One of the things I'm really enjoying about Bubby as he gets older is the conversations we have. His conversational skills improve by leaps and bounds in between each and every visit I have with him. I love the unique expressions he uses, as well as those that make it clear he's mimicking Mommy or Daddy without really knowing what the phrases mean.

One example of the latter was when Bubby mentioned that he couldn't eat a particular food—I can't recall what food or even what the conversation involved—and told me that it wasn't a good food choice because it had "thirty-fifty-hundred points" in it. Seems Mommy's attention to points associated with food, per the Weight Watchers plan she's kept an eye on since having Mac, has left quite the impression on Bubby.

Not that our conversations always featured food, but there was another time Bubby impressed me with his conversational skills...and his memory. At breakfast one morning, Bubby took a bite of his peanut-butter toast which he'd topped with a piece of the Count Chocula cereal Gramma had bought him as a treat.

"Mmm...it tastes just like my birthday cereal," he said.

Seems one of the birthday rituals for Bubby is that he gets to choose his breakfast cereal. It's a treat because Bubby doesn't usually get to eat the sugary cereals (like the Count Chocula Gramma bought him), and he had chosen Reese's cereal for his birthday breakfast in June.

"Mommy and Daddy brought it to me in my room," he continued with the story of his birthday breakfast.

"You had breakfast in bed on your birthday?" I asked him.

"Yeah! I got to eat in my room!" he enthusiastically shared, the memory of the happy meal glimmering in his eyes.

I asked him if Mommy and Daddy stayed or if he ate alone in his room. "No! Roxy [his dog] stayed with me," he said, "but I didn't give her any food."

"That's pretty awesome," I told him.

But I didn't really think so. At least not for me. I don't like breakfast in bed. While it's supposed to be a relaxing treat—and my daughter obviously thinks so, as she treated her son to it for his birthday and he thoroughly enjoyed it—I disagree.

I happily accept meals prepared for me any time of the day, any day of the year. But I don't want to eat them in bed. Alone. For one thing, it's hard to eat in bed—even with a nifty tray Jim purchased for that one occasion. Secondly, it's lonely when it's only the one being honored nibbling on her toast and worrying about spilling her coffee in the covers, all alone, with no one to talk to (and not even room to spread out the morning paper to read while eating).

Nope...breakfast in bed is no treat for me.

But it was for Bubby. And hearing about his awesome Reese's cereal in bed that he didn't share with anyone, not even Roxy, made me smile.

As does most everything Bubby says.

Well, except for all those comments he recently made about my age. The art of polite conversation is a skill Bubby has yet to master.

I'm assuming mastering polite conversation won't be difficult for Bubby, though, as he easily picked up the complex concept of avoiding foods with a high number of points. Especially those with thirty-fifty-hundred points.

Today's question:

How do you feel about being served breakfast in bed?

While visiting my grandsons this past week, I've learned a thing or two. Or five.

1. The desert climate isn't unbearable all the time. In fact, I've rather enjoyed the weather this past week, as the highs were in the low 80s or below. I was out walking in the sunshine with my grandsons while everyone back home—including Mickey and Lyla, my dogs and usual walking companions—braved freezing temps and snow flurries.

2. I'm an old lady. At least in the eyes of my oldest grandson. I first thought Bubby's comments on my age were random silliness. As they added up, though, there was no denying he considers me an old woman. Examples:

As I mentioned a few days ago on Facebook, regarding a conversation about Halloween costumes — Bubby: What are you gonna be for Halloween, Gramma? Gramma (not planning on dressing up and having to think quickly of SOMEthing): I'm gonna be an old lady. Bubby: So like you already are?
When he and I headed to the grocery store in Megan's car last night, he let me know as we backed out of the garage, "This is a fast car, Gramma—even when old ladies are driving."
During a discussion of Reese's candy bars, he decided I pronounce it funny. "That's okay," he consoled me. "That's how old women say it."

3. Those grocery carts with an attached play car at the front are a pain to drive. Bubby wanted to ride in the car as we shopped. When I first said no, he answered with, "I understand." Which naturally made me give in. It was my first time driving one, as my daughters never rode in those. In fact, I don't think those were around when my girls were little. They're a true pain in the <cuss> to steer because they're so long. Yes, I had a few fender-benders. But Bubby enjoyed the bumper car action without complaint. I'm not positive I can say the same about the other shoppers.

4. I'm no longer a light sleeper. I was once a light sleeper, awaking at the slightest sound as I kept an ear out for my daughters—for safety's sake when they were little, to bust them on being out past curfew when older. Not anymore. Mac has had trouble sleeping of late, screaming off and on throughout the night in the room right next to where I'm sleeping, yet I learned of his restless times only when Megan or Preston mentioned it each morning.

5. Even old ladies (see No. 2 above) get nervous about meeting new friends. I'm meeting my bloggy friend Connie from Family Home and Life for the first time in real life this morning. That said, I'm also looking forward to it as I learned a long time ago—not this week—that old ladies still like making and meeting new friends, too, despite the nerves.

Today's question:

What have you learned this week?