MG’s relaxed attitude toward Buddy may have something to do with the fact that MG can make Buddy mind him with little or no resistance and that the little guy is satisfied with a plain old dog biscuit for a treat. The grandchildren, however, require more patience and negotiating skills and much more elaborate treats to satisfy their taste buds.

When our Second Son and wife planned to take their ten-year-old second born to Washington, DC, for his turn to visit the seat of the federal government, they asked us to spend the Memorial Day Weekend sitting with their three remaining children and the family dog. I was certain I had hit a motherlode that I could mine for a blog post. Surely the little rugrats would misbehave, fight, say something naughty, and/or get into non-stop mischief. I mentally rubbed my hands together with anticipated glee.

MG departed for a three-day golf outing in the midst of what was a four-day weekend and left me on my own to wrangle the rugrats. He appeared immensely relieved to be on his way.

Today [Tuesday] is the last day of my tenure as sitter, and nothing has gone as expected. To my utter dismay, the diabolical rugrats have betrayed me on an unprecedented scale.

They are behaving beautifully. I don’t understand it. Either something is seriously wrong with them or they are engaging in a sinister conspiracy to drive me insane.

They play games without whining or fighting.

They pick up their toys and games and put them away.

They eat everything I put in front of them.

They shower and go to bed at night when told without asking to stay up later.

They actually did their chores without complaint when reminded.

They were even helpful to me with my chores.

What fresh hell is this? Thus far, the weekend is a complete disaster! I have nothing gross or amusing to write about. How is that possible?

Hold on—a phone call is coming in from the middle school. It’s my elder granddaughter, The Princess. She forgot to take her gym bag and phys ed is in thirty minutes. Would I please take it to her at school? At last, an imperfection, albeit not a drastic one. Unfortunately, she was so sweet and grateful when I arrived with the gym bag, I couldn’t be angry with her. Damn. I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up.

Just when I resigned myself to the fact that the weekend was a total loss blogwise, the one inhabitant of the household that I expected to be the least of my problems was the one who came to my rescue—dear, sweet, affectionate little Buddy.

I was alone with Buddy after the school busses whisked the rugrats away. I had an entire day of solitude to deal with the revisions to my current work in progress—or so I thought. Whenever Buddy needed to be let out to answer nature’s call, he had been trained to ring a bell. It’s a cowbell. It’s a huge, loud, annoying cowbell hanging from a cord beside the back door. It’s a very huge, very loud, and maddening cowbell that Buddy rang incessantly, destroying my concentration.

When Buddy came to the door to be let back in, he was covered with mulch and tree droppings that clung to his fur. I couldn’t let him in the house without an intense brushing to remove all the debris caught in his fur. No sooner did I finish than he sat down in the mess I had brushed off him making more work for me.

You’d think I would have learned my lesson and not let him out again, but that cowbell nearly drove me out of my mind. I relented and soon regretted relenting, because he did it all again.

This time, I went out to check on him and caught him in the act. There he was, lying in the mulch, not looking the least bit guilty for his transgression. I snapped his photo with my iPhone to document his guilt—mulch and tree droppings sticking to his fur—and then I proceeded to brush him clean again. Oh, my aching back.

Compared to Buddy the Baddy, my grandchildren were little angels. When those adorable, angelic grandchildren returned home from school, I greeted them with affection and renewed appreciation for their splendid behavior, feeling shame for wanting them to misbehave for my own selfish ends.

I told them what I went through with Buddy and how many times I had to brush him. That’s when they told me how much Buddy loved to be brushed. That gave me pause.

Um, you don’t suppose that since Buddy loves to be brushed so much that he deliberately rolled in that mulch just so I would have to—nah. He couldn’t be that cunning, could he? Could he?

Just about everyone who knows me is aware that I am all thumbs when it comes to crafts. I can paint a fairly decent picture, and I can take darn good photos, but when it comes to doing the kind of craft that involves dexterity and coordination, I’m not your girl.

Case in point: my childhood, when Nonna [Grandma] decided to pass her old country [Sicily] craft and cooking skills on to me.

Cooking lessons, which Nonna believed were the most important for a future Italian-American housewife, came first. Fortunately for Macho Guy, I aced the cooking lessons. I make a topnotch white clam sauce and a mean Baked Ziti.

When it came to the crafts, however, I was at the bottom of the deck. Every weekday when I arrived home from elementary school, Nonna and I would have tea and biscotti [I was deemed too young for espresso] followed almost immediately by torture. That’s what the craft lessons were for me. Torment. Misery. Agony of the highest order.

Nonna began the craft lessons with beginner crocheting. She showed me the basic techniques. Nonna’s hands moved so quickly they looked as if they were on fast forward. I asked her to demonstrate more slowly and she did. I attempted to duplicate her movements. I failed. She crocheted a two-inch doily in the time it took me to complete three stitches in a row without dropping one. We made the mutual decision that crocheting and I were not made for each other.

Then came knitting. Nonna thought I would do better at knitting because the needles, the yarn, and the stitches were bigger and thicker—easier for me to manipulate. It was a sound theory that we were unable to prove true. I struggled with knit one, drop one, purl one, drop two, and so on. Meanwhile, Nonna’s knitting needles moved so quickly all I saw was a blur. We made the mutual decision that knitting and I were not made for each other either.

We went back to cooking lessons where I was her star pupil. Thank you, Nonna!

A couple of weekends ago, I babysat four of my grandchildren while their parents were in Indianapolis at the Michigan State/Iowa game. It was too cold for outdoor games. The kids played on their tablets, played with trains, cars and trucks, played with Grandma’s jewelry, watched a video, read stories, drew with crayons, and then they began to look bored. Uh-oh.

In an act of bravado that may go down in history, or may be diagnosed as a case of temporary insanity, I suggested making homemade Christmas ornaments. The moment the words tripped over my tongue and passed through my lips, I cringed. My incompetence was about to be exposed in front of my grandchildren. What had I done? Naturally, the kids thought making their own Christmas ornaments was a great idea, so I couldn’t let on that I didn’t know the first thing about crafting Christmas ornaments. I had to think fast. Fortunately, inspiration struck.

Google it!

I went online and the kids helped me search for homemade Christmas ornaments. We struck out several times—a bunch of them were too hard to make, and we didn’t have all the materials to make some others. Finally, we found a template we could adapt to the materials we had, and it actually appeared to be easy to make. Victory was at hand. After printing copies of the template, and assembling corrugated paper, colored construction paper, old Christmas cards, glue sticks, string, and scissors, we got to work. The results were not at all embarrassing and were surprisingly satisfactory—even kind of cute.

Since we’ll be on the road before Christmas, we didn’t have a tree set up on which we could hang the newly crafted ornaments.

As luck would have it, we experienced a Christmas miracle—multi-colored Christmas lights on a decorative artificial birch tree in the living room. MG and I never noticed that we left the lights on it a few Christmases ago. We turned on the lights and the kids hung their creations on the little birch tree. Success! Who would have believed it?

No one. That’s why I took this photo.

Last summer, I wrote about a recent Camp Grandma with our younger son’s children. In that post, I touched briefly on an incident with their cousins from the original Camp Grandma. This time around, I’m telling all about it—the complete and unvarnished origins of Camp Grandma on the lake.

Our family’s first Camp Grandma took place at the very end of June in the year our third grandson came into the world. Firstborn and his family were living in Ohio at the time. Macho Guy and I visited them frequently and petitioned a couple of years in a row to have our first two grandsons visit us in summer for a week at the lake.

FB and his wife resisted the idea. They thought their boys were too young to spend that much time and that much distance away from their parents. Sure they did. No doubt they were concerned that we would spoil our grandsons rotten, mess up their daily schedules, let them eat junk food, and make them impossible to live with and retrain. I felt they were judging us unfairly against an age-old stereotype of grandparents being pushovers for their grandchildren. I suppose it was probably true, but how much damage could we do in only seven measly days?

We received a surprising call about four days after our third grandson’s birth. It was FB on the line.

FB: Hey. It’s me.

ME: Hi, Me. [It usually drove him crazy when I said that, but he didn’t react this time.]

FB: Anything going on up there?

ME: Not much. What about you? You sound a little tired.

FB: Yeah, not getting much sleep since we brought the baby home.

ME: How is the family bonding coming along?

FB: Um…not exactly the way we expected.

ME: Oh?

FB: There’s a lot of stuff going on. That’s why I called. Uh…do you and Dad still want the boys to come up for a week this summer?

ME: Yes. Why? Do you want them to?

FB: Yeah, I’m thinking it might be a good idea.

ME: [starting my happy dance] Great! When?

FB: Now.

ME: [I sat in stunned silence for a moment.] When you say now—”

FB: Tomorrow.

ME: Oh. [I said “oh” but thought “uh-oh.” Something’s up.]

FB: If it’s okay with you, I’ll drive up with them tomorrow, stay the weekend so the boys get used to being at your place, and then I’ll leave the boys with you and drive home on Sunday.

ME: That’s okay, but I’m curious. You didn’t want to leave them with us before. Why the sudden change of heart?

I was almost sorry I asked. What followed was a litany of sibling rivalry / spawn of Satan behaviors on the part of the new baby’s older brothers. The four-year-old, who grudgingly stomached having to share his parents with one sibling, was unwilling to share his parents with two. He pitched tantrum after tantrum demanding undivided attention. When he wasn’t having a hissy fit, he and the two-year-old fought over who would get Mommy and Daddy’s attention when they weren’t busy taking care of the baby. The two-year-old, who was successfully potty-trained only a few months earlier and was the baby of the family before the arrival of the cherubic interloper, began soiling his pants again and cried every time the new baby cried in his attempts to act more like a baby than his new baby brother. O joy.

FB confessed that their attempt at family bonding was a colossal bust. He and his wife were losing their grip on sanity and needed respite from their tormenters, which led them to reevaluate whether their two older boys were mature enough at two and four to spend a week with Grandma and Grandpa—about 250 blessed miles from home. They agreed that the boys were mature enough, and that it was time to call 1-800-GRANDMA.

ME: You will come back for them, right?

FB: [laughs] In a week. [laughs again, harder] Maybe two.

When FB and sons arrived the following afternoon, Schnoodle Dog took one look at the pint-sized invaders and went in search of a hiding place. FB explained that he told his boys that they were going on their very own summer vacation on the lake at Camp Grandma. He said they were so excited and so eager to get here that they shook him awake that morning at 6:00 a.m. He couldn’t believe his eyes. The four-year-old not only dressed himself, he dressed his younger brother too and packed their little backpacks with toys for both of them. Wow. The pressure was on to live up to great expectations.

After their dad left, I laid down the Camp Grandma rules. I summed up by saying they couldn’t do anything at Grandma’s that they weren’t allowed to do at home. That was when the four-year-old ankle biter had the audacity to claim that at home they had no rules. In my estimation, that whopper rated at least five Pinocchios.

All told, the very first Camp Grandma—with Grandpa’s invaluable assistance—was a huge success. We beached it and built sandcastles with moats. We boated. We fished. We went to the playground. We painted. We did crafts. We baked cookies. We ate candy. [Shush! They’re not your grandchildren.] We watered Grandpa’s tomatoes. We played pool with Grandpa. We met Grandpa at his office, and we went out to lunch with him in a real, honest to goodness restaurant that didn’t have a drive up window. We read stories. We played games. We watched Disney movies and ate popcorn. We stayed up late every night. [Yes, I spoiled them rotten. I admit it.] We had naval battles in the bathtub. We made a fort in the family room out of a little playhouse and every sheet and blanket in Grandma’s linen closet. [I did a lot of laundry that week.]

There was just one little incident during the week that kept Camp Grandma from being all-out perfect. One night at dinner, the four-year old didn’t want to eat the meal I put in front of him and wanted something else instead. I told him that our mealtime rule was that you had to take at least one bite of your food. You couldn’t say you didn’t like your meal and wouldn’t eat it without tasting it first. He pitched a screaming fit, cried, and said he wanted to go home because his parents didn’t have any stupid rules. Again, no rules at home? Oh, please. When pigs wear lipstick. [No, Miss Piggy doesn’t count.] I gave his empty stomach the task of disciplining him for his outburst. He was more polite and cooperative at mealtime after that.

Their dad, mom, and baby brother arrived at the end of the week. They stayed for the weekend and then took the boys home. After they left, the sound of silence was almost deafening, and Schnoodle Dog came out of hiding at last.

FB called a few days later to touch base. He informed me that my two campers got themselves into trouble again, and when they were punished, they made a surprising demand that involved me.

FB: The boys say they want to leave home and go live with Grandma.

ME: Well, I did sort of spoil them a little.

FB: Must have. They think Mommy and Daddy are way too mean. They want to live with Grandma because, as our number one son puts it, Grandma has no rules.

ME: I have no rules? [laughing and almost dropping the phone] Give me a break. When I wouldn’t let him have his own way, he said he wanted to go back home because you have no rules.

FB: [laughing too] That sneaky little brat, trying to play us against one another.

ME: They sure learn young. Only four years old and he’s channeling Machiavelli.

FB: Yeah, but the one thing he didn’t count on was that we’d talk to each other and compare notes.

ME: Nobody’s perfect. He’s only four. Give him time.

As it turned out, FB and his wife enjoyed the first Camp Grandma every bit as much—if not more—than their sons did, so they asked if I would be willing to schedule another Camp Grandma the next summer…and the next summer…and the next summer…

Understandable. The first Camp Grandma did save their sanity.

The granddaughters also ask if they can take home my old lipsticks and all my costume jewelry they love to play dress up with. In fact, the elder granddaughter, a high-maintenance little female her daddy dubbed “The Princess,” has designs on my real jewelry as well—serious designs.

A few years ago, Macho Guy and I went to a viewing prior to our daughter-in-law’s grandmother’s funeral. I was wearing the antique diamond engagement ring that I had inherited from my maternal grandmother. The Princess, who was about five at the time, was fascinated by it and couldn’t take her eyes from it.

PRINCESS: I like your ring, Grandma. It’s pretty.

ME: Thank you.

PRINCESS: Can I have it?

ME: [Ever the English Major] May I have it—no.

PRINCESS: Can I play with it?

ME: May I play with it—no. This isn’t the right place for playing. We’re paying our respects to your mom’s grandmother who went to Heaven.

PRINCESS: What about later?

ME: Honey, this is a special ring. It’s not like the other rings and things I let you play with. It was my grandma’s engagement ring. She left it to me when she went to heaven because I was her first granddaughter.

PRINCESS: Like me?

ME: Yes, just like you. Since you’re my first granddaughter, someday this ring will be yours when Grandma grows old and goes to heaven.

A calculating expression stole over The Princess’ face. I could almost hear wheels turning. After a brief pause, she spoke.

PRINCESS: Grandma, how old are you?

I could hardly believe my ears. That covetous little imp! She wanted to know how long she had to wait to get her hands on my grandmother’s ring. I had to bite my tongue and the insides of my cheeks to keep from laughing. We were at her late great-grandmother’s viewing after all.

Once outside, I told MG, my son, my daughter-in-law and her parents about the ring and what the Princess said to me, and they all broke up.

That wasn’t the end of it. Later that evening, my son (who is a terrible tease) called me from his car on his way home with his family.

SON: Hey, Mom, we were talking about you and your ring, and I asked your granddaughter about it. Do you want to hear what she said?

ME: Okay, sure. What?

SON: [shouting to his daughter in the back seat] Princess, do you want to get Grandma’s ring when she goes to heaven?

PRINCESS: Yes!

SON: Do you want Grandma to go to Heaven now?

PRINCESS: Yes!

I laughed so hard I dropped the phone.

#diamonds #grandchildren #greed