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Care a little?

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To my Mother
by Robert Louis Stevenson
You too, my mother, read my rhymes
For love of unforgotten times,
And you may chance to hear once more
The little feet along the floor.

This is not so much about the farm.  Sometimes I just write for therapy’s sake.

I just read “Girl on the Contrarys” post about her Thanksgiving kickball game and how her Grammy didn’t play this year.  Also about how her Grammy gave her the blessing to go ahead and blog about her if she wanted to.  Girl is plucky and honest and her posts make me smile or giggle regularly.

I had to tell Girl that I was a wee bit jealous because my mom, my kids’ “Grammie” (note we use an “ie”-ending) hasn’t read my blog and doesn’t care to, that I know of, either.  Her internet connection/computer is pretty awful.  That would be a huge contributing factor.  But also, I’m pretty sure it just doesn’t interest her.

I don’t think it is mature for me to rant.  Being a parent myself, I realize there is no way you can be perfect.  Everyone is doing their best in any given moment.  That’s what I believe.

My mom is awesome and everyone that knows her loves her to pieces.  She’s jolly and sweet and loving.  She’s funny and says hilarious things.  She works like a dog.  She loves to cook for people(hmmm, who else do I know like that?!)  She’s sometimes pops off onto some unrelated subject and we all stare at each other wondering….butterfly.

She taught me a lot about frugality and being homespun and Yankee ingenuity.  She taught me how to save every container to re-use.  She taught me how to haul off our recycling to the recycling place down the road when we lived in California.  She worked at North American Rockwell during the Apollo Lunar program while raising 5 kids. She breastfed all her babies during the heyday of formula.  She travelled alone across the U.S. more than once with the 5 of us when we were all miniature and troublesome, my sister and I in our matching homemade pinafore dresses(that matched her own homemade dress), lest we get lost.  She taught me to can and to freeze and to save. She can flute a pie like nobody’s business.  She is fiercely competitive.  She’s fascinated by the weather and competes to “top” ours/anybody’s whenever possible.  She ran off and married my dad in Las Vegas.  She’s boasted to me at being engaged 3 times(I’m not too sure that’s anything to boast about.)  She undid all my knitting, and still does, whenever I couldn’t get it right.  Then she’d re-knit it all for me. (Side note:  I’m still a horrible knitter.)  She doesn’t play kickball, like Girl‘s Grammy does, but she does play badminton.

She taught me about my ancestors.

I think I wish that she would blog.  I’d definitely read her posts.

It’s quite likely that if I care that much that my mom read my blog, I simply need to ask her to do so.  She would if she knew that it meant that much to me.

That being said, I have no problem vowing to read my kids’ blogposts.  Even if my eyes were to glaze over because I couldn’t get past technical jargon or their interests were(are) vastly different from my own.  I’m pretty sure I could learn something from reading what they’re passionate about, even if I already knew it.  Not to mention that I actually DO love to read my kids’ blogposts.

Above all, I’m thankful that I have my mom still.  Really, who cares if she doesn’t read my blog.  She’s a busy gal.

But for all you Oprah fans out there, WHAT I KNOW FOR SURE:

Grammie would rather I call her up and talk to her ANY day, than read about what is up in our life online.

Love you, mom!

Grammie demonstrates excellent “fluting” technique to SJ & Char

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