When Push Comes to Shove It’s Time for a Cesarean

My New Grandson, Henry William Benson!

Hello Dear Readers!  Well as you can see there’s been some excitement around here.  My new little grandson Henry William began his new life out in the real world on Saturday night after a long, leisurely road trip through BC (Birth Canal).

Henry Took the Scenic Route

 On his way through BC, Henry chose to dilly dally, making frequent stops along the way for snacks and pictures, then taking a nap or two — completely oblivious to the fact that there was a room of people anxiously awaiting his arrival.  Finally at long last, somebody just went and got the scissors and showed Henry the ol’ Cesarean Shortcut.

And, frankly, I was a little surprised when Henry wasn’t born with a miniature camera around his neck, clutching a tiny road map in his fingers and wearing a teeny tourist t-shirt that said something like “I just came through the birth canal and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.”

Having a Baby Can Take a Lot Out of You

My daughter, Jackie, was a trooper through the entire 23 hours of back labor, front labor and sideways labor.  But not to worry.  She had a mid-wife who was there to help her!

The mid-wife, whose name was . . . well, let’s just call her  . . . oh I don’t know . . . I’m just picking a name at random here — let’s just call her Salisbury Steak.

Salisbury Steak, just for the record, Dear Readers, was about 40 years old and in those 40 years, had somehow managed to learn every bit of information a person could possibly learn with the possible exception of Albert Einstein and even he didn’t know as much about birthin’ babies as Salisbury Steak!

Add to that the fact that Salisbury Steak has managed to develop an esteem for herself that is unrivaled, and you’ve got yourself one heck of a midwife!  (And don’t just go by me, I’m sure Salisbury Steak will back me up on that.)

To prove my point, here’s a conversation Salisbury Steak and I had after Jackie had been in labor for 22 hours and her blood pressure had dropped to 60 over 30.

Me:  This isn’t going well, I’m concerned.

Salisbury Steak:  Oh, is that your medical opinion?

Me:  She’s dizzy and her blood pressure is extremely low, and she’s been in labor for 22 hours she’s been pushing for almost 3 hours and the baby isn’t any farther down than he was three hours ago!

Salisbury Steak:  First of all, 60 over 30 is not low!  She just needs to drink some apple juice, besides the baby is moving down now.

Me:  But isn’t this his foot way up here?

Salisbury Steak:  What?  No.  Let me feel it.  No, that’s just a fibroid tumor!

Me:  But she shouldn’t be drinking apple juice!  At this point, she shouldn’t be drinking anything!

Salisbury steak:  Oh really is that your medical opinion? (Salisbury Steak didn’t add, “What do you know about it old lady, you probably don’t even know how to work your smart phone like it do!” — but I could tell she wanted to.)

Me:  I’m concerned, we need to do something!

Salisbury Steak:  Oh really?  Is that you’re medical opinion?

Do you see how well Salisbury Steak handled the situation?  Her assessment that Jackie’s blood pressure of 60/30 was simply a result of Jackie’s mother being overly concerned and micro-managing Salisbury Steak’s sweet mid-wifing skills — was nothing short of brilliance.

And furthermore, it was becoming quite obvious that I was making Salisbury Steak’s mid-wifing experience a bummer and that I needed to please shut up!

Well in the end, Dear Reader, I am extremely relieved to report that Salisbury Steak finally decided that in Salisbury Steak’s medical opinion, Jackie did, indeed,  require a C-section a decision that could have been made hours earlier, but that would have required Salisbury Steak to hang up from chatting on the phone.  (She’s quite a popular one, that Salisbury Steak!  But, then, who doesn’t like Salisbury Steak?)

Anyway, by the grace of God, our sweet little Henry finally made his debut into this world thanks to the doctor who performed the cesarean section –and both mother and baby are safe and sound!

Before Salisbury Steak left she gave me a great big hug and said good-bye.

And I, too, bid farewell to Salisbury Steak.

“Good bye Salisbury Steak!” I said. “You big effing idiot!”

* * *

Midwife Extraordinaire, Salisbury Steak

Life Is Very Beautiful

Hello Dear Readers.  I am happy to announce something wonderful.  My daughter, Nikki, and her husband, Matt, welcomed their first daughter, Lily Lucille, to her new life on January 15th  in the wee hours of the morning.

Lily Lucille Kaiser

Lily Lucille and  Nikki

Life is very beautiful . . .

Until next time . . . I love you all

More AARP or Old People Burping

Well, I’m happy to report, Dear Reader, that I have just received an important dispatch from my friends (practically my blood brothers, really) at AARP!  Guess what?  AARP thinks I’m “fully eligible” for their membership.

Which, of course, is their thinly veiled way of saying I’m  old,– very, very old . . . and now it’s official!

And on top of that, if I give $16 to AARP, they will give me these benefits that aren’t available anywhere else:

Gee, I’m so overcome with emotion, I’m getting tear stains all over my Hoveround . . .

Because for 16 dollars AARP is giving me:

AARP, The Magazine!  Which is great and all –but if they aren’t including the loaded gun which would have to be held to my head in order to get me to read it — AARP, The Magazine! isn’t much good to me now, is it?

Discounts that save me money!  Uh, I’m sorry AARP, but I kind of prefer discounts that DON’T save me money.  Call it crazy.  Call it wacky. Call it maybe my Depends are too tight.  I don’t know.  I guess I just feel like being cantankerous because I’m so very, very old . . . oops . . . I mean so I’m so very, very ”fully eligible”.

Strengthening Social Security, protecting Medicare . . .  including fighting age discrimination for all!  Hey listen, AARP, you’re the one calling old people names like “fully eligible.”   So here’s a little suggestion.  Why don’t you start fighting age discrimination by socking yourself in the eye!

Access to health insurance . . . access huh?  What kind of access?  Handicap access?  Hoverround access?  Oh maybe AARP means they’re going to give me the idea (for $16) to access the internet so I can find myself some health insurance.

And just in case all these AARP Benefits don’t make me want to reach my arthritic hand into my sock and pull out $16, they are throwing in this  FREE GIFT (that only costs $16.)!

An AARP TRUNK ORGANIZER!  YOWZA!

As you can see, AARP knows us geezer people don’t like to stumble out to our cars and head down the wrong side of the road without plenty of liquids because us “fully eligible-sters” often get dehydrated causing us to do senile things like drive through plate-glass windows and buying $16 worth of NOTHING from AARP.

All I can say is Aaarrrrppppp!  Has anybody seen the Pepto Bismal?

Until next time . . . I love you

Getting Nabbed by the Fuzz or Happy Birthday 37!

I've got her up to 25 miles per hour . . .fasten your seat belts and HANG ON!

Have you ever wondered who that annoying little old lady was that you always seem to get stuck behind in traffic when you’re running late?

Well guess who?  It’s me or, failing that, someone gawd-awful like me.

That’s why when I got a ticket for speeding yesterday – yes, you read that right SPEEDING as in going TOO FAST – I was floored (and flooring it apparently, but I’ll tell you about that part later).

This is so unlike me.

To illustrate my  normal driving habits, here’s the conversation that transpired between my son and I while he was a passenger in my car on a Christmas Eve shopping expedition:

Why is everybody honking?

Well, maybe it’s because you are going a little too slow.

Oh you mean they are honking at me?

I think so, Mom.

And of course I NEVER drive when 37 (my husband) and I are going somewhere.

Why?  Because it makes me mad when he starts complaining that I’m driving too slow.  So to avoid conflict, I just let him drive and then I can complain about how he drives too fast — for I find I’m far more comfortable in the role of complainer than complainee.

Not only do I drive slow, but I’m also a Huge Driving Coward.

I’ve got a “thing” about changing lanes in that I’d rather not.  So I try to get in the lane I think I’m going to need to be in well in advance.  But my planning never pays off.  Usually the lane I think I need to be in is the wrong one — so I have to crowd into the one I actually need to be in at the very last second.

This tends to make people a tad bit  honkish and road ragey.  What I really need is a sign that says “sorry” to hold up when stuff like this happens.

Anyway, getting back to my speeding ticket

Yesterday I was driving down this road that was right next to the freeway. It was just going along beside the freeway but wasn’t actually a part of the freeway in that there was a chain link fence dividing me from the freeway itself.

Naturally, everybody on the freeway was going at least 60 so I guess I just joined in.

It was peer pressure I tell ya!

Next thing you know, I look down at my speedometer and it said 61 (even though the cop said he clocked me at 59 - I didn’t correct him . . . why quibble?)

In my own defense, I only was going 61 for only about  five seconds when I suddenly realized  what I was doing  — and immediately  slowed down to 40 (the speed limit) on my own accord.  I didn’t even see the cop until 30 seconds later when he finally managed to quit eating my dust as it were.

First thing I did was text my son that his old mammy still had it in her and just got nailed by The Fuzz for speeding!

This  boggled his mind enough to make the sting of the upcoming fine hurt just a little less.

As for breaking the news to 37?

Well I figure the ticket should arrive  sometime around his birthday.  And since he has always wanted me to drive faster, I think my speeding ticket might make a very nice birthday gift, don’t you?

Until next time, I love you

Adventures in Grandma Land or Old Fogey Finds Car!

Betty and Barney Flurp just seconds before discovering that instead of purchasing a cart full of groceries, they had inadvertently kidnapped a baby.

If you want to find out where all old people go in my neighborhood, (and why wouldn’t you?) look no farther than Nob Hill Grocery Store. (Otherwise known as Nob Over the Hill Grocery Store).

I shop there because they carry all the geezer stuff we aging boomers have to have to ward off heart disease, type-2 diabetes, osteoporosis, lactose intolerance, high cholesterol, warts and gangrene.

Judging from the age of the shopping crowd at Nob Hill, every day is senior discount day.

This means there’s a lot of oblivion happening in the isles which takes the form of obstruction.

Either there’s a motorized cart blocking the aisle you want to go down or an aging big-butt boomer (me) blocking the cold case you want to reach in.

Which is perfectly fine as long as you don’t have too much to grab and you don’t have to be anywhere, in particular, until next summer.

Besides, I don’t want to go shopping for no-sugar-added chocolate chip mint ice cream all over town when I’m sure Nob Hill will have it.  Which means I find myself paying practically twice  as much for ordinary foodstuffs like Cheerios or pop. (In case you’re not that old, pop is an old-fashioned word for sarsaparilla.)

So I can never get in and out of Nob Hill for under $100 — even if I’m just dashing  in to pick up a carton of  unsweetened, vanilla-flavored, almond milk.

Checking out is pleasant enough –  if not a teeny condescending.

The checkers tend to speak a little too loud, and take the items out of the cart for you. (But I suspect only to avoid having to call 911 should some unfortunate boomer’s back suddenly seize up).

Also, the checkers tend to give you a lot of instructions on which buttons to push when sliding your card.  “Push the green button now.”  “Do you see the green button?” “Push the green button.”  “Can you say green?”

Yesterday, when the Bagger and I were trying to find my car in the parking lot, he suggested I do what all their other slightly-senile customers do  – click my car alarm.

I wanted to say,  “Hey buster! I’m that old yet!” but didn’t because apparently I’m too old to know how to turn on my car alarm using my key thingy.

In fact, I don’t even know if I have a car alarm.  I didn’t tell him that though.  I do have my pride.

Until Next time . . . I love you

The “First Haircut” Incident

No we are not strapping him into the electric chair, he's getting his first haircut!

First the Good News!

My grandson, Mr. Clayton D. Kaiser, got his first haircut yesterday and everything  came off just as it was supposed to except for one minor incident hardly worth mentioning.  But more about that later.

The Hair Cut 

It only took three of us to hold him down (he being the ticklish type) but we are happy to report that not only does his haircut look fabulous, he also managed to retain both ears in the process – and, except for one slight nick in the back, looks downright dapper!

Even though you can't see them in this picture, his ears are still there . . . I think.

Unfortunately, there was one teensy-weensy complication during the course of “The Haircut” 

It was an incident involving a little dog who happens to belong to the Kaiser Family. A little dog who seems lovable enough outwardly, but who, it turns out,  has the heart and soul of a Radical!

Voted Most Adorable Terrorist Alive!

Apparently, Trudy – left to ponder the meaning of life while all alone in a big back yard – took it upon herself to finally show some initiative and  dig her way to freedom whereupon she began  “terrorizing the neighborhood.” 

That’s the way the landlady described it anyway in an emergency phone call during “the Haircut.”

The landlady wanted us to return to home base immediately and “DO SOMETHING!”

Talk about a Captain Kirk Decision-Making Moment!

A dilemma of epic proportions had presented itself:

Finish the haircut? Or stop mid-cut and rush home to save the neighbors?

In the end, we opted to continue with the haircut – but implored the hairstylist, Christine, to utilize the photon-torpedo scissors and go at it at warp speed!

Take us Home Scotty!

When we returned home, Trudy was back in her proper area, all the neighbors had returned to their living quarters and the Landlady, who lives across the way,  was nowhere to be found.

And although there were no signs of violence or blood or anything like that, god only knows the toll that Trudy inflicted on the psyche of the entire neighborhood.

But hey!  Mr. Clayton D. Kaiser’s hair looks GREAT, so who cares!

Until next time . . . I love you

Get your grandbaby a onesie that says:  “Some things money can’t buy, for every thing else. . . Grandma”    Get it here:

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The Toddler Tabloids

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“There are some things money can’t buy, for everything else . . . Grandma”

 

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Something Happened to toddlers while my back was turned!

My daughter, Nikki, has been sick and it’s not easy being sick when you have a 20-month toddler wobbling around the house.  So it was grandma to the rescue (that’s me).

The applesauce of Grandma’s eye

Now here’s a little piece of info for you new grandmas out there.  Toddlers aren’t like they used to be.  Or at least not like you remembered them to be.

My toddlers weren’t like the toddlers of today!

It seems to me, my toddlers woke up with a big smile.  I’d take them out of their cribs and, after changing their own diapers, they would toddle happily to the breakfast table where upon they would eat their entire breakfast consisting of something marvelously healthy, then play quietly with their toys, watch a little Bert and Ernie before taking a nap for the rest of the day.

Hey!  What happened to the bliss?

Ok, I admit there’s a little fuzziness in my memory here and there, but basically I remember the Toddler Days were filled with love and tranquility and happiness and harmony bathed in a pink cloud of light with the Sesame Street theme song playing sweetly in the background.

I’m sure I’m remembering it right, maybe

But having taken care of my 20-month-old grandson, Clayton, all day for a couple of days now, I have been forced to re-evaluate that perhaps I was remembering things a tad differently than how they actually are when it comes to the care and feeding this tiny creature known as the Toddler.

“Careful! He’s spring-loaded!”

You see, Toddlers are a double-edged plastic knife.  A dichotomy if you will. They are so completely and utterly, heart-meltingly adorable that you can hardly takes your eyes off them. While at the same time they are so creatively attuned to getting into dangerous situations that you can hardly take your eyes off them.

This makes for an enormous amount of intense eyeball time which can sometimes lead to crossness.

these are some of the things I’d forgotten about toddlers:

It’s impossible to get a toddler to:

Hold still long enough to eat their breakfast, lunch or dinner.  Hold still long enough to change their diapers. Hold still long enough to put on their coat, shoes, comb their hair, brush their teeth, wipe their faces, wipe their hands, put on their shoes, take off their shoes, change them into a dry shirt, change them into dry pants, change them out of their wet shirt into a dry shirt and back out of a wet shirt and back into a dry shirt. Phew!

I’d also forgotten that toddlers’ TV viewing habits tend to be repetitious:

It’s Barney, Barney, Barney followed by Barney and then Elmo, then Elmo, then Elmo, then Elmo then back to Barney, Barney, Barney to be repeated in this order until Toddler tires of activity or grandma starts to babble more than toddler in which case an intervention could possibly be in order.

And when it comes to reading material, Toddlers can be fickle

Just when you’re getting used to reading “I Can Help” 14 times in rapid succession as they listen enraptured, thumb-in-mouth;- they suddenly decide they don’t want you to ever read “I Can Help” again, and it will be “What Do Babies Need?” 14 times in rapid succession or it will be NOTHING AT ALL!

I’d also forgotten toddlers’ are so very gifted when it comes to rapid emotional changes:

For instance, they can hurl themselves to the floor face down and cry bitterly into the shag carpet when corrected for wanting to play with electricity; but can  just as quickly make the tears running down their cheeks screech to a stop,  reverse direction, and roll right back up into their adorable little eyeballs stat! when confronted with a cookie.

Yeah, my pants are full of poo — Aren’t everyone’s?

They can also get quite testy when you try to get them to eat the rest of their applesauce, while simultaneously being cool “just hanging out” with a pant-load of poo.

N-n-n-n-n-n-n-o!

Always Take into account the Toothpaste Factor

And finally, I’d forgotten that toddlers are like toothpaste.  Once you take them out of the container they are in, you can never get them to go back in again.

So a reminder to new grandmas everywhere. Remember that if you let them out of the shopping cart, the high chair or the car seat to run around on their own, there’s no going back, EVER!

You will be completely screwed until they reach the age of six.

Until next time . . . I love you

My Teeth Are Getting More Crooked by the Hour

Don’t Need No Stinkin’ Braces

When I was ten, the family dentist and my parents made a secret plan to make my teeth straight. It didn’t involve braces. Instead, it involved pulling out five of my permanent teeth.

When Teeth Fly

I remember several visits to the dentist wherein he grabbed a tooth with his pliers and pulled with all his might until my tooth would finally be uprooted and go flying across the room and hit the wall.

He seemed to think this was a perfectly normal occurrence (which I’m sure in his case it was) and, since I didn’t have anything to compare it to — I thought so too. That is until I had my wisdom teeth removed years later and guess what? Nothing went flying anywhere.

Look Ma! No Braces!

Anyway, getting five of my permanent teeth extracted did the trick. My teeth were tolerably straight for a good portion of my life.

The Minute My Mouth is Closed

Then suddenly one morning, one of my front teeth began to stick out farther than the rest. At first, it was hardly noticeable. That’s because this rebel tooth did all its traveling when I wasn’t looking.

If I were to smile into a mirror at any given moment, this tooth would freeze and stay in that exact position until I closed my mouth and then it would continue on it’s mission which, obviously, was to become a Hillbilly Tooth.

The Miraculous Transformation

Over the years, slowly but surely this hillbilly tooth wannabe has made a miraculous migration from sitting straight-in-a-row with all the other front teeth — content to be an all-around team player — to Class Clown of the Mouth. So that today, this tooth has positioned itself in such a way as to stick out way beyond all the others making it appear as if I just have the one.

Surgery for the Problem Child

A couple of years ago I decided I would do something about my problem child tooth. I looked into getting cosmetic dental surgery. The dentist made a mould of my mouth, and we went into the conference room to discuss what could be done.

The Dentist Who Cared Too Much (and had absolutely no sense of humor)

It didn’t help any that the dentist had tears in his eyes when he set the mould of my wayward teeth in front of me. This is the consultation that followed and to quote Dave Barry, I am not making this up.

To lighten up the mood, I remarked, “Those are my teeth? Gee, they’re pretty crooked. In fact, I’ve seen straighter teeth on the 20,000-year-old skulls they’ve excavated on the Discovery Channel.”

To which the dentist replied solemnly, “I know.”

“Well is there anything you can do about it?”

“Not really . . . unless you want to get braces.”

“Braces! But I’m 55 years old!” (although I was wearing my hair in a ponytail that day so maybe he thought I was younger . . . emotionally anyway.)

“There are a lot of OLD PEOPLE LIKE YOU who get braces,” he assured me. “In fact, I had a patient in here the other day who just got his braces off and his teeth looked great!”

“How old was he?”

“85.”

Paying for Invisiline Braces with Invisible Money

So I went to an orthodontist. He informed me that I can get Invisiline braces, (the removable, see-through kind) for somewhere between $5,000 to $7000 dollars.

Hmmm. . After Giving the Matter a Lot of Thought . . .

I’ve decided to wait because who knows? Maybe my hillbilly tooth will come into fashion one of these days. And if that doesn’t happen?

There’s always mouth modeling for the Discovery Channel.

Until next time, I love you . . .

I’d Give You A Piece of My Mind but I Barely Have Enough for Myself

What the?

The pool where I live is supposed to open at 10 a.m.  This morning at 10:20 a.m., I suited up for a refreshing dip in the crystal blue chlorine, flip-flopped down to the pool and . . . . locked!

Good Idea 37

When I told 37 the pool gate was locked, he suggested I march back down there and pull harder on the darn thing. That 37, always thinkin’!

Turns Out I’m a 99-Pound Weakling; Give or Take 20 Pounds (Mostly Give)

So I march back down to the pool gate and pull harder and harder, shake it back and forth 20 or so times, lay some good swift kicks on it, and finally attempt to pull mightily enough to break the lock (which I would have blamed on 37) but-; nothin’.

I Sadly Flip-Flopped Home Tom Dooley Style

Since I wasn’t going to be getting any swimming in, I decided, instead, to take Cha, my neurotic toupee with big brown eyes for a walk. But I vowed that if I saw the landlady, I would certainly give her a piece of my mind.

 That is Until I got Stingy

Now, I don’t want to say how old I am, but I’m sitting atop a mighty tall pile of days — 21,352 to be exact.  That is, if 37′s calculations are correct, and I’m sure they are since 37 is an engineer and lives in an Engineer’s World where 2 + 2 = 4 and “ish” does not exist.

My Iffy Lifestyle

Anyway, being 21,352 days old means I’m fast approaching “Iffy” on the Living Spectrum Chart.  I wouldn’t say I was borderline elderly, but I would say I’m on the borderline of approaching the borderline of elderly.

My Landlady Owes Me!

My point is I can’t afford to give my landlady a piece of my mind because, at my advanced age, I need all the mind I have and then some.  If anything SHE should be giving ME a piece of HER mind.

After all, SHE’S the one who forgot to open the pool.

Until next time . . . I love you

A Rosetta Stone for Starbucks

My daughter, Nikki, is sick today, so I’m over at her house taking care of things.  And since my two-year-old grandson, Clayton, is still sleeping, I have just enough time to write this post before he wakes up.

Clayton awake and catching up on some e-mails.

But trying to write away from my normal writing places (standing at my kitchen counter or sitting at my computer) feels weird. 

Kind of like when you were a kid all comfortable in your favorite spot on the davenport (1950′s speak for couch) watching cartoons and you got up to scrape some frost from the 1950′s refrigerator freezer to nibble on while you finished watching Huckleberry Hound and one of your brothers takes your spot – which you swear you told them you were saving when you got up to get the frost – but now you’re brother’s got your spot and you just have to accept it or you’re going to miss the rest of Huckleberry Hound’s Hound Dog Howdy!

Kind of like that, anyway, but not exactly, of course.

I’ve often thought it might be a good idea to get up early and schlep to Starbucks and try writing my blog from there.

But the last time I was in Starbucks, I perused the room for an out-of-the-way comfy spot from which to write, but all they have in there now are wooden chairs as cushy as cold steel.  Probably to discourage Ne’er-Do-Welling.

Plus I don’t like Starbucks anyway just on the priciple of the thing.  You see, I refuse to say “Venti” for large and I refuse to say “with room” instead of saying - with cream. I’m difficult like that.  I won’t speak Starbucks!  I won’t! I won’t! I won’t!

Last time I was at Starbucks the conversation went exactly like this:

Me:  “I’d like a large coffe with cream.”

Tastefully Tattooed Starbuck’s Girl w/Diamond Studded Nose:  “You want a Venti with Room?”

“Yes, a large coffee with cream.”

“So you want a Venti with Room.”

“Yes, a large coffee with cream.”

“I can give you a Venti with Room for Cream.  You will have to put the cream in it youself.  Nitwit. (Nitwit part was implied.)

“Uh huh. Oh, and I’ll also take one of those cinnamon rolls too.”

“So one VENTI with ROOM and one MORNING ROLL?”

They never give up these people! 

I have never, ever ordered at Starbucks where the clerk didn’t correct me by repeating the order back to me in “Starbuck Language” as though they were giving me a little lesson on how it’s supposed to be done . . . sigh. . .

Can I help it if I can’t afford to buy the Starbuck’s Rosetta Stone? Hey!  I’ll have to remember to say that next time I’m at Starbuck’s.  That’ll get ‘em!

Ah!  I think I hear Clayton.  Better get him out of his crib, I wouldn’t want him to get behind on his e-mails.

Until next time . . . I love you