A Grand Kid Day

Lucy, Jessi and Chloë make their Grand Entrance

Nothing is more fun than a day with grandkids! (I've had quite a few lately, and I know my stuff.) I took this trio to the Grand America in downtown Salt Lake City for the Grand Tour.

We started with brunch.

Pancakes with strawberries and cream cheese,

crepes with bananas and nutella ...

Hot chocolate with fluffy mounds of whipped cream ... "Can we go to La Bonne Vie after this?" they asked. The French bakery outside the Garden Cafe was filled with pastel macaroons and chocolate truffles and had caught their imaginations on the way in. "You don't have dessert after breakfast," I explained.

"But this is brunch!"

"Prepare for the bathroom of your life," Chloë told the others.

"We get our own little rooms, with chandeliers."

(It's a grand thing when toilets make such a splash.)

"Look at these old fashioned phones!" Jess exclaimed.

"Are they from the '90s?"

Cords, buttons, and even a dial—

"Where's the caller ID?"

The Grand Finale was a visit to Jou Jou,

a toy boutique in the hotel for grand kids.

"This is the ultimate doll house," Lucy said. It was standing next to a giant robot that told knock-knock jokes in a monotone robot voice, after it greeted us with:

"I-can't-give-a-high-five-but-I-can-say-hi-five-times ...

hi-hi-hi-hi-hi."

A grand piano was on the floor in front of organ pipes filled with brightly colored bubble gums. When the girls stepped on the keys the music started and so did the dance moves.

Making memories in grand proportions

There's nobody quite like grandkids. They love completely with no expectation except receiving love back. It's a forgiving, tolerant, accepting kind of love. They aren't trying to improve us, or change us. We're good enough. Who else loves us that way? They aren't embarrassed by us, and actually expect us to be a little eccentric, which gives us confidence to just be ourselves. All in all, it's just grand!

"And he shall turn the heart of the fathers to the children,

and the heart of the children to their fathers . . ."

—Malachi 4:6

Oma Days

Oma Day

There are Pioneer Days, Strawberry Days and Onion Days up and down our state, but my favorite summer days are Oma Days. The kids are out of school, travelin-grands come from far away, and I get to hang out with my favorite people. For six weeks this summer grandkids are at the top of my to-do list. They pair off and treat me to the pleasure of their company for an Oma Day.

Chelsea and Ashley (both 7)

I took these guys to Walmart where we bought fishing poles,

and headed out to my neighborhood lake.

Chelsea at Oquirrh Lake

It's 65 acres, almost four miles around, with playgrounds and picnic spots scattered here and there. Sailboats, canoes and row boats are available to residents and there are 13 miles of walking trails. We just needed a few yards.

Ashley prepared for giant fish.

Since it's stocked with trout, bluegill and bass, I was certain we'd each catch our two fish limit. The girls were so worried they'd be pulled into the water by giant fish, they insisted on wearing life jackets. Unfortunately, I forgot about hooks and worms. The fishing lines floated aimlessly on top of the water until we got bored.

Ashley and Chelsea on Soda Row

Then we dashed across the street for a run through the splash pad ...

and gelato cones.

Scott, Pete, Brad and Dan

The guys went golfing one morning,

and biking the next.

The ladies had an outing at City Creek.

Gabi, Sam, Brad

Jordanelle was the scene for a boating adventure.

I watched in awe as the littlest kids rode the waves,

Chloe, Emmie, Jessi

... and the experts surfed the wake.

Eliza and Jill

The twinkies requested their favorite cupcake store.

Then we went to the Oma Clubhouse for dress-ups and a tea party.

Gabi watching fireworks

After a grand display of fireworks and a month of fiery weather, we woke up to rain and cool temperatures. Perfect for a weekend in the woods! The car is loaded, and the Oma tent pack-ups are ready to go; s'mores are waiting! I'll report next week!

Family Easter Egg Hunt

"Dear! I think you're the Easter Bunny!"

Grama Lundgren used to have an Easter Egg Hunt in her gigantic front yard for 24 grandkids. She spent hours boiling, dying and hiding a dozen dozens of eggs; we spent ten minutes running wildly through the apple trees in our Easter bonnets and bow ties; then we all spent days eating egg salad sandwiches. The work-to-fun ratio was out of balance, so I tweaked the tradition. An Oma Party always includes the preparation: instead of doing the work myself, I let the guests do it—that becomes the party! Let me explain.

Back when I was a full-time mom, I'd often announce a Halverson Hero Happening. Our family gathered in the kitchen (we were a party of nine) for a planning session, assignments were made, and the festivities began. Scotch tape, balloons and crepe paper appeared; pudding was instant (with lots of squirt whipped cream) and games were assembled. Fifteen minutes later colorful streamers and excited screamers filled the family room—the party had planned itself.

With that background I'm sharing some tried and true suggestions:

Ten Easy Steps for an Easter Egg Hunt

1. Put an invitation on your kids' pillow or plate (or send an e-vite to the kids in your life.)
2. At the start of the party, give each kid a roll of colored crepe paper and a roll of tape, then set the timer. (You'll be kept busy finding the end of somebody's scotch tape.) They can twist and drape—it doesn't matter how it looks in the end. Decorating is the fun part. The timer is necessary because they won't want to stop.
   
3. Gather everybody on the floor and give each guest ten plastic eggs. Dump packages of jelly beans, bubble gum, etc. in a big bowl and let everybody fill their eggs. (For a big group, have every family bring something to contribute.)
4. While the guests fill eggs, you fill two eggs per person with something unique: McDonald's coupons, dollar bills, quarters (depending on how old they are and how rich you are) or slips of paper that say Sing a Song, Tell a Joke, etc. for an impromptu program. It helps if these eggs look different somehow (color, size, whatever) than the others.
5. Give each kid a paper sack and crayons and let them decorate it as an Easter basket.
6. While an adult hides the eggs, the kids go somewhere else with another adult and learn to do the bunny hop, or play "Who stole the cookies from the cookie jar?"
   
7. Youngest to oldest, a pair of kids are released and told to find ten eggs, plus two of the unique eggs.
8. Everybody stuffs candy in their mouths.
9. Everybody dumps their eggs out into their sacks, and the plastic eggs are collected and taken to the garage until next year.
10. Talent show: sing songs, tell jokes, do somersaults, dance the bunny hop—show your true colors, come out of your shell.
    

Make everybunny happy!

How does your family celebrate Easter?
I'm all ears!

Make a Point: Use Yourself as the Bad Example

An Oma (Condensed) Storybook.

A true-ish story taken from Oma's childhood,
illustrated by photos from the Cousin's Club Photo Collection.

"Open wide," said Dr. Hall. I was sitting in the torture chair, with the dentist picking around between my gums. He looked over the holes left where my baby teeth had fallen out. "You have a little mouth," he said. "There's not room for your big teeth to grow in. We'll have to pull a few molars, use elastics and headgear to stretch your mouth bigger." We'll see about that, I thought to my chicken-hearted self. I'm basically a wimp who looks for the easy way off a painful path.

When I got home, I rushed to the mirror, opened wide and peered inside. Bubble gum had turned my tongue a ghastly purple, and I could see nothing pretty in there. Teeth twisted every which way—I needed a bigger mouth, and it wasn't going to be pleasant getting one.

Polly shoved me aside, wanting a turn at the mirror. Floppy white legs dangled over her shoulders with ribbons tied at the feet. My crazy little sister was wearing a pair of tights on her head, pretending she had long braids! "Why are you wearing Suzy-long-legs for hair?" I asked. "You look dopey!" She burst out crying. "You have a big mouth!" she yelled.

A big mouth—just what I needed! Maybe I could develop this skill and avoid some dental pain. It was actually pretty easy. I just said everything I thought, without thinking about it first. By the end of the day my sisters and my dad and brother, had all commented on my big mouth. Words were flying wildly and my tongue was out of control when I found Tommy pitching a pup-tent in the backyard.


"It's going to fall down," I teased. He didn't look up. "You're not a real cowboy," I said, and threw his pint-size ten-gallon on top of the carport. He pulled his cap-gun, but I took my best shot: "The fringe on your shirt is plastic," I whooped. Tommy looked down at his shirt with tear-filled eyes.

"That's enough, young lady," said a dark shadow behind me. "You can spend the rest of the day in your room." Mom's voice was soft and controlled. Mine wasn't.

"I hate you!" I yelled up at her. "I hate you!" I'll never forget the heartbreak in her eyes when I said those words. I had hurt the person who loved me most, even when I was the most unlovable. "I hate you." I said it softer this time, more to myself.

In my room I looked in the mirror. I saw a gargantuan tongue flopping around, out of control, and, just as everyone had told me, a big mouth. Even my teddy bear didn't want to get cozy with all the venom drooling out of my lips.

Mom knocked and then came in and sat on the bed. I couldn't stop looking at her lovely smile. And something I'd never noticed before—she had a crooked tooth!


"My mouth was too little for all my teeth," Mom explained, "and some of them crowded on top of each other. I didn't feel pretty for a long time. That's why I want you to have room for your teeth."

"Will I be pretty?" I asked between sobs.

"You know, Marty, ugly words always make a girl ugly, even if she has lovely lips and terrific teeth. Beautiful words always make a woman beautiful, even if her teeth are all skeewampus.

"Dr. Hall can use elastics and headgear to make your smile perfect, but if you have a big mouth, you won't be pretty." I understood what she meant by a big mouth.

At dinner that night I sat across from Polly. "I like your braids," I told her. Her dimple showed, and I knew my opinion mattered. That made me feel nice, so I said, "You can use my barrettes if you want to." I looked over at Tommy and asked, "Are you sleeping in your tent tonight?" He nodded, and straightened his hat. "Looking good, Cowboy," I said and felt even nicer.

"What did the dentist say, Marty?" Dad asked.

"He said my mouth wasn't big enough," I reported. "There's not much I can do, except be patient while he uses elastics and headgear to make it bigger."

Mom seemed to have forgotten my ugly words. "Marty's lovely lips won't have to hide anything unpleasant in her mouth," she said. "because her words are as pretty as her smile."

Not quite The End.

As Marty grew up, her challenge was always to control her tongue, and keep her big mouth shut a little more often. When she met Dee Halverson he told her his motto:

"Think over everything you say, but don't say everything you think."

Dee always said kind, thoughtful things so Marty decided to marry him. Even though she's now a 62-year-old Oma, she still has trouble controlling her tongue. She's learned to think over everything she says, but it's usually after she's already said it!

Luckily the people she loves are understanding. Her children and grandchildren are her best examples: they are beautiful because they think and say beautiful things. See for yourself!

(Just a few examples of teeth coming in every which way.)
The Cousins are all darling because of the sweet words
that decorate their smiles with love!

An Oma tip:

Tell a story about how you learned (or tried to learn) a lesson one of your posterity is working on right now. You'll have a new bond! It's good for kids to know Mom and Dad, Aunt Clara and Uncle Max and even Great-grandpa Hugh had a few habits to break and new skills to master.

Improvement can be a family affair!


Set a New Year's Goal to work on with a loved one,
just for fun!

New Year's Goal

Dee 2010

Dee was checking the progress of his soup. Feeling reflective, I was rummaging around for purpose and meaning in life. I asked him, "What should be our goal for the new year?"

He suddenly twirled around the kitchen in his socks, struck a familiar pose and started to sing his answer:

"Ah, ah, ah, ah...
Stayin' alive, just stayin' alive."

Good goal, Dear!

(Being married to a man who makes me laugh

is a fun way to live.)

Set Your Own Pace!

"Is there really a human race? Is it going on now, all over the place?"

—Jamie Lee Curtis

At twenty I started out at my own steady pace.

At thirty I ran faster. I was losing face.

At forty I stumbled late in the day.

At fifty the finish line seemed further away.

At sixty I wonder:
How long is this race, anyway?

Do you ever feel you're running faster than you can?

Years ago a well-meaning teacher set a goal for herself and included the whole class in her challenge. She was going to do a good deed, something extra, outside her normal responsibilities, every day. Each week she passed around a sheet to sign if we'd met the goal, which even included a place to record how many "service hours" we'd given. I was totally caught up in what became a contest to be "the most charitable woman."

Looking back I realize how nutty this was. I had a husband, seven kids and a dog at home who needed to be fed. Bedraggled plants begged for water from their macrame hangers; the dryer beeped endlessly; the closets glared messily, all calling for my attention. Teenagers sat in class every Sunday expecting a lesson, and great-grandmas called, wondering when I was coming to visit. Birthday cakes, haircuts, ear-aches, dance lessons, science projects—none of these counted as good deeds. They were my normal responsibilities.

Although I was running as fast as I could go, I felt like a failure because my to-do list left good deed unchecked more often than not. When the weekly sign-up sheet came around to me, I was embarrassed to pass it on, knowing I looked pretty uncharitable with my meager service hours.

Years later I was in a class on budgeting. The teacher cautioned us about living beyond our means—spending more than we had. Suddenly it dawned on me: I have 24 hours a day. Circumstances already claimed most of them. Setting goals with time I don't have is living beyond my means. One woman's finish line had become my stumbling block.

Misty wrote a cute post about her New Year's Resolutions, reflecting on the baby books she hasn't started since her twins were born. But how many baths has she given? How many late nights and early mornings has she put in? She probably doesn't even have time to count the appointments to the obstetrician, and then the pediatrician, that have kept her kids healthy. Misty's running a different race right now, pushing a triple jogging stroller at full speed.

Don't despair young moms. Someday your course will lead back to your baby books. In the meantime, give yourself a breather, and skip once in a while.

There's no human race. The run itself is the pay.

(Where am I going in such a rush, anyway?)

Random Musings

Els Mere Village

I've spent a lot of time in a foreign land lately. Kirby Puckernut lives on WordPress, and they speak a different language over there. After I post on Kirby's blog, I come back to Blogger whispering "There's no place like home, there's no place like home . . ." The icons along the top of the page are familiar, the publish post button is colorful, and save now is easy to find. Images don't jump randomly through the text, but land neatly where I want them to go.

My website is on Square Space, and I feel like a stranger there, too. It's a different culture. I love Blogger—plain old Blogger, not the new version. Why do they keep updating everything? Gmail changed things around just after I got comfortable, and Google Reader has a disappearing navigation system now. I'm an old dog and new tricks are confusing.

I'm getting tired of my ghosting gig. Writing is its own reward and I love putting words together, but it's difficult to write in another person's voice and wonder the whole time if I'm getting it right. Because they get the feedback, I never know. So far, however, people are more willing to pay me when my name's not on it. Just like William Porter—he was an ex-con and nobody wanted his name on stuff either. So he signed his work O. Henry. I guess Kirby Puckernut can work for me.

Since I pose as an elf, I did a little elfing myself today.

Oma's traditional Open Me Now package,
filled with trinkets, activity pages, stickers and bubblegum,
hit the assembly line.

Opa hit the post office line.

Back to my original theme: I love Blogger, I love blogging. And I love you for reading my blog, (even when it's totally random.)

Visit Kirby's blog
(See how music saved one family's Christmas.)

Long-Distance Grandparents

Homemade donuts

There are perks to having out-of-town kids.
For one thing, when you visit, you get in on breakfast.


Saturday morning treat.

The women in our family are fabulous cooks,
so we go from house to house and sample their specialties.

"Has anybody noticed you guys are twins?"

Micah's birthday was a perfect reason to drive to Denver. It's so fun to see our kids in their natural habitat! Although we love to have them at our house, at their house they're most comfortable being the people they've become.

I was chatting with Candice this morning while she made a meatloaf (wrapped in bacon!) The kids were upstairs getting ready for church and from the kitchen I could see each one go into their parent's bedroom and come out with Sunday outfits draped on a hanger. "Micah is the ironer," Candice said. "Every Sunday he presses everybody's clothes." This was their family in action, and we saw the details.

There are tons of advantages to having kids in town. I can watch the progression of a loose tooth, go to kindergarten programs and see Halloween costumes in person. We can bring each other soup, pop in to see the Christmas tree and know there's emergency help just a few minutes away.

But there are advantages to having faraway kids, too. Visits are condensed and intense--for a few days we see it all. Not only did we see Lauren's play, we saw her chattering nervously for hours before, and acting like a diva for hours after. Three kids have a piano recital tomorrow night and not only will we see the performance, we've enjoyed practice sessions all weekend. The boys shoveled a neighbor's driveway as a good deed, and were thrilled when she gave them $20. Their dad reminded them that a good deed is its own reward, and they willingly took the money back. These are details we don't see with our in-town kids, although I know they happen in their homes, too. Observing life close-up is compensation for missing out on the day-to-day.

The Colorado Cousins Club

Long before our kids grew up we imagined them living far and wide. Dee said we'd sell everything, buy an RV and travel around the country visiting one kid or another. In our old age we realized we prefer indoor to outdoor plumbing, and nobody wants us to live for months at a time in their driveway. So the RV idea was scuttled (grandkids and grandparents are preferable in small doses anyway.) But we're friendly with some faraway places because they've lived there: Minneapolis, Seattle, Yardley PA, Cleveland, Toledo, Denver, San Diego, Boston, St. Louis, Idaho Falls, Fountain Valley CA, and Phoenix.

It's great to be a traveling Oma!

How do you stay close to faraway loved ones?
(Here's an idea.)

Any long-distance Christmas ideas?
(Here's an easy one.)

I've already done all mine. Tell me some of yours!

Interior Design: Playroom

Amy's an artist.
Always has been.

She was just a kid when she started drawing on my walls. I remember a little house sketched next to the light switch in her bedroom, and some crayon designs on the closet door. A few years later she painted life-sized stick figure kids playing on our basement walls, complete with flowers and trees. It was darling!

The other day she arrived at my door with brushes, masking tape and a few cans of paint. "Want your Christmas present early?" she asked. "I'm here to paint the Cousin's Clubhouse."

That's what the grandkids named the closet under the stairs when they recognized its possibilities. I hung a full-length mirror at the back (next to a basket of dress-ups) and tucked in a toy train, but it still needed some personality.

Amy brought it! Keeping with our travel motif, she sketched a scene from Amsterdam, then taped off the buildings with masking tape and painted every other one. When the second coat was dry, she removed the tape from one building and re-taped its neighbor, so the colors wouldn't blend at the edges.

She cleaned up her gear and left it to dry overnight.

The next day she came back with black markers to add some details, and outline the buildings freehand, in her trademark style. Her girls inspected the work, and gave it high marks.

Tile corkboards were set in the painted frames, and members of the Cousins Club took their place on the official roster. The moral of my story is this:

Let your kids draw on the walls.
It's good practice!