Ann Shields on Letting Go

Mea Culpa

In my last blog about men being from Mars, apparently I have offended a few good men.  So this is my disqualifier, guys.  I didn't mean you.

Okay, when I implied that men were not as fascinated by babies as women I did use a wide brush to paint a zillion guys.  Not that women have not been lumped into unflattering categories by the general population.  But that is not the point here.

I do know sweet, sensitive men who love babies, tear up at the American flag, and are not self conscious about hugging other guys in a purely platonic manner. I mean, hey who hasn't noticed all those football jocks patting each other on the rear.

On the other hand, I have one friend who confessed that her husband didn't pay much attention to their children until they reached one year old.  It bugged her, she confessed.  As one new father  remarked about his baby, she eats, sleeps and poops.  That is what I dubbed the ESP's of babyhood.

But this same father, said the other day, "I was laying there with my wife on one shoulder and my daughter on the other and my cat in my lap.  What could be better?"   I think he got moist eyes, but maybe it was my gooey imagination.

 Sorry to say that I probably got my cynical bent from my mother who loved to tell over the years about how I cried a lot; they lived with her in-laws in those depression days, and one night she claimed she stopped my frustrated father from tossing me against the wall.  I don't believe it for a minute because my father adored me. 

Of course, now that I think about it, I was aready walking when he worshipped at me feet.  Who knows the truth?  That is why memoirs are suspect.  That goes for all memories as well. 

Thankfully, I can remember sitting with my father and listening to radio programs like Fibber McGee and Molly while my mother worked the night shift in a  factory.

I remember him bringing me coffee in bed on a Sunday morning, and, later,  staring down the happless boys who picked me up for dates.  In our family, I never left the house before kissing my parents goodby, even while my date stood waiting.

These day, as I work on my weekly Crossword puzzle, I recall how smart my father was.   He did puzzles in ink and filled in all the squares.  He was a sweet man who cried at my wedding.  He never even visited Mars.  Here's to the rest of you guys who never saw that planet either.  Mea Culpa again.

So says Sassy 

 

 

Telephone Mania and Other Gadgets

I have a telephone in my bathroom.  Doesn'teveryone?   It really began with my attraction to gadgets.  When my computer guru, Randy, saw the box holding my six telephone headsets, he said, "you do like your toys."   He was laughing, of course, while my mind protested.  But he has my number, all of them.

In my defense, I could blame my daughter, Judith, for the six headsets.  When I was visiting her recently, we sauntered into her local Fryes because I needed a new phone system.

So hereI can really blame my husband, Des, who complained about the small sized numbers on his cordless phone in his home office.  Plus, our  stationery phone with the answering machine in the kitchen wasn't picking up phone message anymore.  Instead, some mysterious electronic troublemaker managed to get the messages switched to my home office phone.  It is our silent prowler, we blame for mysterious disappearances and quirky happenings in our home.

But I digress.  There we were in Fryes standing before rows of telephone answering machine set ups and I found the perfect one, with the stationery set plus  two handsets.  Ready to seal the deal, along came Judith with this huge box with the same brand name, everything cordless and 6 handsets.   You have to get this one, she urged. It cost just as much as the two set one did.   Such a deal.  She seemed so proud of herself, I had to buy it.   Besides, the numbers were much larger, better to see to dial,  I will tell Des later.

 Once back home, I stared at the box for a week, until I screwed up my courage and opened the darn thing.  There sat on my bed, all these handsets, separate stands, battery packs, manual and me.  The manual indicated that all the handsets had to be charged for at least 17 hours.  Our house looked like a way station for transmitters to Mars.  But I did it, all my myself.

Serendipitously speaking, Randy showed up to help me with a computer problem just about the time I was ready to unhook the old system and launch my new one.  Did that and voila, we are only left with where to put all the handsets.  Thus, one was left over and therefore, it is in the bathroom.  This only brings up one concern.

When you call our house, you will never know from which room we are answering your call.   It could be in the kitchen as I stir the sauce for spaghetti, or in the bedroom as we watch Mike Rowe sink into a manhole during his TV stint on Dirty Jobs.  Or it could be in the bathroom while answering another call.  You will never know, and we will never tell.

So says Sassy

Road Trip to Gracie

In case you are living on another planet and haven't heard, I have a new great granddaughter.  Her name is Grace Aurora Koleckar.  My mother's name was Grace Marie Pinelli.  I am Ann Marie Shields.  Note the connections?

Grace has long fingers, like mine, and two crooked little fingers, a family trait going way back to my maternal grandmother. 

Before little Gracie arrived, she managed to keep us waiting, in no hurry burst forth from  my granddaughter, Elle aka  Beth.  But I was in a hurry to meet her, thus the planned road trip with my best friend Donna up the coast of California.  Donna heading further north to visit a friend in Folsom, no-not someone with a number on a picture.  Truly.  

 Gracie had the good grace to arrive the day before we hit the road, making her dad, Kevin, an authentic father, it being Father's Day and all.

Donna and I meandered up the coast, enjoying the rolling hills and open road, stopping at Apple Farm in San Luis Obispo for lunch.  A touristy place with great food, easy on and off access from highway 101.

By the time I got to daughter Judith's house, her first grandchild was already in a back bedroom, ready for her debut.  Of course, she was perfect in every way.  But who can believe a love struck great grandmother.

The next five days flew by.  I put in lots of bonding time with Grace, cuddling her as I whispered to her about the other Gracie in my life, my mom.  Mom was independent I told little Gracie, and she responded by flailing her arms out of the swaddlng blanket.  She wanted to be free already.  Just like my Mom.  At three days old, Grace wrapped her hands around my finger and held on.  At the same time, she wrapped her life around my heart. 

When she was four days old, she came along to Jason's Cafe in Menlo Park.  She was bundled in her mother's wraparound, as four generations ate.   Well, Judith, Elle and I ate.  Grace just tried to stretch her neck to check out the place, probably trying to figure out how to get her arms of that contraption that bound her.

What more can I say other than an observation about men and women when it comes to babies.  Women can stare for hours in endless fascination at an infant, especially if there is a genetic tie.  Men can handle the bonding for may be ten minutes max, while reaching for the remote.  They truly are from Mars, after all.  Long live the difference.

So says Sassy

 

 

 

If confession is good for the soul, here goes. Ever since I have become addicted to checking out Facebook far too often, I am in the throes of blogger's block. Since there areno twelve step programs for this addiction, I may have to go cold turkey. I am therefore taking a leave of absence on Facebook to get back tomy first love, real writing, as in blogs or any other lengthy form of creativity. Bye guys, I am still your friends. Don't forgetme. :(