My newest great granddaughter just made the scene. She is beautiful. But someone asked the question on Facebook, "How many grandchildren do you have?" The answer is 14 1/2 grandchildren and 3 great grandchildren. AND if you add to the grandchildren total the husbands of my older granddaughters, you get 16 1/2.
Why did I choose to have such a large family?
Okay, well, I probably didn't choose. I just didn't discover what was causing all those kids until I had four. Then,I adopted three more. And those kids can't get it figured out either. The reason our family is so large is that my kids are SLOW LEARNERS.
Zoey, kids in our family miss out on a lot. You won't get the high-ticket gifts at holidays; there are simply too many of us for that. And you won't get a lot of one-on-one time with relatives because there isn't time enough for three on threes, let alone one-on-ones. And those "vote with your wallet" cute baby contests? While other grandparents can stuff a twenty in their grandbaby's jar, I have to ask the clerk at the register for change for a twenty. And divide it.
I guess I miss out on things too, like being THAT SPECIAL grandma. I mean, when I do something for one, I just about have to do it for all. I can't spoil the grandkids like other grandparents do; we have foster kids who deserve our attention too.
But the feeling I get when everyone is together at holidays? I can't describe it to you, Zoey, but you'll experience it yourself,and you'll find it is sometimes too sweet for words. The room rocks with the noise of babies and toddlers and the chatter of teens and adults, and we are all part of something much bigger. FAMILY.
I didn't actually choose a large family, Zoey; it just happened. But I would not trade one of my kids or grandkids or great grandkids or "sisters from another mother" for anything or anyone. I am proud of each of them. I am proud of YOU.
FAMILIES ARE FOREVER.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Friday, March 11, 2011
Harold Hill Wouldn't Like It Either
Several nights in a row I have found myself in the middle of the parade scene of “The Music Man” marching down the Main Street of River City pumping a baton and singing “thundering, thundering all along the way.” When I awake, the only part of the dream that remains is the bass pounding in my ears. Pounding.
As a matter of fact, the bass is what wakes me. You know those cartoons where the character is trying to sleep and some noise starts a rumba beat? Everything in the room moves in sync to the rhythm. Well, it turns out that cartoon has roots in reality. The beat of that bass coming from a neighbor’s house at 11:00 PM seems to shake the bed.
(All right. I KNOW it’s only 11:00 and we’re in bed…have been since 10:30… we’re old.)
I could be wrong, but isn’t that much volume injurious to one’s hearing? I SAID isn’t that much volume injurious to…oh never mind. I see I’m talking to the wrong crowd. When I was a teenager. I figured the best place at a concert was next to the speakers. I was wrong. But fortunately I didn’t get to that many live concerts. And the main injury to my health from loud noises has been my recent loss of sleep.
I played my music loud. But then, I had good taste in music…stuff I knew the neighbors would want to hear. And I offered variety. Lots of nights I would play my organ until bed time and then close out the concert with “Taps” on harmonica. (This may sound like tongue in cheek, but it is sadly true.) And I either stopped or turned down my music by 10 or so. If I hadn’t, my parents would have cancelled all future performances. They figured that other people’s rights should be considered too.
My parents had a crazy idea that my rights stopped where my neighbor’s nose started. The notion that my rights should not infringe on the rights of others made sense to me then, and it does now. We have the right to kill ourselves with tobacco smoke, to drink ourselves to death, to let our “butt cleavage” hang out and to deafen ourselves with our music. But here’s the thing: that right is not greater than the next person’s right NOT to be subjected to us. Many of us choose not to inhale poisonous smoke, not to drink until we vomit and not to watch someone’s bare behind jiggle when they walk or spread on a bleacher when they sit down. And we enjoy nature sounds and silence, especially late at night.
Which brings me back to my dream. I can’t get restful sleep when I spend the entire night marching behind Professor Harold Hill. I wake up tired. Cranky, too. And I’m apt to voice my ire in grouchy tirades such as this.
As a matter of fact, the bass is what wakes me. You know those cartoons where the character is trying to sleep and some noise starts a rumba beat? Everything in the room moves in sync to the rhythm. Well, it turns out that cartoon has roots in reality. The beat of that bass coming from a neighbor’s house at 11:00 PM seems to shake the bed.
(All right. I KNOW it’s only 11:00 and we’re in bed…have been since 10:30… we’re old.)
I could be wrong, but isn’t that much volume injurious to one’s hearing? I SAID isn’t that much volume injurious to…oh never mind. I see I’m talking to the wrong crowd. When I was a teenager. I figured the best place at a concert was next to the speakers. I was wrong. But fortunately I didn’t get to that many live concerts. And the main injury to my health from loud noises has been my recent loss of sleep.
I played my music loud. But then, I had good taste in music…stuff I knew the neighbors would want to hear. And I offered variety. Lots of nights I would play my organ until bed time and then close out the concert with “Taps” on harmonica. (This may sound like tongue in cheek, but it is sadly true.) And I either stopped or turned down my music by 10 or so. If I hadn’t, my parents would have cancelled all future performances. They figured that other people’s rights should be considered too.
My parents had a crazy idea that my rights stopped where my neighbor’s nose started. The notion that my rights should not infringe on the rights of others made sense to me then, and it does now. We have the right to kill ourselves with tobacco smoke, to drink ourselves to death, to let our “butt cleavage” hang out and to deafen ourselves with our music. But here’s the thing: that right is not greater than the next person’s right NOT to be subjected to us. Many of us choose not to inhale poisonous smoke, not to drink until we vomit and not to watch someone’s bare behind jiggle when they walk or spread on a bleacher when they sit down. And we enjoy nature sounds and silence, especially late at night.
Which brings me back to my dream. I can’t get restful sleep when I spend the entire night marching behind Professor Harold Hill. I wake up tired. Cranky, too. And I’m apt to voice my ire in grouchy tirades such as this.
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