Bandie

Today I stacked 3 thin gold bracelets on my wrist. They all belonged to my grandmother. My Bandie always wore bracelets, the tiny gold chains tumbling down her wrists when she propped herself up on her elbow in bed. That's how I think of her, mostly. Comfortably reclined in her nightgown and housecoat, adorned in gold and sparkly things.

My Bandie loved things that were pretty, and in her 81 years of life she gathered a reasonably extensive collection of things that are lovely. My Bandie passed away quietly in December, leaving her lovely things to her children, including her jewelry collection which she left to my mother, her only surviving daughter.

Last week, many of the girls in my family gathered in my mother's bedroom to ooh and ahh at the tables lined with the pretty things my grandmother left to my mother, and we each chose a few things to have and wear and think of her. This morning, I stacked those bracelets on my wrist, and I thought of my grandmother.

Sometimes I forget for a minute that Bandie died. I couldn't attend any of the services or cry at her funeral. She passed at home without any preamble or fanfare sometime in middle of the night the day after my due date with Doogleberry. Four days later, my mother dressed her body in a dark room of the mortuary; in those same moments, I was delivering my baby.

I hope my Bandie danced between the two, both rooms full of love and tears.

***

My Bandie was short, "a scrub oak among redwoods!" she used to laugh, referencing my Papa's nearly universally tall family. She was small, with olive skin and dark hair that sat on her head in soft curls. She was a lady.

Bandie was kind and thoughtful and generous. She was elegant and polished. She valued good manners, good grammar, and bad jokes. She loved Beanie babies and pigs (the decorative kind) and Rottweilers (the real kind.) She loved shopping from catalogs and QVC. She loved food and parties and clothes and flowers. She loved her friends and she loved her family.

And Bandie loved my children. I was her oldest granddaughter, and my Bug her oldest great-granddaughter. The two of them played matching games on our couch after Papa died, Bandie's soft voice rising in pitch with a child-friendly sort of sing song. She loved Mr. Baggins, with his playful little grin. And I know she loved my littlest son. I don't know exactly what life before or after this one looks like, but it brings me peace to imagine her admiring my baby's golden locks and round baby cheeks as they passed each other on that road between this life and the one beyond.

Plus, it explains why he was so late. My Bandie was never on time for anything.

***

Just as I do with my Papa, I cherish many fond memories with Bandie. My parents and I lived in her home when I was a toddler, and my mom tells me stories of myself as a two year old, like the time I unknowingly snatched one of her precious Lladro statues off the coffee table and toddled across the room with it clutched in my tiny little hand. 

Later, when I visited her home by myself as a teenager, Bandie was nervous to allow me to swim by myself while she got ready for the day in her room (a process which, it bears mentioning, took hours to accomplish.) We agreed on a plan, which, in retrospect, was pretty ridiculous: I'd float on a raft while reading a book. Every few minutes, I'd ring this enormous brass bell to let her know I was still alright. Dutifully, I floated there, ringing that silly thing every few minutes to reassure her I had not drowned. After what must have been nearly an hour of ringing every 3 or 4 minutes, my Bandie appeared at the sliding door. 

"Are you ok?!", she called. "I heard you ringing the bell so I came right down!"

It still makes me laugh to think of all the bell rings she missed, and to think that she imagined that in the process of drowning I'd be able to ring that stupid bell.

***

Bandie was particular. She appreciated the fine things in life, and enjoyed surrounding herself with beauty. Bandie expected quality.

Once, when I was 15 or so, she took me through the drive-thru at Arby's. I had never seen my Bandie eat fast food before, but someone had told her about the Reuben sandwich and she wanted to try one. She leaned far out the window and spoke loudly into the intercom system. In her deliberate way of speaking, she ordered as if she was at the finest seafood establishment.

"That Reuben you have?" she asked. "Is it really--- fresh?"

I secretly laughed, imagining a fast food joint answering that question honestly. 

But since then, I've thought more about it, and about what my Bandie meant by her question, and here is what I have come up with. Whatever you are going to do, you might as well do it right.

***

When I think about it, I guess I always thought of my Bandie a little like a bird. She seemed so... delicate, like maybe the winds and the storms of the world were sometimes too much for her fragile little wings. And in some ways, I suppose maybe it was true. I think of my Bandie in her perfectly curated nest, chirping a pretty little song but only for those who stopped long enough to hear it. I feel a little sad when I think of all the times I marched by too quickly to hear her singing.

But you know what? In lots of ways, I think I was wrong about Bandie and her bird wings. After all, in the end, being delicate and particular and fragile didn't keep her from flying.

Nutritional Facts

Today Bug asked me if she could eat salad for lunch. 

I was immediately smug. "What kind of five-year-old asks for salad for lunch?" I wondered, rather satisfied with myself. "I am basically the Nutritional Mom of the Year. Hooray for vegetables!"

I took another bite of my own lunch- warmed up leftover steak on processed white bread.I'm nothing if not a shining example to my offspring.

I dug out the bag of salad, and that's when Bug gave a detailed explanation about just what kind of salad she wanted. 

Verdict?

Plain iceberg lettuce with ranch dressing. Presence of a carrot shard may warrant punishment up to and including beheading of the offending parent.

Like I said. Nutritional Mom of the Year.

Speaking of nutrition, turns out we have more than one rather particular eater around here these days. This little ball of adorable has basically only one flavor profile available to him, so you might assume he would be pretty easy to satisfy.

You'd be wrong about that, unfortunately. It's sort of a long story, but essentially one day Mama came home from a doctor's appointment to find her Doogleberry's face and neck covered in hives. He had been contentedly munching a bottle of formula, which is pretty rare for him as Mama generally serves as the pantry, and every place that formula had dribbled had immediately erupted into red, angry hives. Suddenly the terrible eczema, rashes necessitating InstaCare visits, gassiness, and that one incident of projectile vomiting (FUN! Kid is capable of some real distance!) all seemed to make sense. A call into Doogie's pediatrician supported Mama's suspicions. Kiddo's little gut is sensitive to milk proteins.

Mama rather naively volunteered to cut out dairy, thinking maybe it wouldn't be a big deal. It's not a big deal, not really. It's worth it to see our boy so happy and comfortable, he'll almost surely grow out of it in a few months, and it's not that hard to remember. Pretty much the basic rule of thumb around here these days is "if it tastes good, Kris probably can't eat it." See? Easy to remember.

Sigh. These kids.

Worth it. 

Please pass the raspberry sorbet.

Hot sill-ull (and my cake!)

Last night around 10:30, I found myself raiding my mother's pantry in search of a stray boxed cake mix. SOMEONE in our house is turning 3 today, and while I planned to make a tasty cake in a few days when we celebrate his birthday with family members, the little squirt conned me into a last minute addition.

Every day for a week or so before his birthday, I asked him what he wanted to eat on his special day. "MY CAKE!" he'd excitedly exclaim. I tried to redirect his focus to any other food-- spaghetti, hamburgers, macaroni and cheese, eggs, pizza-- you know, real, actual FOOD, but had only limited success.

Which brings us to late last night, when the stinker face managed to earn his way out of bed for a brief moment by pooping in his diaper. (Potty training this kid... now there's a prospect that makes me want to poke at my eyes with a fork.) We had considered taking him to IHOP this morning for breakfast while Bug was in preschool.  His little eyes all blurry from sleep, I asked him if he wanted pancakes for breakfast in the morning.

"Nope!" he chattered, cheerfully. "I want hot sill-ull. (Which is Baggins for 'hot cereal'- basically Cream of Wheat.) With MY CAKE!"

And so, because he is just about the most delicious, delightful, and adorable little man ever, I scrounged up an old cake mix and whipped it up at nearly 11:00 at night.

As crazy as our lives are right now-- three kids! House hunting! Work!-- I couldn't let today sneak by without a little tribute to my precious Mister Baggins. My middle child. My precocious, silly, smart, goofy little dude who could not possibly have joined our family only 3 years ago.

He is kind. He is naughty. (Oh boy, is he naughty.)

 He is witty with a wicked sense of humor. He is full of energy. Mister Baggins approaches most of life the way he approaches playing with his Daddy: head first and at full speed, arms stretched out wide and that light-up-the-room grin splitting his cheeks wide open.

Baggins can charm his way into extra cell phone time with every single one of his extended family members after Mama and Daddy have cut him off. He can quote State Farm commercials (She. Sounds. Hideous. Well, she's a guy, so...) He can sing the ABCs and "Do You Want to Build a Snowman" and, sort of embarrassingly, plenty of current radio hits that may or may not be entirely kid friendly. Baggins loves hunting tigers with his cousin, loves his slippers, loves his big sister, and loves Matchbox cars.

Oh yeah.

And Mister Baggins loves cake.

Mama loves you, Nugget. Right up to the moon. Happy birthday.