Direct the wrap lady to the shower, where she could wash the stinky slimy mess and the toxins sucked from her pores right down the drain. Instruct her to gently towel dry and return to the table -- still in the buff.

Step 7: Lotion up the newly toxin-free and soft-as-a-baby's-butt woman, from neck to toe. Flip for the other side. Tell her to take her time relaxing then get dressed and meet me at the front counter.

This is where I'd again scrub my hands raw, hold back the tears, and practice a fake smile for the final step of the process: collecting payment.

Step 8: Smile, speak in soft new-agey "Wasn't that refreshing and wonderful" terms and take the money from the satisfied customer.

Then, because I always made sure I had no other customers scheduled after a wrap, I pocketed my $125 and drove home. In tears the entire way. Feeling like a prostitute because I took money for doing something I would never ever in my wildest dreams do if I didn't need the money so badly. Then I'd wipe my tears, go in the house and hug my girls. All the while swearing I'd never do it again.

Until the next seaweed wrap showed up on my schedule and I couldn't refuse it. I had three babies at home and a husband who already worked two jobs and we needed the money.

All these years later, I can still smell the stink of that seaweed. Maybe that's the reason I can't stomach sushi.

I think the time has come for me to add "The Best Job Ever" to my resume. I've clearly already had the worst!

Photo: flickr/happykatie

Today's question:

My favorite spa treatment is _______________.

Grandma performance review

As a former employee and supervisor, I’ve received and given many a performance review in my day. Because I’m no longer employed in a full-time job, I’ve done neither in quite a while.

Time for that to change.

Today I work both ends of the review process — giving and receiving a review for myself in the highly coveted position of Grandma, using the performance evaluation document of a former employer as my guide.

Performance Recognition and Planning Guide

Name: Lisa

Position: Gramma to Bubby

Date of hire: 6/2008

Date of this review: 2/2011

Rating Scale:

5Exceptional

4Exceeds Standards

3Meets Standards

2Needs Improvement

1Unsatisfactory

Achievements — Lisa is efficient in the position, regularly researching ways to forge a strong relationship with Bubby despite the miles between them. She’s arranged many visits to the desert, even in light of a dwindling bank account. She’s also learned to Skype, use Picasa, blog with abandon, use USPS and UPS to her advantage. In addition, she depends on regular telephone communication with her daughter and grandson despite hating the telephone. Rating: 4

Ownership — Lisa takes full ownership of her position as Gramma, never shirking the name or duties involved. She takes pride in the position, sometimes to the extreme, not wanting to share the title with others. Rating: 4

Results — Bubby has no doubt who Gramma is and delights in his time with her. During Skype sessions, Bubby most wants to view toys, cars, and trucks PawDad shares with him instead of the picture books Lisa shares, making it clear more enjoyable books need to be chosen or Lisa needs to steal the cars and truck from PawDad and show them to Bubby herself. Rating: 3

Teamwork — Lisa works well with PawDad, her partner in grandparenting. Excepting, of course, her desire to steal Matchbox emergency vehicles during Skype sessions. Rating: 3

Communication — See “Achievements.” Rating: 4

Initiative — Lisa is proactive in problem solving when it comes to finding new ways to engage Bubby, in person or long-distance. Rating: 4

Skills — Lisa demonstrates a high-level of long-distance ability, regularly making use of ideas and activities offered up by fellow grandparent bloggers. She needs (and desires) more face time with Bubby in order to improve her skills and efficiency in one-on-one situations with the grandchild. Rating: 4

Dependability — Regardless of day, distance or dollars involved, Lisa will do anything and everything for Bubby. Rating: 4

Overall Rating = 3.75 Meets/Nearly Exceeds Standards

A supervisor once told me that although I was doing an excellent job, corporate policy prevented her from granting me a 5 on the scale as that would mean I’m as good as can be, leaving no room to strive for improvement. At the time, I considered it a bunch of hooey from tight-fisted executives who didn’t want to pay the higher salary due those rating at the top in reviews.

Now in my position as Grandma, I understand the policy of not earning a 5. I’m not as good as it gets and I surely want to continue to improve. Not in hopes of earning a bigger paycheck but with the goal of improving my performance in one of the most important positions I’ve held yet — Gramma to Bubby ... plus soon to be Birdy and countless other grandchildren to come.

Today’s question:

Using the numbered Ratings Scale above, how do you rate your performance in one of your current positions, personal or professional?

Stupid is as stupid does

I recently received a few compliments from readers about my technical ability and Internet know-how. I was pretty surprised, as I feel rather in the dark about all things HTML related, the language that makes blogging possible. I do know a bit about the Internet and I am pretty darn good at researching this and that online. But I wouldn't say I'm savvy.

I used to think I was pretty darn savvy with the Internet. Heck, I hopped online back in the early 90s -- and had the Prodigy account to prove it! But I now keep my pride and puffery about all things online in check by remembering my biggest online faux pas ever. It involved e-mail. And a few Grandma's Briefs readers know about the horror of which I speak.

Several years ago -- during my pseudo-savvy period -- I was the manager/editor of a small editorial department at the newspaper. At the time of which I write, I was in charge of three writers and one photographer. Because our "office" was just a set of open cubicles in a sea of other open cubicles, privacy was at a minimum. So we used e-mail for many a conversation.

The e-mailed conversations were usually between myself and the three women writers; our male photographer rarely, if ever, joined our e-mailed bitching and complaining. (The IT Department, on the other hand, probably saw each and every pixel we parsed out.) Of the three women with whom I corresponded, one, whom I'll call T, was a rather young gal ... actually so young that years and years earlier, she had been in my Daisy Girl Scout troop. I was her leader, the one who taught her about honor, kindness, how to "Be Prepared" and how to make homemade fortune cookies. T was engaged to a real numbskull of a ninny posing as a man, and as the young gal was younger than my daughters, I felt rather maternal toward her -- and more than a little irritated that her parents hadn't stepped in to put the kibbutz on the relationship with the ninny.

Well, T didn't last long working at the newspaper, but once she left, she still e-mailed us all often and was occasionally privy to the daily e-mail exchange among office mates. One day T sent an e-mail to us three older and wiser former coworkers talking about plans she and her now husband had. I can't remember the details, just that it was a rather naive plan, yet T thought it proved her maturity. I was appalled at her stupidity, her misguidededness, and I immediately e-mailed a reply to the other two older/wiser women in the group to air my bewilderment at T's plan and her penchant for the dumb ass she called her husband.

Only, I didn't hit "Reply" to just the two older/wiser women; I hit "Reply All." Which meant T got my the message ... quickly. She got the message that I wasn't the nice Daisy leader she once called Miss Lisa. Instead, I was a mean and bitter old woman who said mean and bitter things to someone to whom I once served as a mentor, someone who was just young and naive and trying to make her way in the world.

I was horrified that someone as e-mail and Internet savvy as myself could commit such a basic error of online correspondence (and judgement!). What a dunce was I.

I immediately (after freaking out to my coworkers) e-mailed T, privately, to apologize for the things I said. She graciously accepted my apology ... and never e-mailed me again. Which I deserved.

The young gal whom I once taught about manners then later interview techniques taught me even greater lessons. Not only did she teach me to always, always, ALWAYS check to see which reply option I've chosen when sending an e-mail, she also taught me that I should never, ever, EVER be snippy, snotty and snarky.

Especially not in writing.*

That, my dear readers, is why I will never consider myelf savvy -- online or otherwise.

*I'm embarrassed to admit that, unfortunately, I occasionally need refresher courses in those lessons. But I'm working on it.

Today's question:

With whom did you most memorably stick your foot in your mouth ... or send an e-mail that should not have been sent?

The sweet sounds of unemployment

This week has been a rough one because of the time change. It's made me pretty darn thankful that I don't have a full-time job to get up and ready for first thing each morning.

I've also been thankful for no full-time job this week because if I were working, I couldn't spend full-time hours playing grandma while Bubby and Megan are here. Sure, grandmas everywhere work and manage to get time off for hugging and loving on their grandbabies, but if I had recently found a new job, it's doubtful I'd have been allowed to take four vacation days this early on in my tenure.

So yes, I'm saying that I'm thankful I have no real job, no boss telling me what to do, no office gossip to listen to.

Instead, I've gotten to listen to the sweetest little voice ever. And here are some of my favorite things my little Bubby has said again and again, the things that just melt my heart each time he says them:

• "Kitty mow" (pronounced like "chow" not "meow")
• "Big stair," uttered each time he's confronted with a staircase he has to go either up or down. Yes, they're big stairs and yes, he's actually going up and down them -- holding on to someone's hand, of course -- despite my freakout post about stairs.
• "Big truck"
• "Big keeze," aka a big squeeze/hug
• "Big clock" upon hearing the grandather clock dong
• "Big slide" (Yep, everything's big to Bubby!)
• "Tired baby" when he's worn out
• "Whoa baby" when something's awesome
• "Hi Baby" when greeting his mommy
• "Oh my!"
• "Nonny Bunny" (his name for the bunny from his Great Grandma/Nonny Ann)
• "Oh no!"
• "Okay, okay," to let one and all know he survived a tumble
• And best of all, Bubby says very emphatically, "I ... love ... MOMMY!"

There's much more that Bubby says, and even more that he understands. Which is oh-so cool to grandma, who's trying to capture as much of it as possible on video. And who's very thankful she got to hear each and every word he said while visiting, instead of sitting at a desk and hearing yet another recap from coworkers on what happened on "Biggest Loser!"

Today's question:

Other than music, what is one of your favorite sounds?

My answer: Other than the voices of my loved ones, I love the song of the mourning dove ... and small, tinkly windchimes (not the big ones) as they're softly blown by a gentle breeze ... and the purring of a cat.