Peace, Love & Whining

It has been said that all you need is love.  Love makes the world go round.  Love hurts. Love is blind. Etc, etc.  Well, I am here to tell you that love is deaf.  Love is deaf because if I was unable to hear my children, and on this particular morning my 5 year old son, whine his little ass off, I could experience some more loving feelings for them.

You know, wake up and have the first thought in my head be, "It's Valentine's Day!  Wouldn't it be fun to make the kids some special heart shaped pancakes?" instead of, "It is 6 frickin' 45 in the morning.  Why are my kids up running around like hooligans?

Here begins Act II entitled "The Guilt Kicks In."  As I slowly gain more consciousness I feel badly about not having more nurturing instincts, but you must know the back story - the reasons why the last 24 hours have left me operating at 60% capacity.

Yesterday morning began with my daughter whining about why it is unfair that I think it is unrealistic to, less than 24 hours away from Valentine's Day because she's waited until the last minute to make her Valentine Box, create a box using 27 milk cartons that she hasn't collected yet, gluing them together and decorating them to make customized mail boxes for each of her classmates.  I know, I'm awful for squelching her creativity.  So sue me.  After several minutes of what would rank as a 2 minus on the Warren Scale of Whining Intensity (I will reveal this scale on my next post - hopefully not in 4 months time) I was able to get her excited about creating an iPhone Valentine box and quell the whining.

Also, I was teaching 3rd graders all day yesterday Immediately following the school day I had a parent teacher conference for my son and then went directly to a kid's mentoring program my children and I attend/ volunteer for on Wednesday nights.  It was our Valentine Party night and with our highest kid attendance, two adults being absent and not getting home until 8:00, plus the accumulation of all the day's activities, I felt like I had just been at an upspeak convention for the entire day. Exhausting!!  But, wait!  That's not all!  I have an hour and half of making my daughter's Valentine Box, before I can partake in a much needed glass of Pinot Noir.

Cut to the next morning....

Apparently 6.5 hours of sleep wasn't enough recovery time for me to refuel for the beginning of this day. Which leads me back to my son and his PhD level whining skills. Before you read what transpired this morning, here is a brief outline for my son's technique. A technique, I'm convinced would achieve peace in the Middle East.  Just put those Middle Eastern leaders in a room with my son and his whining and tell them they can't leave the room until they've figured out how to get along.  Bing!  Crisis solved. You're welcome.


He goes for a three pronged attack - The 3 R's of whining.  These approaches are laced throughout with an increase in volume that grows at set rate of 2 dB per complaint.

1. REPEAT 

Repeat the original complaint (OC) at least 5 times as parental unit attempts to explain why things are not the way he wants them to be. 

2. RELATED  

Build on the OC with other related complaints - either by topic or time at which the OC occurred. 

3. RANDOM 

Start randomly inserting other complaints that have nothing to do with the source of the OC.

This Morning:

D: Can I play my video game? 

Me: There's just not enough time because the bus will be here pretty soon. 

D: But I didn't get to play my video game at aaallll yesterday! (Begin heavy whining accent until for the rest of the exchange) 

Me: But you did get to go to a very fun Valentine party and being around nice people is more important than video games. 

D: I didn't even get to play with anything, not even toys yesterday! 

Me: Remember how dad let you have extra play time in the shower last night?

D: Well that was just a little bit and I didn't even have my toys.  

Me:  Stop whining. 

D: I'm supposed to bring my balloon for the 100 days of school to school today! 

Me: We have not had time to do it.  We will do it tonight.

D: If I don't bring it, my teacher won't be able to put it in my scrapbook! 

Me: I will explain to your teacher that you will bring it tomorrow. 

D: But I need it today!  Can't we just do it! 

Me: The bus is coming in 2 minutes we don't have time. 

D: All we have to do is write the things I can do since I've been in school 100 days. 

Me: And color it and cut it out.  We don't have time. 

D: You can do it. (Whine, whine) 

Me: No, I can't.  The bus is coming.
 
D: But I need to bring it! 

Me: What am I going to say?

I won't go on.  I can barely type this conversation without going crazy reliving it. :)
He kept on until the bus game, squeezing out some tears and I just sent him with a letter to his teacher explaining why the balloon will go with him to school tomorrow.  Problem solved for now.

As he walked down the driveway I, through clenched teeth and a forced smile, sputtered, "Happy Valentine's Day."

Epilogue

After he was on his less than merry way to school, I checked his last newsletter from school because I seemed to remember that he didn't need to bring in his balloon until tomorrow, anyways.  I was right.  So, at least we argued for no reason.  There's that.

Something endearing that he did this morning, (because of course I love him to the moon and back despite his ability to suck the will to live out of me) was dress up for Valentine's day.  He normally goes for the most comfortable clothing possible.  If I haven't done laundry for a few days, his pants drawer is entirely populated with jeans because he uses his sweat and track pants first.  He also never selects collared shirts.  He also spends a good percentage of his days commando, which is the subject of another post all together. So there he is, in his khaki dress pants and his red plaid dress shirt.  I did have to remind him to put on his underwear.  As he laughs impishly, Oh ho ho, I forgot!"  Mm hmm.

Additionally, my daughter's iPhone Valentine Box was pretty bitchin.'

Not through clenched teeth this time... Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!

Distracto Girl

When did I become ADD?  If I had to pin point, I would say, Ooo! I just remembered that I need to go downstairs to the basement and transfer the load of towels from the washer to the dryer. Looks like my son has been playing down here and that scattering of Legos needs to be picked up.  This Mr. Potato head piece doesn't belong here.  I'm going to bring it to the toy bin in my son's room.  Wow!  His room is a disaster. I had better put some of this stuff in piles so it will be easier for him to clean it up when he gets home.  Here's the drawing from school of his anatomically correct cat. That reminds me, I had better check to see if I can reschedule his conference time.  I'm going to email his teacher.  Man, my inbox has 7 new messages.  Katherine accepted my friend request!  Awww!  Her family is so cute! What lovely photos from their 2009 European trip!  Is that the theatre my husband went to when he was there?  I'm going to go look at our photo box in the basement to find out. 

 Whoa, did I just spend 30 minutes looking at old photos that are not of my husband in Europe? Yup. I sure did.  I have to go to the bathroom.  Look at my bed.  I better make it before my husband gets home, so at least one part of the house looks picked up. I'm going to clear off my nightstand before I finish putting the decorative pillows on my side of the bed.  These glasses go over here on the dresser.  My two old wallets need to be put away, but I still haven't taken all the random business, retail club and membership cards out of them. Don't I have an additional wallet just for overflow cards of that nature in my car? Yes, yes I do.  I should go grab those so I can consolidate all the cards.

 If I'm going to go outside, I'm going to take the empty box from the sweatshirt I got in the mail yesterday and the garbage from the bathroom, which I noticed was completely overflowing, to the garage, while I'm at it.  I can't throw away the trash because the bin is at the end of the driveway for trash day.  I better go bring it back to the garage.  Now where's that extra wallet? In the console of he car.  I guess I can't be to hard on the kids about the crap they have in the back seat because the front seat is jam packed with my stuff.  I better pick up my hat, gloves, water bottle, can of soda from the pizza place 3 weeks ago and earrings sitting in the cup holder.  

On my way back into the house I'm going to go snag the mail.  What a pretty leaf on my driveway!  It is covered with beads of rain.  That would make a stunning cover photo for my timeline. When I get back inside I'm going to get my phone to take a picture of that leaf.  I'm curious if there are any other rain drop sprinkled leaves of different colors.  I'm going to wander around the yard for a couple of minutes looking.  It's chilly. I'm going to go back in the house.  I can't seem to figure out how to change the cover photo using my phone.  I'm going to go upstairs to my room and get on my laptop to do it.  I see that I still haven't finished making my bed, which I started doing 30 minutes ago. Let me get those decorative pillows in place.  Geez, I'm distractable.  I should blog about being so scattered. Let me change my cover photo first.....

Purging Half Time

I am half way through cleaning out a certain someone's bedroom.  I don't know why I am choosing today, the last official week day before school starts, to purge my 8, almost 9, year old daughter's bedroom.  It is a beautiful day outside - sunny, 82 degrees, low humidity - but I have been doing child centered activities all week and ridding her room of the debris will be extremely gratifying to yours truly.  Just walking by her room and glancing into it, raises my blood pressure, let alone having to enter her room to tuck her in at night.  I usually have to step around a pile of books and leap over a heap of dirty clothes just to negotiate the 5 feet from the door to her bedside.  I have a friend that requires a "safety zone" in the room so that people can walk around the room without sustaining an injury of some kind.  I also have a different friend who doesn't go into her daughter's room to read to her and tuck her in unless it is picked up.  That seems like a logical consequence.  Maybe I'll use that in concert with my current plan, which is to take pretty much everything out of her room except clothing, a handful of books, her American girl doll and whatever she needs in the line of school supplies to complete her homework.   I figure maybe with 75% of the stuff in her room removed, she can be successful in keeping it picked up.  The teacher in me is creating an imaginary IEP with one achievable goal: Student will keep room tidy 80% of the time.  Am I being unrealistic?  Should I just let her have a messy room, avoid all the badgering I have to do to get her to clean it, get a valium prescription for myself and walk around singing "Que Sera, Sera?"  Will things play out like they do in a Mrs. Piggle Wiggle book and my daughter will eventually trap herself in her room and we'll have to place a ladder to her window to give her food and water?
So far the most exciting thing I've discovered, besides the "Elf on a Shelf" book that I tore the house apart at Christmas time....twice, looking for (It was in one of two boxes I gift wrapped to be an aesthetically pleasing stand for the doll house.  The one box had children's holiday books and the other had summer clothes that may have fit at the beginning of the summer but definitely do not fit now.  Why do I tell myself, "Oh, I'll totally remember what's in those boxes?" I've got to stop all the lying!) was the cover to a small tin box.  It had an interesting, greasy, almost opaque substance with a  vaseline like viscosity to it, spread all over the underside of the lid.  There was a Harry Potter lego character laying, like a victim of the "stupify" spell, in the unidentified paste.  I held it up to my daughter and asked what the stuff was. "Oh! That is a skating rink," she responded with pride in her voice.
"What did you use to make the rink?," I probed with fear of what the answer might be.
"Oh, sunscreen," she answered nonchalantly.
Of course I have to give artistic props to the juxtaposition created in the use of a product synonymous with summer to facilitate a winter activity.
I also have to say, "gross."
Alright, it's back to the purging.  If I have any energy left when I'm done, I'll post an "after" photo.  You can see the "before" shot in the background of the ice rink pic below.

Downward Facing Mom - Part 1

Here is an analogy to help get your brain going, get in a proper frame of mind to read the rest of this post and prepare you for that SAT test you'll be taking soon.

Beautiful outdoor wedding : Hurricane Gloria \  Mom working out: __________

A) Brownies
B) Children
C) Pinterest
D) Margarita

If you need a clue, ask yourself which of the choices is an unstoppable force of nature that can annihilate anything that comes in its path - including peace and joy.

The answer is A, brownies.  I kid - of course its B.

This begs the question then, why would my children want me to be flabby?  Why?
What possible benefit would they get from me being crowned the Muffin Top Queen at the state fair this year.

I must admit that apparently I'm a bit misguided in the notion that exercise equals healthy, amazing body.  I keep hearing from a myriad of sources that diet is 75% to 80% of a factor in the way you look and feel.  Exercise is only the other 20 to 30%.  Poo.  I like the old way when I thought I could exercise to compensate for my Ding Dong and cheese intake. Why did God make Randy's Pizza taste so nummy? Sigh. Oh well.

So despite the fact that exercising may or may not give me the flat abs that I long for, it is most certainly a major source of stress relief for me.  A time to decompress and release some tension.  Being that my offspring are a major source of stress in my life, they are a primary reason for my need to exercise. Of course I love them dearly and they offer me much joy as well, but on a good day the joy, stress ratio is about 50/50.

Children and a Mom's Body Image

 We grew them on the insides of our bodies.  Bodies that became stretched, squishy, torn and disproportionate.   So if that wasn't enough, once they begin to talk they can become your own personal truth speaking discourager like the surly high school gym coaches of yore.  "Mommy, your tummy feels like a pillow."  Mommy, why does your bottom jiggle?"  Mommy what are those lines on your thighs?"
About three days after I had given birth to my son, my daughter, who was 3 1/2 at the time, was going to accompany me to the grocery store.  As I was getting her into the car she patted my stomach and informed me that it was squishy.  She then looked at my stomach, looked up at my face, looked back at my stomach and asked me if I really wanted to go to the store with my squishy tummy.
Thanks, daughter.  That was a real confidence booster.  Because I wasn't feeling self-concious at all about my body.  I will still go to the store despite my "squishy tummy," but now I'm not so sure you should come because I'm nervous you might approach some random grocery store shopper and ask them if they left their spanx at home.


Children and Running

Unless your children are school age or you are able to afford a sitter or gym membership that offers childcare or you are able to get up before your husband leaves for work, you will need to push your children in a jogging stroller to get your run in.  This will involve the added benefits of increasing your strength and will hone your ability to bight your tongue and not swear when you're attempting to push your double stroller up a 15% grade hill.

Then come the questions and the dialogue.  "What's that dog's name?" "How much longer?"  "What's that noise?" "I'm hungry."  "I'm thirsty."  "What's your opinion on the origins of the universe?"  And my favorite is, when going up a steep hill and I slow down because I'm sucking air and dripping sweat like a iced beverage on a 100 degree day.. "Why are we going slow?  Run faster mom."

I've also had to be creative at times, like going to a park where I can run around them or back and forth in front of them. This would inevitably end up with them finding a patch of mud to smother themselves with, or fighting or boredom, all of which lead to interrupting me.  More on interruptions when I explore the at home work out.

I will say that sometimes it is nice to have a little companion with me on those days when it's not too hot, the terrain is pretty flat and the humidity is low.  I do miss playing peek-a-boo through the little "sun roof" on the top of our stroller with the younger versions of my kids.

What have your children done to help your wellness?

The second installment of Downward Facing Mom will include: 'Children and Yoga' and 'Children and Working Out'

Is It Me?

Did I fail to properly instruct my family on what I feel are basic and fundamental household tasks?  Am I that ineffective as a domestic executive?  I know I am a kick ass domestic worker.  That is not the question.  I can load a dishwasher like a pro.  Like a pro.

Here are four tasks that I would love to have my family, no, not just them, the entire world, fall in line with my ideal.  Talk about world peace.

Crap In Common Spaces

See picture above.  There is definitely a double standard going on here because I don't give a flying flea about my piles of stuff.  In other words I don't notice my stuff as much as I recognize other peoples stuff.  I believe this is because I know why my pile is there and that I will remove it sooner rather than later.  And, if I do happen to have a pile planting down roots it is because I know that it will take a while to truly put each item in that pile in it's proper place and, to be honest, I'm procrastinating.  This piece of paper will be filed here.  This coupon goes there.  (That reminds me I have been meaning to write a post on coupons. I have very strong opinions about them.)  This marker goes with a set on the other side of the house.  This piece of paper requires 20 minutes follow up.....
That said I am always tempted to leave a pile like the one pictured above, alone, and see how long it takes to be removed.  I'm just not that brave.  Maybe relaxed would better describe the precise character trait I am lacking.
I don't envision my children immediately picking up after themselves and never leaving a wake of destruction in their path, but someday it would be nice if it occurred to them that leaving their jacket, shoes and backpack on the floor, setting up a fun game of "Mommy Just Tripped And Barely Escaped Using Adult Language" could be avoided by using the hooks a mere 2.5 cm away from their pile.  One can dream.

I recently got a great tip from a very intelligent friend of mine.  She will place random pile items, such as a sock, in the refrigerator or on a light fixture.  When the offending family member asks about the unlikely location of the sock, she points out that if that it doesn't belong on the floor either.  Brilliant!

Food Particles on Plates

We don't have a garbage disposal.  This means that if you put a plate in the sink (Not one to let the positive go unnoticed, if a plate is being put in the sink by someone other than myself, that is super great!) with food on it, it will wind up partially or fully saturated with water, transformed into a slimy and/or bloated mass and then finally laid to rest in the comfort of the sink strainer drain plug.  Guess who gets to fish that out with her finger?  More stomach turning than that is having to sometimes vainly pluck something out of the mouth of the actual drain, like a piece of fried egg too big to slip down into the recesses of our septic tank.  I think I've said enough.  Anything more and it would just get too graphic.  Maybe if I used my middle finger to clear aforementioned gunk out, I could give myself an outlet for my disgust.

Imagine some touching keyboard music and Neil Patrick Harris speaking into the camera for a profound public service announcement:  "Hundreds of domestic workers all over this nation are plagued by leftover food particles in their sinks.  You probably pass one such worker everyday and don't even realize it.  You can make a difference. Please remove the food from your plate before placing it in the sink."

Used Tissue Mount Everest

As you may have wisely deduced, my daughter had a runny nose a couple of weeks ago.
She has learned about germs.  She knows where the garbage can is.  How can two and two not be put together here?
Part of the problem is that, even though I have given her some reteaching on the blow and fold technique, she doesn't always use that method.  She belongs to the blow once, grab another tissue school of thought.  God bless her.  I guess I would rather have this situation to deal with rather than someone who won't blow their nose and snarks all their mucus up into their brain.

Toothpaste Chunks In The Sink

How can someone who isn't color blind not realize that something is just not right here?  Gross.
I am thankful for the clean teeth, but come on, people.  The water is right there.  Just rinse the blue glittery goodness away.
Photo curtesy of DW and her two boys.



Maybe it's not me.  Maybe my family is lovingly, intentionally giving me job security.  It does help me not care as much if I ask myself, "Do I really want to raise children who are as neat freakish as me?"  The answer is no.  I can hold myself back from the constant reminding knowing that I might be sparing them from a life of incessantly noticing that which ins't "perfect."  I'm getting there.  If that's the case then I could maybe give myself props when they don't throw away their stack of 3,000 used tissues.  "What a free spirit my daughter is!  I'm raising a child who will be comfortable and well prepared to serve in the ghettos of any given third world country. Yay me!"

If you can totally relate to the madness I just depicted, then I hate to break it to you, but you are officially anal.  Welcome to the club.  There are complimentary valium infused martinis in the membership lounge.  We may be an uptight lot at times, but at least no one has to remind us to scrape the cheesy nacho remnants off of our plates.

Driving Miss Crazy

...and her brother.


The car is an interesting setting for parenting.  By interesting, I mean I wish that I was deaf in both of my ears and not just the one.  The car, and often times very near the car, have been the scene for many a volcanic eruption of family drama and disfunction.  Picture a volvo station wagon gliding down a stream of lava from the top of Mount Vesuvius.  I have found that the vasectomy inducing scenarios play out in three primary forms.


Agenda Differences


My agenda is usually to get in and out of the car quickly and efficiently, so I can, for example, get into Target and grab my mood stabilizing prescriptions spit spot.  Or, if we are at home, to hoof it into the house where, as you can imagine, I am super pumped to discover all the inspirational household duties that await.  Most days, recently, it seems like waste management has been taking top billing - always fun. Which of the toilets have my children neglected to flush?  Awesome.  All of them.  I love aged potty water. 


My son's agenda is to do his best possible impersonation of what molasses in January would look like were it oozing out of my car.  When we are at home in the garage, if I don't stay there with him by his side the entire 45 minutes it take him to exit the vehicle and make it to the front door, I am accused of being "mean" and "hurting his feelings."


My daughter's agenda in the car, as in all areas of her life, is to leave an F5 tornado level of destruction in her wake.  So when I ask her to fetch whatever wrapper, torn to shred piece of paper, little pieces of toys, art supplies, homework, mittens, hat, hair clips, etc that she has left behind, I get the drama treatment.  'Maaaahhhm. Do I haaaaave to?  I don't waaaant to."


Arguing


Arguing with each other.  Arguing with me.  Either way, I just want to punch a wall.  Since walls are not readily available in the car, I resort to hitting the steering wheel, a fit of yelling and demanding them to look out their respective windows and cease all talking or, occasionally, by calmly asking them to stop and then outlining a natural consequence that will occur if they choose to continue their offending behavior.
The type of response I have to their arguing is most often directly proportional to the topic of their bickering. The more contrived, the stronger my reaction.  For example, as was the case yesterday, they were arguing because each of their teachers apparently gave opposing reports of whether the groundhog saw his shadow or not.  My daughter said her teacher was older, so she has to be right.  Then my son was flown into a tizzy because "Why are all of your teachers older than my teachers?"  Back and forth it went for like 5 minutes. My son got himself on the verge of tears, until I, through clenched teeth and one of those slow and quite rages, told them that we would look it up on the internet when we got home and to STOP TALKING!
My other favorite recurring argument they have in the car is over the pronunciation of the spanish word for orange- "anaranjado."  They can go at it for what seems like decades, with this one.  My daughter takes her confident and methodical approach of making my son feel like he is losing the argument and he, in turn, becomes very angry and emotional.  I am going to remind you that this is over the way a word is pronounced. This debate rears its ugly head about once every couple of weeks.


Volume/Maturity Issues


I have to say with great confidence that I will not miss having a noisy car when my children are no longer children.  Don't get me wrong, I will miss having them with me and being able to talk with them, but lest I forget, this post will remind me that 93.6% (there may be a 0 to 40 point deviation) of the time we are in the car together they are making it quite difficult for me to make any kind of progress towards my personal growth goals.  I do feel guilty that even when they aren't arguing or fighting and they're actually being playful and sweet to one another, their loud and non-sensicle conversations push me over the edge.  
Things they find awesome and I don't: chanting, made up words, endless rhyming of made up words, made up lyrics, endless singing of made up lyrics, baby talk, weird voices and potty talk.  Besides the potty talk, which we by house rules, don't allow in excess, there is nothing morally wrong about all of the other activities listed.  Which, again, makes me feel guilty for not having a higher "kids being kids" threshold.  Thankfully for them I can tune some of that out, but a lot of times I just can't deal. 


A sampling of some of their vernacular splendor:

A:You're a foddy doddy head

D: You're a looloo head

A: You're a sookie, sake talky head

D: You're a bootie head

A: You're a bootie pootie head

D: You're a dingle wingle notter 

A: You're a dingle peanut butter bottom

On and on this goes, louder and louder. The uncontrollable laughter competes with the volume level for which of them is more intense, until I finally say with controlled vehemence, "I love you guys very much and there is nothing wrong with what you are saying right now, but I just can't handle it.  You can say all those things how ever much you want when we get home, but for right now, I need you guys to talk "normally." 


I'd like to think that I am not that abnormal in my levels of tolerance for my children's car riding behaviors.  Maybe I am.  Maybe I'm nailin' it on the head for some mom's right now.  Maybe a lot of you are 'amen'ing it all over the place.  Maybe I'm getting a lot of judgment sent my way and making a lot of mom's think they're better than me.  Either way, I guess I can take solace in the fact that it's kind of like I'm doing an act of community service.  Helping mom's by boosting their confidence or making them feel like they're not alone in their psychoses.  Whatever floats your boat, or in this case, whatever drives your juice stained, snack crumb laden, small plastic toy cluttered mini-van.

A Letter Of Thanks

Dear Grandpa,

You were born in 1923.  The fourth child of Norwegian immigrants.  You grew up in such a different world than what we know now.  The Great Depression, WWII, The Fifties.  You were in the same ilk as Don Draper, minus the heavy drinking, smoking and infidelity.  :) You married an amazing women who kept house and raised your three kids.  This wife loved you, understood you, traveled around the world with you and shared your love of God and His church.  You both had a vibrant social circle -friends and family were always around basking in the glow of your love of life, fun and food.
You grew old together, travelled the world together and watched your children and grandchildren become productive and responsible members of society.
Then one day in July, ten years ago, you found yourself without your companion.  Almost 60 years with her and life was suddenly different.
You were one, not two.  You were lonely.
You choose to focus on your blessings and praise your God.  At her funeral you raised your hand in worship while singing "How Great Thou Art."
Gradually, you grew older and less capable of  maintaining your once active lifestyle.  You moved into a Senior Living Center and slowly began losing small pieces of yourself going from cane to canes-plural, to walker to wheelchair.  Losing your ability to drive and the choices that each day could bring you.  Still you kept an attitude of thankfulness. You choose to focus on what mattered to you most - what you still had, the love your God and the love of your family.
Now you can't even breath on your own and yet you can look towards heaven with such longing, but still be present on earth with such hope.

Thank you so much.  Thank you for being so strong in your heart when you body is so very weak.

Thank you for little things that are really so big, like taking the time to play Monopoly with me, when no other adults could spare the time.  Thank you for letting me style your hair, eat your junk food, join you at fancy restaurants, for being at all of my recitals, for my first car, for letting me cut your grass even though I almost sucked your dog into the mower...... and a million other memories.

Thank you most of all for being the kind of man who can look back on his life with no regrets.  I may be off on this one, but I don't think it is common for someone to rest so peacefully in the knowledge that a beautiful legacy has indeed been passed down to his children, grandchildren and great grandchildren.

I want you here, but I know you want to be with Granny and with Jesus, who you both love so much.

With all my love,

Your first grandchild -the one you called a tennis ball with eyes and the one who you helped to become the woman I am today.  I would be a different person if you had not been in my life.