Stacey's Blog

I remember the first time my mother referred to my ‘baby fat.’ She had picked me up from Portola Junior High School in Tarzana and we had just turned left onto the street I grew up on in Encino, California. I was telling her that I was tired of the little bulge of lower belly fat that I had been carrying around with me since I was a baby. She told me I would lose the baby fat “any time now” and because I was going through puberty my body was changing.

“You told me when I was eight that I would lose my baby fat when I was ten,” I reminded her.

“You’re just a late bloomer. You’ll appreciate it when you’re my age,” she replied.

I’m pretty sure the main reason for my moment of self-image anxiety was because it was my first year of junior high school and I probably noticed all the cute, perky popular girls who were stick thin. I don’t remember exactly what prompted me to question my baby fat back then but I’m sure it had to do with all the issues a twelve year old girl has to deal with. Braces, glasses, a face ravaged by acne…why not throw stubborn baby fat into the mix?

By the time I made it into my first year of high school my acne went away and my braces had been removed. I still wore glasses and I still had the stubborn lump of baby fat on the front, lower part of my belly. I played volleyball. I rode horses. I even tried to stop eating French fries but no matter what, the ‘baby fat’ stayed attached to my insides in the same way that crazy glue sticks to pretty much anything.

The ‘baby fat’ I had been carrying around with me much like the blanket Linus from Peanuts always carried around with him just didn’t bulge. When I look back through pictures from my last year in high school and some during my first few years of college it is obvious I carried around my ‘baby fat’ right through high school graduation and into my days tromping around the redwood trees in northern California. Eventually I conceived my first born so in addition to the “baby fat” I had lived with for 27-plus years, I got baby and I got fat.

It was almost as if the minute Alexander was more than just a figment of my imagination, all bets were off with respect to my finally reaching the point in my life when all ‘baby fat’ would finally be shed.  I had listened to my mom for years telling me I was a late bloomer and I thought 27 was just as good an age as any for the ‘baby fat” to finally dissolve and go someplace else.

Didn’t happen.

For the next three years or so I was either pregnant or nursing. During that time I not only continued to carry around the ‘baby fat’ I had been born with but added on even more baby fat as a result from having babies. Two of them. Back to back. What was I thinking?  Wait, never mind. I know what I was thinking. It went something like this: “If I ever have a kid I’m going to have another one right away so I can have them close together and then get my tubes tied and be done with it.”   That’s what I was thinking.

Fast forward to now. I’ve long since given up the idea that I will ever be one of those women who grew out of her “baby fat.”  I will never have a flat stomach like Wendy Dwyer Carter. As a matter of fact, I’m kind of glad that that little bump in my lower belly never really went away. I needed that extra roll to help me carry things. When the kids were little they fit perfectly over my little belly bulge. It acted as a ledge so I could actually carry both of them at the same time.

When I would bring home a big box of pizza the edge of the pizza box rested comfortably on my belly ledge as I carried it through the door. I could pile groceries on top of the pizza box and it wouldn’t budge because it was resting on my bulge. Anything that I needed to carry which had to be balanced on my body was a piece of cake because I had the built-in belly ledge to help me out.

And now I have the best reason of all for not wanting to get rid of the belly ledge: The Granddaughter.

My belly shelf is once again being put to good use.

It was the continuance of an unusually sunny day here in the high country.  I swear that last year this time our town had already lived with well over 300 inches of snow but not this year. This year Mother Nature really took the bull by the horns and psyched us all out. A few people were so sure that we were going to have a 1,000 inch winter. Even the local weatherman and I yammered back and forth about the snow predictions of some locals but in the end it appears that all the talk about another record breaking winter was wishful thinking. I think I can safely say by now that we are not going to have a deluge of snow in 2012. I could be wrong. I’ve been wrong before.

We are doing all we can to make the white stuff fall. Howard Sheckter is constantly asking me if I’m doing my snow dance. I keep telling him “yes” just to keep the conversation moving but honestly, by the time I get home the last thing I want to do is jump around on our property while chanting some obscure pleadings to the snow Gods.  There are only a few reasons why I’m on our deck these days. One is when I’m pacing back and forth because I’m having a hot flash and I’m trying to catch the breeze that comes through the pass and rustles our trees before heading out to Sierra Meadows. Another reason I would be running around our deck is because I’m chasing a ball with Ameilia or blowing bubbles for Ameilia.

It has been an odd weather year and many of us are trying to make the best out of the sunshine we do have. Gail Lonne and friends have put up two tennis nets at the community courts…unheard of in January. BishopMotoSports is renting out their ATV’s so at least our high country visitors can get out on the dirt roads and explore our snow-free terrain. Even Deb Searles thought about putting her deck furniture back out…including the umbrella.

The mornings have been chilly so the idea of wearing shorts and a t-shirt is out. And let’s be real…this isn’t Palm Springs or Jamaica so instead of pulling my shorts out of the summer closet in the middle of January, I decided instead to compromise and wear sandals.

I got down on my hands and knees and reached under the dresser where I stuffed all my summer shoes for the season. I found the sandals my son and daughter-in-law bought me when they went to Thailand and I slipped them on.

Something was wrong. It didn’t feel right. My feet were the same size and the sandals were comfy but c’mon…sandals in the middle of January? I should be wearing my snow boots and wrapping myself snug in neck gators and down jackets. I should be listening to my husband cursing at the snow-thrower for breaking down and I should be carrying loads of wood up the stairs to stuff into the wood burning stove. There should be warm winter soup cooking in the crockpot and I should be making myself cups of hot chocolate loaded with whipped cream for my after-dinner sweet.

It didn’t seem right to have my toes bare to the elements in the middle of January. My feet have been in winter-mode. My toes are not painted and most of my summer callouses have faded but it was warm – so warm that my feet were sweating inside my UGGS. I could no longer pretend that it was going to snow sometime in January so I clomped out of the house in my summer sandals.

I can only hope that all this faux summer behavior we are all exhibiting will somehow be a signal to the elusive snow G-d that we are ready for a dumping of the white stuff.  It’s just not fair that Alaska is getting more snow than we are this year.

Back in 2002 Carol Kaesuk Yoon wrote an article for the NY Times on why the locust has completely vanished from North America.

“Sweeping across North America, flying hordes of Rocky Mountain locusts were once an awesome and horrifying sight, huge glittering clouds of insects laying waste countless acres of crops. Throughout the 1800′s, the whirring swarms periodically ravaged farm fields from California east to Minnesota and south to Texas.

The locusts were easy to please, eating barley, buckwheat, melons, tobacco, strawberry, spruce, apple trees — even fence posts, laundry hung out to dry and each other.

When women threw blankets over their gardens, the locusts devoured the blankets then feasted on the plants. Farmers lit fires, blasted shotguns into the swarms and scoured their fields with so-called hopperdozers, large metal scoops, smeared with tar or molasses to grab as many of the offenders as possible. But it was all to no avail.”

The little buggers may have disappeared from the plains of North America but I know all too well that a very special locust population is alive and well in our household…for at least part of the year. The only thing we had to do to bring them back was the promise of homemade holiday cooking and to have a pantry and refrigerator full of food. Combine that with the seven twenty-something children that were staying with us for a week and voila! A perfect recipe for the invasion.

I was so busy cooking and enjoying the family that I didn’t really notice we had been swarmed by a family of two-legged locusts until they had already left the area. It was a day or two after the tribe had gone on to their various after-holiday adventures.  I woke up to a disturbingly quiet house and thought that since I didn’t have to go out for bagels and cream cheese or make my signature breakfast potatoes I could sit and enjoy a bowl of my favorite cereal combination with a cup of tea. I took down the bowl, got what was left of the rice milk out of the fridge and when I looked up to pull my favorite Trader Joe’s cereal off the shelf, it was gone. Not only was the box of Frosted Mini Wheat’s from TJ’s gone, the container of my homemade granola was empty. Just like the day fades in to night, the craving I had for my mixed-cereal dish also faded into oblivion. I had to regroup the taste buds.

I usually have some sort of egg thing for breakfast anyway and since my desire to eat a bowl of cereal was not an option, I went for the eggs.  Gone.  All the organic eggs that I had just purchased a few days earlier were no longer in their little, plastic, half-moon shaped holders in the door of the fridge. Just for the hell-of-it I looked at the shelf where I keep my tea. Ginger tea, gone. Pomegranate-white tea, gone. Buckwheat honey for the tea, also gone.  Blueberries, strawberries, leftover turkey…it was the same story…all of it gone, gone, gone.

The family swarm that invaded our house did not have wings and did not make an irritating chirping sound as they devoured everything in their path but they came, they ate, they left.

And I wouldn’t change anything about the swarm that filled our house for a week during the holidays except for maybe hiding my Trader Joe’s sparkling pomegranate juice next time the DNA swarm makes their way home. Some things aren’t so easy to replace here in the Eastern Sierra.

Granddaughter Ameilia just experienced her first Christmas Holiday with a rather large family crowd. She was loved all over by her aunts and uncles but the one person she could not tear herself away from was her Great Grandmother Harriette.

Harriette, or “mom” as I have called her for the past 50-plus years, spent many days and nights with Ameilia the first two years of her life because while my son and his wife were going to scholl to become certified massage therapists, my mother would watch Ameilia.  Unfortunately, my mother doesn’t get to spend too much time with Ameilia anymore but this past Christmas they were glued at the hip. More to the point, Ameilia shadowed my mother for the entire 48 hours that she came to visit for the holiday. The only exception was during the evening because my mother slept in a local hotel and since Ameilia is 14 years away from driving, she couldn’t get to the hotel where my mother was spending her nights here in Mammoth Lakes.

However, when my mother was at our house Ameilia was always hugging on her by either grabbing on to her legs or curling up as close to her as possible.  As a matter of fact, the only time that Ameilia wasn’t right next to my mother was when she was helping our Santa hand out the gifts Christmas morning.

After several hours of Ameilia not letting my mom out of her sight, my mother was wondering if she was actually being stalked by a two-year old. If my mother walked into the kitchen, Ameilia was right behind her.  If my mother went into the bathroom, Ameilia had to be in the bathroom too. When my mom went to sit on our south-facing deck to get a little Vitamin D Christmas day, Ameilia had a near meltdown when she couldn’t find my mom in the house.

My husband and I see Ameilia often but she isn’t clingy with us. Of course there are times when she wants me more than grandpa and then the next day she wants grandpa and not me but she doesn’t have a meltdown if we leave the room. She just finds us, grabs one of our fingers and pulls us into the room where she has something she wants to show us.  She might drag us into the pantry and point to various dried goods like crackers, pancake mix or veggie chips.  Or she will open the fridge so we can make her a plate of fruit and cheese. Then again she can put both of her arms up in the air, her sign that she wants to be picked up so she can point to the bottle of bubbles that are on top of the refrigerator. Once we’ve fed her or made the living room look like a bubble emporium, she is content and goes off to do something else.

The connection between my mother and Ameilia is so strong that we began to wonder if there was some past-life connection in the works. My mom doesn’t think that Ameilia would be my Grandma Toby reincarnated because my mother and her mother didn’t always see eye-to-eye.  In fact, they rarely saw eye-to-eye.  My mother’s brother could be a possibility.  Norman died at a very young age and my mother and her brother were very close.  Then again it all depends on where the belief system lies so maybe it’s safe to say that there really is something special between the two of them that has no concrete explanation.

It doesn’t really matter why Ameilia is so connected with my mother. What matters is that the bond between a two-year old and her great grandmother is something to be honored and cherished…even if Ameilia does sort of stalk my mother.

Twas the morning before Christmas and all through the house

Not a child was stirring…not even the spouse.

When then all of the sudden, a buzz I did  hear

I jumped up from the bed… my phone alarm must be near

But alas I was wrong, “what IS that he said?”

It’s not MY alarm going off near my head….

I searched and I pondered and I heard it again…

A cell phone above us…going off in our heads…

“Where is thou going,” asked the sleepy head spouse

As I crawled out of bed…trying to be quiet as a mouse…

“To find that damn buzzing that is going off above our heads…”

You said it was an alarm….so I jumped out of bed….

I put on my glasses and socks on my feet…

I was determined to find the reason I was not able to sleep

Cody was snuggled atop of the stairs….

Looking at me like I was crazy instead of snuggled in my lair

I got up to the living room…as cold as it was

And started the search for that damn cell phone buzz

You see this was a morning

That I hoped to sleep in

Because the radio did not need me…since…well…I can’t remember when.

So I lifted the blankets and searched the brown couch

But I could not find the buzzing…I banged my big toe…Ouch!

Then like the new sun and a new fairy tale

I heard the damn buzzing…coming from the massage table…

There on the sheet…as black as can be…

Was a Samsung cell phone….NOT belonging to me.

The alarm had been set for Seven O Five….

But this had to be wrong and I’ll tell you why

My stepdaughters are beautiful and smart don’t you see

But for one of them to get up early…it really shocked me

Just like their daddy who was still snug in our bed…

His three lovely daughters…will not lift their head

The sun could be high and please let me translate…

Don’t you see that the Lyster’s all like to sleep late?

So I turned off the alarm on the Samsung you see…

So the Lyster’s in the house…could sleep…until three…

Now this is my story on this Christmas Eve night…

And because the Ma they call Sma…could not go back to sleep

…she decided to write.

I came home from a chilly afternoon of last minute holiday shopping, glad to be in our nice, quiet home away from the crowds. After stumbling up the stairs with an armful of packages I flipped on the heater switch because the chill of the forest was also seeping into the house.

It didn’t take me long to start the fire because I wanted to be able to walk around the living room without my jacket and scarf keeping me warm. As the wood-burning stove began to warm up the house, I started plugging in the holiday lights we had strung around the living room. I love a twinkling living room. There are some lights glowing on the stairwell, some twisted around candles and photographs, a string of white lights on the bookcase and of course, the tree.

When I plugged in the lights we had strung around the tree, the wave of nostalgia that swept through me caught me totally off guard. In spite of the crazy story of my holiday upbringing which included any holiday that was printed on the calendar at hand, we always went to my dad’s side of the family for the Christmas holiday. The presents that would be lined up and around the fireplace were often overwhelming. There were usually no less than fifteen or so of us at my grandparent’s house celebrating that day and with everyone buying stuff for everyone it wasn’t unusual for the gift-opening part of the day to take three or four hours. That was because my grandpa Ernie insisted that we all open our gifts one-by-one so the person who was thoughtful enough to buy a gift for someone else was properly thanked.  Manners were always a big deal in our family and saying “thank-you” was not voluntary, it was mandatory.

When I lit up the tree this particular night, so many images of Christmas’s past flooded my mind. Over 50 years of spending each and every holiday with numerous family members were all laid out before me. As I write this I’m staring at two Christmas photos: One that was taken when my oldest son was about the age his daughter is now and the other of my grandpa Ernie which was taken a few years before my first son was even born. Grandpa Ernie was wearing a red Polo shirt, red socks and gray pants. I can barely see the silver glitter of his name written on the white part of the Santa hat and he seems to be looking at someone across the room, probably opening their present. Speaking of presents, I can count at least thirty of them lined up behind my grandfather. I’m sure we were there for at least two hours opening gifts after that photo was taken.

In the other photo Alexander had just been handed a gift by my father who was wearing the obligatory red and white Santa hat. The handing out of the gifts was always Grandpa Ernie’s job but he passed on in 1987 and for six years after that, until he passed on as well, my father was our token Santa…still carrying on the tradition of handing out gifts one-by-one.  I think that was also the Christmas where as a joke I gave my sister my diaphragm because I had just had my last child seven month earlier and with my tubes tied, there was no way I was going to need it. I also remember that she didn’t think it was very funny but to this day she still brings that up as the most unique gift ever she received from her older sister.

As the years gained speed the six of us cousins moved around and when my grandmother Bess finally passed on, that also effectively ended over 40 years of a family tradition. Bess and Ernie were the glue that held the immediate family together and for some reason, it was never the same after grandma Bess died. Some of us moved north, some of us moved to the east coast and some stayed in Los Angeles but there was never again another Christmas with the core family.

The Christmas of 2011 is approaching fast and a handful of new traditions are underway. Having become part of a blended family over a year ago it will be wonderful to have a house filled with the love of family over the holiday. And let’s hope the gang isn’t in for the quick fix because with about 15 people here to open gifts, one-by-one, it looks like at least one of the traditions I grew up with will have come full circle.

When I was going through that puberty thing a few months after the Sylmar Earthquake shook things up in the San Fernando Valley, there were some noticeable changes that went along with my pre-teen mood swings. One of the most unpleasant moments is when the migraine headaches made an appearance. I found out later that migraines can be a result of the hormonal upheaval women go through during significant live-changing periods. My pubescent migraines were so bad that my mother found a headache doctor who gave me a pill that made the debilitating brain-throbbers subside. His name was Dr. Kudrow and years later his daughter (who was supposed to follow in his footsteps) got cast in a television show called, “Friends” and never made it to med school. I wonder if she ever got migraines when she went through puberty.

Another aspect of hormone-of-the-day episodes that swing in and out of the lives of women is the lack of sleep. I remember what it was like being 12, 13 and 14 and I remember that there were many nights I couldn’t sleep. Instead, I would tip-toe down to our den, slide quietly onto the brown, leather couch, turn on the television and watch, “Movies Till Dawn” on KTLA Channel 5. There on the couch I would watch Godzilla tangle with Monthra or King Kong and I could always count on “The Creature from the Black Lagoon” being part of the lineup at least once every two weeks. He would carry a fainting lady into the water and some dude would try to rescue her.

My favorite was the “Blob” with Steve McQueen. I never got tired of watching the mound of moving Silly Putty push through the little windows inside the movie theater. Up until recently it had been years since I saw that movie and several nights ago I was treated to another late night viewing of “The Blob” with Steve McQueen. The reason I was up at three in the morning?  You guessed it. Hormones.

I now find myself in what I hope is the last episode of hormonal fluctuation. One difference is that back when I was 13 I don’t remember having any hot flashes but I sure do remember my inability to have a good night’s sleep. I’m trying to see the positive side of being up a few hours before the sun. It wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t have to be at work a few mornings a week by 6:30 am but I’m trying to take it all in stride.

A nice thing about waking up at three in the morning again is that I have way more movie choices and I can work on my computer. During my morning KMMT slot I read a live commercial for Suddenlink and what I say is really true. We have all the movie channels and HD stuff so instead of lying in a dark room looking at the ceiling hoping my tossing and turning doesn’t wake up my husband, I dress in layers and go upstairs. I turn on the television, put the volume on “low” and flip through all the movie channels. I was absolutely delighted when “The Blob” was on during an Encore presentation. It was like the good old days. I tip-toed into the kitchen, made myself a bowl of cereal, and settled in to watch Steve McQueen save the day, again. For those of you who have never watched, “The Blob,” here’s a reminder of the plot taken from a blurb on the IMDB website:

“After teenagers Steve Andrews (Steve McQueen) and his girlfriend Jane Martin (Anita Corset) see a meteorite crash nearby, they set off to investigate. They come across an old man who seems to have some type of gelatinous matters stuck to his hand. They take him to Dr. Halen who isn’t sure what the substance is but Steve becomes convinced it’s a monster of some sort after both the old man and the doctor vanish. As the creature consumes more and more people, it grows larger and larger. Steve’s biggest problem is that he can’t get anyone to believe him and continually faces skeptical policeman and angry parents. The creature finally reaches a size that it cannot be missed and everyone wonders how they will possibly stop it.”

If my sleep pattern keeps up at this rate, I’m sure I’ll have to find some other way to amuse myself at three in the morning because I will eventually have watched every movie ever made. Maybe I will form “The Hash brown Club” so all of us non-sleepers can drive down to Denny’s for a plate of hash browns and watch the sun come up over the Whites. Or maybe I’ll just see if Ambien really does work.

It was a little over a week ago. I was walking down the cereal aisle in our local grocery store, wondering when the last time was that I had a bowl of Trix mixed with Captain Crunch and Frosted Flakes. These days, if what I ingest doesn’t somehow prove to be healthy for my insides, (especially if it is loaded with lots of sugar), I try to avoid it. I was remembering what Trix tasted like – the orange oranges, the green greens, the red reds and the yellow yellows – and I was really craving that taste but then the words of a parent took me out of my “have-to-have-sweets” craving.

There was a parent and a child coming down the aisle as I was contemplating my sugary cereal. The parent (I won’t divulge the gender) hissed to the child who was walking beside the cart, “Are you stupid or something? Don’t you remember what I told you in the car?  You can’t have any candy today or the next day so quit *insert bad word here* asking me! How many times have I told you that we can’t afford anything extra?!”

The kid must have been around six or seven. Not only did the words of the parent shock me but the look on the kids’ face was of utter shame. That was one of those occasions where I really wanted to let the parent have it but it would have probably made things worse for the kid. It was obvious that the parent was having a bad day but why take it out on the kid?  I didn’t recognize the parent and hope I never see the parent again because if I do, I might have to say something.

The age-old idiom, “Sticks and stones will break my bones but names will never hurt me,” is part of an English language children’s rhyme. According to Wikipedia, “It persuades the child victim of name-calling to ignore the taunt, to refrain from physical retaliation, and to remain calm and good-natured. The phrase is found at least as early as 1872, where it is presented as advice in Tappy’s Chicks: and Other Links Between Nature and Human Nature, by Mrs. George Cupples. This sentiment is reflected in the common law of civil assault, which holds that mere name-calling does not give rise to a cause of action, while putting someone in fear of physical violence does.”

I beg to differ. Calling anyone names is hurtful and calling children names is especially hurtful. A victim of abusive name-calling is just that; a victim. Verbal abuse can do just as much damage as physical abuse to a person and last the victim a lifetime. The onslaught of profanities and false accusations can take both a physical and mental toll and there is absolutely no excuse for that kind of behavior.

The topic on my Exhausted Parent Network Radio Show last week was on “Toxic Friendships” and one of my guests said, “Hurt people, hurt.” If someone is having a terrible day or hasn’t had the easiest life, it’s not uncommon for them lash out at those close to them but that doesn’t mean that lashing out at the people who are closest to you is acceptable behavior.

Domestic Violence Awareness Month is coming to a close and according to Wild Iris, domestic abuse has risen almost 60 percent since the economy took a nose dive. Being under the black cloud of financial pressure is most certainly stressful but there are other ways of letting off steam rather than lashing out at family members…especially the children.

I don’t know the reason why that particular parent was lashing out at their six year old that day but whatever the reason, there was no excuse for calling the kid “stupid” for not remembering that candy was not on the grocery list because of family money problems, which I’m sure the kid has nothing to do with.  If the parent who I witnessed calling their kid “stupid” that day happens to be reading this column? Call IMACA and find out about their parenting classes or go to your local book store and buy a few books on how to parent a child. I’m guessing that how you displayed your parenting skills in the grocery store that day will not be listed anywhere in any of those books.

With Christmas a little over two months away I’m beginning to ponder about the gifts to give my family. I don’t like to shop very much and being that I’ve had to tighten my belt like everyone else on the planet, the gifts will have to be something that comes from the heart without putting me in severe credit card debt for the rest of 2012.

I’ve been on a jam-making binge for the last year and the kids always take a jar or two back with them after they visit, so a jar of jam wrapped under the tree won’t be unique. I don’t have a sewing machine so I won’t be making any quilts and I don’t know how to knit so that’s out as well. The only thing I can paint is a bedroom wall and I bake pies and treats anyway so a tin box full of pumpkin chocolate chip cookies is old news.

I think the best thing to give my kids this holiday season is the kind of gift that will help them get to know a little bit more about the mother who raised them. I made my share of mistakes raising the boys (fondly referred to over the years as the “Two-Man Swarm,”) but one thing I did right was to give them the gift of music. When they were growing in utero and were at the point where they could supposedly hear sounds, I would put earphones to my belly and play Bob Marley, Mozart, Jackson Browne, Supertramp, Pink Floyd and George Benson. As they got older they found their own style of music to grow up with and even though their music was not my cup of tea (music wars in the car were the norm), I had hope that one day they would come to appreciate and understand the “junk that mom listened to.”

With that in mind, maybe I’ll give my kids a CD burned with songs that have some historical significance for their mother. The CD can be accompanied with a small paragraph on why certain songs meant so much to “mom.” They will know that “I’m Henry the Eighth I Am,” recorded by the Herman’s Hermits, was the first song I listened to out of a jukebox in a restaurant near Lake Isabella during a camping week with my family. I played it over and over  until I accidentally hit the wrong button on the jukebox and was turned on to Tom Jones singing, “What’s New Pussycat.” I was probably the only eight year old from the San Fernando Valley who made her mother buy a 45rpm featuring the Tom Jones hit.

As my hormones were changing in junior high school and my mood swings were as out-of-control as a boomerang caught in a blizzard, I became “at-one” with the Gilbert O’Sullivan brooder, “Alone Again, (Naturally).” My kids will also know that it was during those junior high years that I really did not like my name. So, naturally, when Gilbert O’Sullivan came out with his hit, “Claire,” I wanted to change my name to Claire. Sometimes I still do.

It was also at Portola Junior High School in Tarzana that my friend Betty turned me on to Jackson Browne. My kids grew up knowing that their mother was a fan of his music but I’m not sure they know why. As author Stephen Thomas Erlewine once wrote, Browne’s music, “….provided a touchstone for a generation of maturing baby boomers coming to terms with adulthood.” Bingo. Betty and I would write out the lyrics to some of his most prolific songs like, “These Days,” and “Late For the Sky,” in our journals and knew that he wrote those lyrics especially for us.

High school was all about Carole King, Crosby, Stills and Nash, Fleetwood Mac and The Eagles. I’ll have to burn, “Hotel California,” for them and write a few words about how in 1977 I waited for three days in line at the Los Angeles Forum in Inglewood to get the best tickets possible for their tour with another friend of mine who is also named Stacey. I’m not sure I’ll tell them what happened the night I was listening to the song, “Beth,” by KISS back in October of 1975 but I will tell them that my favorite driving records is “Breakfast in America,” by Supertramp. There are some great Humboldt State stories to go along with that LP.

Yes, there is a lot my boys don’t know about me.  However, letting them know about the music I’ve loved throughout the years and why will be a great way of giving them a glimpse about who I was before I was their mom.

I love it when we get to hang on to Granddaughter Ameilia while her parents do this and that. Such was the occasion this week while her parents, my son and his wife, finished working on the Condo they are putting up for sale before starting their next adventure in another state.

Ameilia is a happy, loving, little toddler and once she’s settled into her routine with me and her granddad, all is good. The morning consists of lots of fruit for breakfast, “Dora the Explorer,” or “Dinosaur Train,” on the flat screen and a trip to the local library followed by her morning nap. She is always so happy to nap and so happy to see me or her grandad when she wakes up. In the afternoon we are either feeding the ducks, reading and learning her ABC’s, taking walks or blowing bubbles off the deck. Being with her is like the rebirth of wonder: Things I’ve taken for granted for years I’m re-learning through her eyes and enjoying all over again.

And of course, I forgot how fickle a two-year old can be. Within five minutes of picking up my husband’s youngest daughter in Reno, Ameilia no longer wanted me as her constant companion. It was all about Nichelle. Then when we headed over to Oakhurst for a family gathering the day Tioga Pass opened, more people were there to give the little Gemini all the attention she could handle.

Grandma who?

Finally, her parents returned and swept up their daughter back into their little family circle. The expression on her face when she saw her parents was priceless…as it should be.

I don’t take it personally that I’m not always the light of my granddaughter’s eye when there’s so many other people around to scoop her up into their whirlwind of love. She will always know that her “Lolly” is here for her when she comes back around.

And that is how it should be.