10 Habits of Highly Effective Babas

A struggling novice Baba who grew up without a Baba of her own is perhaps not the best authority to compile this list. However, what I did have was a mentor - the Super Baba - my mother.  On call more often than was probably good for her, her priority was always the kids – not the adults. Despite a demanding job of her own she had, in retrospect, boundless energy.  She gave freely, they love(d)her to smithereens; her house was their Happy Place. What I know about Baba-ing I learned from her. The Traditional Baba which my mother embodies is the family matriarch.  Family decisions were, even at an unconscious level, made with Baba’s reaction in mind. Things are different now and the modern Baba has to walk the line between being an asset and a liability to her offspring. So tread lightly...

1. Don’t give advice unless asked.  And should the cold day in hell arrive when you are asked for advice, be wary.  Even though I have never been suspected of holding my tongue, my tongue is, in fact, nearly severed from biting it so often. I know this is the right thing to do because when I asked my mother, a very traditional Baba, to contribute to this list, her first suggestion was: Give Advice.  And a cautionary note to all you passive-aggressive Babas out there (which is nearly all of you):  telling a story about your experiences as a parent is an underhanded way of giving advice.  Just sayin’…

2. Do not call the baby ‘my baby’.  Unless you want to see your offspring rise up and morph into a Grizzly Bear version of the Uber Parent, then do not make this mistake.  A low warning growl, pupilary dilation, extension of claw tips and the words That’s Not Your Baby, will make the distinction clear.  If you’re lucky they’ll soften the blow by adding “I’m your baby” at the end.  Which is really dear if you think about it. 

3. Do what you’re asked to do and only that. Throwing things out and re-arranging items where they cannot be found could, in retrospect, be seen as a stressor. While doing dishes and laundry are acceptable and perhaps appreciated, re-arranging the furniture and organizing your offspring’s correspondence, may not be.

4. Feed them. The true test of a traditional Baba’s power lies in her ability to feed a lot of people really well, really fast, with no notice.  Having a smorgasbord ready at any time of day is the true mark of the Super Baba. All Super Babas have at least 2 turkeys in the freezer, 8 pies, and 6 rings of kovbasa. Similarly, no self-respecting Baba will allow her kids to leave a family dinner without a Safeway bag full of Tupperware containing leftovers.  Stock phrases such as “Who’s going to eat all this?” can be used to guilt unwilling recipients into at least taking the leftovers home and disposing of them there. Modern adaptations of this rule may involve Grampa whipping up this feast while Baba goes for a swim.

5. Do not undermine parents’ decisions.  I have a certain amount of experience in this area.  Stomping my feet and brandishing my independence did absolutely nothing to discourage my mother the Super Baba from overturning my edicts regarding the raising of children.  Turns out she was usually right, but that’s not the point.  On a closely related theme, if your kids snap at you don’t take it personally.  It won’t be the last time you’ll be reprimanded so suck it up Princess and move on.

6.  Baba’s House, Baba’s rules.  While modern parents value the art of negotiation and of developing the child’s Inner Boss, at her house Baba has all the cards (a situation Grampa has lived with for what I’m sure feels like centuries).  Naps are not optional, sound-effects fruitless, resistance futile. People who wear diapers do not make decisions. It’s the army.  An army of delicious food, monkeying around, playing outside, hugging, lullabies, and silly songs.  But still the army. Complaint department:  3000 km that-a-way. Although soft-hearted Grampa is the sympathetic court of appeal, the chances of recapitulation are slim. 

7. Use the BBC:  Baba Babi Ckazala.  The literal translation, ‘Baba Told Other Babas’, doesn’t convey the beauty of this communication system between women (subset grandmothers) that has been used since the dawn of time to spread gossip at light speed.  However, the more mundane but vital use is to support one another by talking about your grandkids, your parents, your marriage, the world in general, your worries, your aches and pains, your dreams and plans, and who died recently. And bitching.  Don’t forget bitching. While men do their mental processing while watching tiny creatures run up and down a field, women share their experiences.  Any social structure that’s survived for that many millennia is there for a reason.  Use it.

8.  Be willing to change with the times.  The previous generation had one authority on child-raising and child development: Dr. Spock.  Since his book was written the world has become a more complicated and perilous place.  Research on every aspect of child-raising has resulted in rules that overturn the lessons of experience passed from generation to generation.  It is common now to read of things we did in the old days that might now be considered a sign of neglect or negligence. Although many of the new guidelines strike me as dubious at best, I do know that if we had had access to the research available now, we would have done the same thing as our kids are doing.  If science replaces the common sense lessons of time then so be it. Nostalgia is a luxury.

9.  Rejoice in the Common Enemy.  My mother used to say that the reason grandparents and grandchildren get along so well is that they have a common enemy. While the observation is counter to modern thinking where we all work as a team, it does ring true in some respects.  Baba’s and Grampa’s house is a refuge from the realities of growing up, of training for real life.  It is a place where you are always perfect.  It is Time-Out in the nicest sense of the word.  What child doesn’t need grandparents who melt like butter just looking at you, who let you set the agenda, who let you carry on in the messiest ways, whose arms and rocking chair are a respite from the increasingly serious and demanding world?  If this wholesale spoiling of grandchildren gets you in trouble with the Enemy, then so be it.

 10. Tell your kids they're doing a good job.  Because they are.  Or you would've raised Holy Hell.  

      

    

      

Buster and She Who Must Be Obeyed - A cautionary dietary tail

Overhead conversations between my handlers alerted me to forthcoming changes.  High pitched happiness (which usually precedes dog-park outings) coincided with the phrase “Buster’s going to school!”. OK, I’ll bite.  Sounds interesting. 

If only I’d known.

A short car ride (I prefer the window down even in the coldest weather) resulted in the bonanza of all dog-parks – indoor, with a playground, populated by several dogs of varying shape and sociability.  We were given 10 minutes to extract vital biochemical olfactory information from each other’s butts - an enjoyable activity that terminated in the appearance of She Who Must Be Obeyed.  There are people who can travel through dogdom without even disturbing the air around them and there are those who reek of Power and leave the Smell of Fear in their path. Her first words to my handlers are “What does this dog eat?”  Female handler replies jocularly “The usual: fresh bread and butter.” No laughter.  Male handler quickly explains my dietary regimen to which She Who Must Be Obeyed replies, “Starting today he’s on half-rations.  After two weeks, give him half of that.” 

As she speaks, the word Noooooooooooooo escapes from me and I see myself lunging in slow motion to stop the calamity unfolding before me.  Except I couldn’t lunge because I was in a Stay.  As my head slumps to the ground I know my life in its present incarnation, is over.

As the offspring of trailer park parents there is nothing in my genetic code that would allow me to find merit in starvation.  Others of my breed are scrawny and nervous, the legacy of endlessly herding sheep with the occasional reinforcement of consuming one. (The ultimate Uh-oh). I, however, enjoy my food.  Pizza nights, fresh artisanal bread, those little bits of burnt fat from steaks.  Not that it comes easy, but with stealth and intelligence, much is possible.  As a result, unlike the others canines in our neighborhood, I have accumulated an impressive layer of fat; a symbol in the animal kingdom of success - nay - victory.  I have achieved my present state not through chance but through cunning and guile, the genes for which, sadly, will die with me. Damn you Darwin.

The tactics I use to accumulate calories range from simple trolling to applied physics.  Superior mass gives me free rein to elbow my way to the cat dish.  Feline protests, though painful, are rare.  The creation of elaborate distractions provides opportunity to inhale tender morsels of Rollie Roll that are intended for my toothless Rescue Dog Roomie cowering under the table. The occasional lapsed attention of my handlers can result in untended butter dishes on the counter that somehow fall to the floor.  (I am saved from consequences by the accepted dogma that disciplining after the fact when there is no longer a clear link between cause and effect, is pointless.  At this I laugh maniacally.)  Another tried and true scam is the “I haven’t been fed yet” con.  Playing one handler against the other, inserting the wedge and with the full force of emotion, eliciting a second feeding. Brilliant. Drive-by feeding is another under-appreciated source of calories.  Plates left untended on the coffee table, tasty morsels thrown by undisciplined toddlers over the side of the high chair, garbage left by the door…. The opportunities are infinite.  In short, a dog that settles for rations lacks imagination.

One month and 10 pounds later, I reassess.  Admittedly I’ve lost my waddle.  I can jump and run with more speed.  Ok, I can jump and run. The cats have more reason to fear me as starvation has heightened my senses, making me a more worthy adversary. In agility class I am earning the grudging respect of She Who Must Be Obeyed.  Yesterday I found myself walking the spine of the couch - something that would have led to disaster one short month ago.  As a leaner meaner version of myself, my eyes are wide open. However, when I close my eyes, I can still smell the fresh bread emerging from the oven.  A dog can dream.

The Good Grandma Scale

Grandma’s Briefs, The Nana Blogs, The GaGa sisterhood, Grammology….  Having been advised by the blogmeisters to peruse sites similar to my own, I’m overwhelmed and intimidated by what I read.

Who are these people?  What sweet pot of sticky toffee did they emerge from?  Is anyone really that nice? "7 Ways to Say Congratulations, You’re Going to be Grandparents” and “Another Ponytail Donated to Love", "Bonding Bragging and Benefits", "The Great Disneyland Adventure", "Fun Sandwiches".  I am way out of my depth here. 

I’ve never thought to make a brag book, and I forget to show off my iphone photos.  I don’t get coloring, and I’d sooner eat glass than go to Disneyland again.  My idea of a good time with my grand babies is sitting opposite their high chair laughing while we chew on bones and make rude noises.  Distractions consist of going outside to wander around or having them watch in-house Dogs and Cats TV.  Treats must have fibre.  They’ve never seen any cookies I’ve made for them because I ate them all. I avoid the new children's books because the authors sound like they're on crack. I forget to positively reinforce through praise and I’ve been known to use inappropriate language.  I have no tips on Nap Time other than the use of a full Nelson in the rocking chair and an extensive repertoire of nonsense songs. My baby proofing consists of picking up after the most recent fiasco. I rarely think to buy them presents, and I’m chronically short on clean bibs. I look forward to the time when they can help sort laundry and operate a mop.  Picking weeds in the garden is a life skill I can’t wait to teach.

In short, there is little to recommend me on the Good Grandma scale.

Except love.

Night Symphony: Baba in Bedlam

Roarfooshirrrrrrriek! The dear man next to me has assumed his night-time persona.  A chimera of Darth Vader and Snuffleupagus, the CPAP’s ungodly suction and mechanical exhalation unnerve me. As I lay beside him in the dark, one of two arms clad in tightly laced black gauntlets rises ominously from the bed.  An index finger reaches out menacingly, but lands softly on his forehead where it traces soft circles on the skin – a vestige of childhood self-soothing.  I smile.

Earlier, as I watch him gear-up for bed I am thankful that a CPAP allows him to sleep peacefully without threat of heart attack from sleep apnea.  I am grateful that a simple rigid gauntlet that stops the wrist from flexing can prevent the numbness from his dubiously diagnosed ‘trigger thumbs’. However, as I watch him arm-up, empathy and gratitude are so nearly over-ridden by the urge to break into convulsive laughter.  It never gets old.  As he slides into sleep and the symphony begins, I wait to see whether my accumulated exhaustion will triumph over the physics of air moving through tubes...... Nope, not tonight.  

Having hauled my pillow to the spare room, the Black Beast on the bed huffs and growls at this clear breach of territory as he allows himself to be shoved to the wall.  Making a mental note to clarify my status as pack leader in the morning, I slide between the coolness of cotton and the warmth of duck down, and drift.

What is that noise? I open one eye to see The Beast observing me at close quarters. Head tilted in the canine version of WTF, he eyes me with a mixture of delight and trepidation.  A new game or a medical emergency? We stare at each other.  I hear it too.  Rice Krispies ....... whissssstle…. Rice Krispies.   It’s me.  The sound is, as above, the physics of air moving through tubes. I rise, mentally tracking the last known position of the inhaler.  Rifling through purse, swim bag, coat pocket and other likely spots, it surfaces eventually. OK. Lips and teeth around spout, big Darth inhale… squirt ... Wait….10-9-8-... Gasp.  And again. Climbing the stairs back to bed I shake my head with wonder at the quiet, still night outside the window.

20 minutes later my eyes open to bedlam.  The Beast, scrabbling Fred Flinstone style to find purchase on the slippery hardwood barks hysterically in 5 alarm fire mode. Nutty Little Rescue Dog joins the fracas.  I pause momentarily to wonder why we spend money on an alarm system. The cause of the current fiasco?  Piano Playing Cat.  On her way from piano bench to piano top she has traversed the last octave in a shrill call to arms. The Beast, infuriated by both broken slumber and the impudence of one of his charges, barrels down the stairs.  Animal Armageddon – there will be hell to pay.  Joined by their Second in Commands, they fight like proverbial cats and dogs: Hiss! Slap! Yelp! Snap! Yowl! Howl!  The blare of my bugle call for retreat sends them scattering, and they have returned to their corners, licked their wounds, and have fallen asleep long before I can again close my eyes.

3:00 a.m.  Too early to get up and make tea, I toss, turn, and eventually find myself starring down at Darth as he sleeps peacefully on his side, hands angel-like.  The mechanical racket of the CPAP has, by a miraculous manifestation of a merciful God, been transmuted into the sound of ocean waves. Shusssshhh and pull………shusssshhh and pull. I want to cry with relief. Climbing into bed behind him,  I wrap my arms around his warm middle, and sleep.