Kathleen Norton

Laugh away your middle-age blues with this hilarious new ebook by Kathleen Norton

Kathleen's new ebook

If 50 Is the New 30, Then 30 Ain’t what It Used To be!

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Dreamin' up ways to amuse Grandma

Calling all grandparents.

I’m looking for those funny little stories, those hilarious anecdotes that occur when the “grands’’ come to visit and rock your grandma/grandpa world with their antics.

I should know. I have been recovering from a so-called “rocking’’ and believe me, our three-day visit with our grand-toddler and her baby sister was filled with those experiences.

Like the day after the 2-year-old  missed out on a good night’s sleep because of loud summer thunderstorms.

It was tears, whining and a big “No!” to everything I said. In other words, the Toddler Works.

It prompted me to murmur, “Somebody is ‘Little Miss Cranky Pants today.’ ’’

Bursting into tears and pointing at herself, she cried:

“That’s me Grandma! I’m Little Miss Cranky Pants!’’ as if I had completely missed the point of the meltdown.

Come on Grandma, she was saying. Get with the program!

Maddening from a general point of view. But from a Grandma point of view, it was very funny.

So I said: “Yes, I know you are Little Miss Cranky Pants, my sweetheart. And you’re the best one I ever saw!’’

That took her by surprise, which stopped the tantrum. Then we both had a cookie right before supper, while I whispered: “Don’t tell Mommy!”

Later, I realized I had stumbled on a good crime prevention technique: Lock up bad guys with a roomful of irritable toddlers.

If that doesn’t break a criminal’s spirit, nothing will.

Besides being funny in general, grandkids can even make us laugh about what we see in the mirror every day – evidence that Father Time doing its thing.

One little girl recently asked her grandma, my friend, if they could compare tummies.

So they did, which prompted this question: “Grandma, why is your tummy so ugly?’’

My friend in the Grandma Brigade didn’t yell or cry. She laughed, and so did I when I heard the story.

I’m sure others with an appreciation with the wit and wisdom of children did, too.

Especially if they have their own grandchildren to amuse them while wearing them out to bits during their visits.

We sure need a good laugh when the little ones have gone home with the toys, diapers, sippy cups, animal crackers, plastic blocks, beach pails, little socks, tiny shoes, gazillions of kid books and games and Lord knows what else they brought in and may not have taken out.

(Oops. I just stepped on a stuffed Elmo in the garden.)

So, come on grandparents. Time to share! Post your funny little  grandkid stories here.

Let’s see who can top the Little Miss Cranky Pants Episode or the Incident of the Ugly Tummy.

This appeared Sunday, Father’s Day, in the Poughkeepie NY Journal.

This is the day to honor fathers, and this year I salute Tom, Gerry and Luke – three dads from three different generations in our family.

The first is my dad, the second my husband, and the third is the father of my sunny and delightful granddaughters.

Tom was born right smack in the middle of the Greatest Generation. He grew up during the Depression and World War II and became a dad when the idea of a disposable diaper was science fiction.

His wife labored with their first child (that’s me) while he sweated down the hall in the waiting room. He was expected to be back at work ASAP, and by Child #5, he took to dropping his wife off and waiting for the call.

He did not know one end of a diaper from the other and nobody expected him to know such things. Yet, the responsibility of putting food on the table was his alone.

That’s just the way it was for the daddies of his day, in the place where we lived.

Gerry was born smack in the middle of the Baby Boomer Generation. He was among a new breed of papas called “birthing coaches.’’

He got to see the births of his three children, but was back at work within a day or two. The phrase “paternity leave’’ was being bantered about, but it was not yet in the dictionary.

Gerry probably had never seen a man change a diaper in his life yet there he stood at a changing table in the early 1980s, winging it and hoping for the best.

Many men of his generation have had partners when it came to bringing in the money, but in return they had to shoulder their share at home.

Some said it was grand and that it was about time that the “Mr. Mom’’ era had arrived. Others? Not so much.  They thought it was the ruination of society.

Turns out, they were wrong.

Like millions of other Boomer dads, Gerry paved the way for the daddies of today.

Luke is a member of Generation Y – which came after Gen X, if you keep track of these things. When his youngest was born three months ago, he took off two weeks to welcome her into the family.

Now, he walks in the door from work and does whatever needs doing – which is a lot in a household of young children.

Laundry, cleaning, baths, story time. He does it all.  Few men his age even know where the title “Mr. Mom’’ comes from, and even fewer question that they should be sharing the child care duties.

In the 50 years that span my dad’s days as a young father, and my son-in-law’s, the role of fathers has changed much.

But in the most important matter, these three are the same. No matter the generation, they have treated their wives and children with love and loyalty.

Those in their care have been lucky, and I wish a Happy Father’s Day to our family’s special dads, and to yours.

Best rest stops in America

When a couple’s marriage is as “mature’’ as the tie-dyed jeans in the back of their closet, the couple wonders: We’re OK so far, but can we go the distance?

And there is only one way to find out. They must get in a car and drive 1,000 miles together and when the trip is over, if one of them has not pushed the other out into the path of a tractor-trailer, they know everything will be OK.

I should know. I just took a road trip like this with my blushing groom of 30.5 years and I am happy to report that we  survived all that time together under one sunroof.

Oh, all right. The truth is we barely survived. We hated the books on CD that we’d brought along. We left the best snacks back on the kitchen counter. And we were sick of our music choices before we got out of New York.

But the bottom line is, we did survive, and there is only one reason: The State of Ohio. Not the entire state, mind you, though I’m sure it is a very fine state in many ways.

Toledo, they say, is just lovely in springtime.

But Ohio, we discovered, has the best GD (gosh-darn in Ohio-speak) rest stops if you happen to be driving along Route 80, which New York Baby Boomers can take to get to Cleveland’s Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Every time one of us got a bit cranky and our minor bickering was about to ignite into something bigger, one of these little bits of highway heaven appeared.

We’d never seen anything like it. They were huge, spacious, sparkly clean, offered lots of food and were full of cheery non-New Yorkers who asked us where we were from and where we were going.

They saved the day. They probably saved our marriage. Mostly, they saved us from Pennsylvania, which, frankly, has no business being that wide.

Yes, Pennsylvania gave us the Declaration of Independence and inventions like bubble gum, the Big Mac, the Slinky and TV Guide, which if you put them altogether would be the ultimate American Survival Kit.

But take it from me, Pennsylvania is no fun when you are stuck in a car and your only reason for being in Pennsylvania is that you can’t avoid Pennsylvania if you want to get to Ohio.

I’ll admit that the signs we saw for a town called “Jersey Shore, Pa.,’’ did amuse me for a number of miles being that I am a Jersey girl.

“Copycats!’’ I chortled. “Maybe they thought that little pond over there was the Atlantic and they really were in New Jersey!’’

Oh, I was clever. At least that’s what I pronounced a great number of times. My husband, however, was staring straight ahead at the road and gripping the wheel.

Just as we were about to pull off to the side of the road so we could safely continue our “discussion’’ of my cleverness, we crossed into Ohio and pulled up to one of those glorious rest stops.

They saved us from ourselves more than once on the way out.

On the way back, I practically cried when we crossed back into Pennsylvania again and faced nothing but ordinary rest stops for the remainder of the trip.

Luckily, we had been bolstered up enough by those Buckeye road palaces to make it all the way back home.

So thanks, Ohio. I don’t care if most Americans can’t find you on a map.

These two travelers could not have made it without you.

Say it isn't so!

This is warning for the mucky-mucks at the soap opera “All My Children.’’

You are in a heap of trouble if you think you can cancel that show and leave its loyal fans (read: “rabid soap addicts”) high and dry.

What will we do? Where will we go? Are you going to support us during withdrawal?

Oh, I know. Some of you out there are saying: “Kathleen! We are shocked! We suspected you might be prone to ‘Laverne and Shirley’ reruns. But soaps? Soaps??’’

Sorry, my peeps. This is how I roll. And excuse me, but I haven’t watched just any soap.

We’re talking about THE Soap. (Take that all you pathetic Luke-and-Laura-General-Hospital people.)

Sure. I may have gone weeks, months and even a year without checking on my fave fantasy town. But saying goodbye forever?

Ouch. Major ouch.

It all started back in the day. Nixon (Dick, not Cynthia) was president and “All My Children” was a ticket outside my tiny Catholic schoolgirl Universe.

It’s not like I had no clue what soap operas were.

My mother locked us out of the house every summer afternoon so she could “iron,’’ which was Mom Code for: “Scram! My soap’s on!’’

Later on, I got my own soap education. If I hadn’t visited Pine Valley with my pal Mary Lynn when we were supposed to be babysitting her brother in the summer of 1972, how would we know about evil twin sisters?

About people really coming back from the dead? About disturbed brothers living inside secret tunnels of family mansions? About looking Erica Kane-a-licious while repeatedly on trial for murder?

AMC’s been with me through thick and thin. I scheduled college classes around Pine Valley, and it helped me through childbirth, when after a gazillion hours of pain, I abandoned Lamaze, took the meds and focused on that week’s AMC plot.

“If I can get this baby out before lunch, I can find out if Erica goes to jail or goes free,’’ I huffed and puffed.

My husband, an excellent labor coach, kept one eye on the TV in our room and fed me updates.

The teamwork continued when he worked nights and I worked days. This was pre-VCR and soap opera digest. At home during the afternoons, he was expected to do two things: Nurture the kids and watch AMC when they napped.

“The baby’s sniffling and we need milk,’’ he would say as we passed in the driveway, him going to work and me coming home. “Oh, and Erica’s fifth marriage is kaput but Jenny may be back from the dead.’’

Eventually, our teenage daughter gasped through AMC while at my side. This was much better than the alternative for us at that stage – not talking to each other at all.

These days, I seem to be at the gym weekdays at 1 p.m. to catch AMC while I work off a mid-life crisis on the treadmill.

See, AMC bigwigs? Going cold turkey is unthinkable.

As you get ready to yank that soap, I pray you’re breaking ground for the Pine Valley Rehab Clinic. And there had better be a bed with my name on it.

(How about it folks? Is AMC the best soap ever? Is there one better? Add your two cents and your favorite soap memories).

NOT!

It could be a perfectly lovely day when you read this, but as I write it on the official First Day of Spring, all I know is that I am looking outside my window and it is snowing.

Flakes are piling up on the porch planter where the yellow and purple pansies are supposed to go, my mood is awful and I am reminded why I hate March so very much.

The garden store lady tried to warn me. “A little early for those,’’ she said yesterday as I lugged the flat of flowers onto the checkout counter.

“Oh, they will be fine! Look! The sun is out!’’ I said in my desperate last-days-of-winter giddiness.

But they are not fine. The pansies are draining in the kitchen sink and it will be days before they can be planted outside.

Is this a joke? I don’t know about you, but I am sick of my heavy boots, sick of my scratchy heels, sick of making stuff in the crock pot, sick of all of it.

I want flip-flops, lemonade, sunburn, and evenings when it is too hot and humid to eat anything but ice cream.

And I want them now. Yes, this is selfish. All you have to do is turn on the news to find out how selfish it is to complain about the weather.

Still.

I think that if you live in a place where it is not only normal but also fairly predictable that Spring could burst on the scene with snow that you earn a small amount of grousing time.

This is mine.

March is the worst month of the year. I will make an exception for one single day – the 7^th – my new granddaughter’s birthday. But that is as far as I budge. Otherwise, it stinks.

It is like the class clown of calendar. It’s fun to be around, but has trouble written all over it.

Why can’t March be more like December? It is the multi-tasking, teacher’s pet of all the months. December has a lot on its plate. Think of how much goes on in December year after year after year, and without a fuss.

All we ask of March is to bring us Spring but here I am looking out at the frozen landscape. This month is like that friend you had in college – always there for a party, but never around when you need a ride and people make excuses for it when it messes up.

My friend Carol is one of those people. I can hear what she used to say to me every spring when she lived up north and I began complaining about this month.

“Quit whining! Spring is just around the corner!’’ she’d say. Now she lives down south so I avoid contacting her in March because she might mention that the azaleas are already in bud there.

This while my poor sprouting daffodils just got dumped on with a snowstorm and there’s a sea of mud where my lawn should be.

No, better not to contact Carol for a few weeks.

Better to just sit here and let my hatred of March wash over me like the melting snow I can hear dripping down the gutter outside my window.