I may be a twin but I'm one of a kind. ~ Author Unknown

Sometimes...at the strangest moments...I miss my twin. We shared our mother's womb for half a breath...a blink of an eye...a skip of a heartbeat. But there were two of us. I know. I feel it. And even tho only I was present on our birth day, only I saw the light at the end of the tunnel, you'd started the journey with me.

Where are you, my cosmic twin? Is there a special place in heaven for unborn babies? Those who have such a short beginning and for whatever reasons are ended before they're finished? Will you be there to welcome me someday? Will I know you when I see you?

My song is a lonely one. And, at moments like this, I cry for you.

There came a time when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. ~ Anaïs Nin

I am notoriously gun shy when it comes to having photos of myself taken. I have lots of excuses why. Most of them go back to my childhood, stemming from the nickname bestowed upon me by my brothers and dad: "Moose". From overhearing my mother refer to me as an ugly duckling. From having an older brother I adored turn on me one day and tell me, "You are so ugly!" But, you know....I'm 56 years old and I've finally, in the past six years, become very comfortable with myself in my own skin. And when I glance in the mirror I've come to realize I'm not ugly. With age comes perspective, I suppose. You'd think 36 years of hearing my Dear Hubby and children telling me I'm beautiful would wipe out those old insecurities but it's amazing what we drag along from childhood, isn't it?

With all that said, I still don't like having my photo taken. I read this wonderful entry at my bloggy friend Mel's blog this morning and it really got me to thinking. It even inspired me to write about my lack of enthusiasm....well, actually my sense of dread...whenever a camera is pointed in my direction. The way my face freezes, my gut clenches, my teeth clamp so tightly my jaws ache. And it brought to mind a moment a few weeks back when my grandson Dylan found a used-up disposable camera and pointed it in my direction. He told me, "Grandma, I'm going to take lots and lots of pictures of you!" And when I asked him why he said, "So I can have them forever and ever!" As I said to Mel in the comment I left, there's someone in this world who loves me just the way I am!

I received an email this morning from a site who has accepted an article I wrote for publication. And in the email I was asked if I could send along a photo they can attach to the article. Yikes. If they only knew how few are in existence, ha! But I found one that I actually do love, the one I've included here. Yes, I'm still half-hidden but my arms are full of two of the little people I love most in this world. And I can see I'm not ugly. But try and tell the child within me that.

Every day you'll see the dust as I drive my baby in my Magic Bus ~ The Who

An uneventful week around here. Maybe we're turning a corner? Maybe the boys are finally past the 'constant need' stage and settling more into little-boyhood. I'm finding small kernels of time during the day now where I can sit back and observe...catch my breath...and not be so constantly in demand. Still always available for a hug or a kiss or an arm to grasp as they cuddle up on the couch and lean on my shoulder. But I can claim a bit of myself back.

Cooper roused a bit from his nap yesterday afternoon, calling out for a 'boggy' -- his bottle -- and fussing drowsily. I took him to the rocking chair and rocked him back to sleep as he sucked half-heartedly, gazing down at him and thinking how delicious it is to have a little boy still small enough to fit on my lap - barely. I read other women's blogs, those of harried young mothers, where there are days when they wonder "Will this never end?!" I'm here to tell you that yes, it does. I remember quite clearly from my first time around, being at home with my two children, how long those first few years between birth and Kindergarten seemed to be. And the next thing I knew they were graduating from high school. And now they're in their 30s, almost middle-aged! Well, give or take a few years yet, but you know what I mean. Time. Flies.

That's something we can never get back...Time. We should never, ever wish it away.

We rode the bus on Monday. To one of the malls and back. The bus lady was kind enough to give each boy a ticket, even tho at their ages they ride free. They don't care where they go, they just like to ride. We sat at the very back where every bump in the road caused our bottoms to lift an inch or two off the seats. They loved that. And every ride is an adventure in people-watching and sights to see out the windows. If we get bored, we take a bus ride. Next on the list are two requests: one, to go downtown to one of the parks, take bread, and feed the birds; two, to take the MAX train to the airport to watch jets take off and land. Even I enjoy doing those things.

My two-year-old grandson Cooper thinks I'm magic. Whenever I change his diaper and apply Desitin, he likes to stick his finger into the tube opening and get a little bit on his finger tip. I grab his finger tip and squeeze, wiping all the Desitin off, and when I show him his finger tip again I say, "See, Cooper? It's all gone! Magic!" No matter how many times I do it, it amuses him to no end.

Oh, if only the world was so easy to make happy!

Guess what my grandboys brought me this week.

Flowers!

Do not regret growing older. It is a privilege denied to many. ~ Author Unknown

Let me just say this:

Hopscotch at 56 sure isn't what it was at 6!

There are two lasting bequests we can give our children: one is roots. The other is wings. ~ Hodding Carter, Jr.

Today was a day filled with sidewalk chalk and pulling weeds, of filling yard debris bags and checking out the tomatoes on the vines. Of walking out on the back porch this morning and watching my grandboys' mouths drop open at the site of their 'new' playsets and Dylan telling me, "Grandma, it looks like a playground out here!" Watching their delight and listening to their laughter bubble forth as they climbed up and down and slid and rocked and had the absolute time of their lives. It was a walk around the neighborhood at 6:45 in the morning, watching the world wake up and stopping at the nearby bakery for blueberry and cinnamon muffins. A day for cuddling under their 'blankies' on the front porch glider and watching a woodpecker pecking away at bugs on the sidewalk. Watching Dylan's awe and utter concentration as he tiptoed up to a hummingbird drinking from the lavender plants, getting within inches of it before it flew away. Of watching the little black-capped chickadees flying in and out of our neighbor's bird house, busy feeding their babies. Watching my grandbabies slumber peacefully during their naps.

It was a good day.

You give but little when you give of your possessions. It is when you give of yourself that you truly give. ~ Kahlil Gibran

I got a phone call Saturday afternoon from my son. "Mom, you have a grandson here who's wanting to talk to you. Do you have a minute?"

"Well, sure," said I.

And on the line comes Dylan. Crying. "Grandma, I'm really missing you!"

"Well, sweetheart, I'm really missing you, too. But you'll be coming over tomorrow afternoon for an hour or so."

"I know, Grandma, but I'm missing you right now!"

How quickly, as we grow older, we forget the urgency and the intensity of our childhood emotions. If I think back on the time when my mother had foot surgery and my two older brothers and I were sent off to stay with some very close out-of-town family friends for the week she was on crutches...I was 6 at the time...I still can feel the absolute misery and feelings of abandonment deep in my gut. I had never been away from home before that, and at the age of 6 that week felt like an eternity. I have never been so homesick in my life. Never again do I want to feel that abject sense of missing someone.

When my son dropped Dylan off yesterday afternoon he told me that Dylan had said to him after he got off the phone, "Daddy, I'm having a really bad day!" So as I took Dylan out for a walk I asked him, "Why were you having such a bad day, Dyl?" and he told me, "Because I was missing you so much."

I love the fact that he loves me. But I don't want that love to be a burden to him. And I'm sure as he grows older and the parameters of his life broaden out he'll depend on me less and less for security. Which is the way it should be. But right now I bask in the warmth of his love. And Coopy's, too. Cooper's is deep and intense as well, but he's of a more independent nature. His love is in the here and now. Dylan wears his heart on his sleeve. Their love is not a burden to me, that's for sure. It's a gift, and one I am thankful for and treasure every day. And I never ever want to do anything to jeopardize it, to take it for granted. Because they don't have to love me. They choose to love me. I can't make them love me. But I am grateful they do.

The more help a man has in his garden, the less it belongs to him. ~ William M. Davies

Today it's supposed to be in the upper 90s. Yesterday's high was 84. The day before that: 60. We have definitely...finally...jumped in to summer. It's been a long time since we've had such a long-lasting cool, rainy summer. Our 'saving grace', so to speak, is that a dry, warm wind is blowing, too, keeping the stickiness away. Not that we often have high humidity here in the Pacific Northwest, but anything over 60% is considered kind of uncomfortable. My sympathies go out to the rest of the nation sweltering in 90+ degree heat with around 90% humidity. How on earth do you people do it?! I spent one July in New England in 1968 that was one of the hottest on record up to that time and I have never been so miserable in my life. Or so sunburned after a day at the beach. A day on the Pacific coast...at least up here in Oregon and Washington...is nothing like a day on the Atlantic.

I've had a few people ask for pictures of my yard. I'm going to see if I can use my daughter's phone to snap a few to post. She can then email them to me and I can put them on here. Technology amazes me. And I used to think Polaroid cameras were pretty slick.

The grandboys and I will be spending most of the day at the pool today...the kiddie pool in the back yard, that is. They 'helped' me mow the white clover blossoms yesterday in preparation for today...don't want tender little feet running around and stepping on bees. I can't imagine what kind of picture we must've made with the boys on either side of me pushing that old hand mower around...my daughter sure seemed to get a good chuckle out of it. We had planned on getting the pool ready yesterday but the boys took a long nap. Instead, they took their child-sized shovels and shoveled mown grass - from Dear Hubby's mowing with the power mower - off the compost pile in to a yard debris bag. That kept them busy and happy for the hour or so before their dad picked them up. That, and playing whiffle ball.

I got this photo of Scarlet Sage off the internet. I have a huge bush of it and it's in full glorious bloom right now. It's irresistible to hummingbirds. The other day when Dear Hubby was out back shooting targets with his longbow a hummingbird came along and perched atop the tip of his bow! We seem to get more and more of them every year.

A quiet week, a nice week. We'll probably go on our walk early this morning before the heat arrives. Burgers on the grill tonite. Life doesn't get much sweeter than this.

I'd rather have roses on my table than diamonds on my neck. ~ Emma Goldman

I planted some of these in my flowerbeds along the west side of the house this weekend. Icelandic poppies in bright orange and yellow. Between the lavender bushes just coming on to vibrant purple bloom, the huge dwarf fuchsia, delicate lilies, and the scarlet sage...well, to say it's rather colorful is putting it mildly! I'd had some columbine and Jupiter's Beard planted in the area where I put the poppies but I noticed they were looking pretty bleached-out and forlorn...time to give the soil a huge dose of steer poop and some new color! That's what I love about flower gardening...you get tired of something, you rip it up and start fresh. I also put out poles for the green beans to start twining up...they're looking especially green and healthy. The tomato plants have tons of blossoms and itty-bitty tomatoes growing on them. The zucchini and cucumber plants are bushing out and looking good, too. Can't wait 'til I can start harvesting fresh veggies!!

There is something so satisfying about gardening. It was something I never appreciated until I was well in to my 30s. As a kid, any yard work we did was enforced labor dictated by our dad. It usually took place on one day each summer...usually the hottest day...when he'd go outside armed with a shovel and start digging plants and weeds and tossing them every which way. My brothers and I would pile it all on to the wheelbarrow, where it would eventually end up unceremoniously dumped in a corner of the back yard. Then, it was left up to Mother Nature as to what she could reclaim from his horticultural assault! But in my 30s, when my beloved Aunt Gin was diagnosed with colon cancer in her later 70s, I began cleaning her home once a week. When the summer months came on she asked me if I'd help tend the garden and her yard which were absolutely beautiful. I told her I didn't know much but if she'd guide me I'd do what I could. So spending time in the yard also became a part of my weekly routine. I don't think a bug of any type ever dared to enter her yard. Her roses were gorgeous...her vegetables to die for. She was always so generous in sharing all of her bounty. And as she instructed me I learned to love it, too. But in those years we were renters...Dear Hubby mowed the grass and that was the extent of our yard work. Then the opportunity came up to begin buying the house. But darling Aunt Gin had passed away. We mowed for a few more years. And then I was contacted by a family in my church to see if I'd be willing to help their elderly mother a few days a week, a 96-year-old lady who was still able to live independently but who needed help with housework and shopping and going to the hairdresser's. I agreed to it and spent the next 2 1/2 years being a companion to one of the most delightful human beings I've ever had the privilege to know. And the first summer with her she asked if I'd be willing to plant her flower boxes and help care for a couple of hanging fuchsias she had on her front porch. Again, I told her I didn't know much about gardening but she just pooh-pooh'ed me and told me, "It's easy!" And she proceeded to pass on her knowledge to me.

I started in on our yard. Our house was built in 1912 and in the many years it had been a rental it had been sorely neglected, allowed to grow weeds and grass back to the foundation. A couple of ugly evergreen shrubs were the only decoration out front. Oh, how I could kick myself for not taking Before-and-After photos, and photos of progress thru the years!! It took a couple of years just to dig out all the flowerbeds I wanted. The soil was so poor and nutrient-starved it took multiple bags of steer poop and mulch to build it up where it could support any life. And at first I planted annuals, only to realize it was money wasted every year. So I began planting perennials, especially more old-fashioned perennials to fit in with the age of our Craftsman bungalow. And now, these many years later, it's lovely. It's peaceful. A haven for birds and bumblebees. Wind chimes tinkle. Birds bathe in the bird bath. If you sit out on the back porch it's private and quiet with only the sound of the wind whispering thru the huge trees that border our back yard.

It's been hard work. Back-breaking work.

But it's been a labor of love.

They say genes skip generations. Maybe that's why grandparents find their grandchildren so likeable. ~ Joan McIntosh

I hope none of you out there who read my blog are under the false impression that I'm the perfect grandmother. I'm not. I'm definitely human. I have my days where I'm totally burned out. Where I wish I was doing anything but what I'm doing. Wishing for adult conversation. For an hour of peace and quiet.

And then along comes a day like yesterday.

I have noticed recently another grandmother strolling past with a newborn grandchild on a daily basis but I've never been outside when she's walked by. Yesterday morning the grandboys and I were out in the front yard tossing out bread crumbs to the birds when she came by and we struck up a conversation. She's visiting out here from Port Huron, Michigan, where she's a middle school teacher. She's taking care of her new grandson until the first of August when she has to return to her 'real world'. And already she's worrying about the fate of her little grandson, as is her son and daughter-in-law, concerned about handing him over to complete strangers for day care. They've found a Baptist church nearby that provides day care and that's where the little guy will be headed once Grandma goes home. But they're still wondering...praying...that this will be the right decision, that he'll be well taken care of and safe there. It is in moments like that one when I want to speak up and say, "I'll do it! He'll be safe and well-loved with me!" but I know that's pure craziness on my part. As much as I'd love to do it, it's beyond me now. 30 years ago, no problem. But at 56...sadly, no.

And even on the days where I tell my grandsons, "Grandma is tired and grumpy! Can you please quiet down?!" or when I'm finally sitting down for 5 seconds and Dylan comes along with a hand outstretched and says, "Grandma, come see the baby kitties!" outside the windows when I don't know if I can get up one. more. time. Even with all my weaknesses. Human-ness. I am still Grandma. And they know they're adored. They know I'm here for them. That I can kiss away boo-boos, wipe away tears. Dole out hugs by the truckload. Watch "Thomas the Train" DVDs for the thousandth time and still oooooh and ahhhhhhh at the right moments. Play pirate ship and race cars with the best of them. Dance around the living room. Wrestle on the floor. Pitch whiffle balls in the back yard. They have the luxury of being safe and secure without even realizing there are places out there where they could be staying that aren't.

It is my gift to them. Free of charge. These years are hard work. But time is fleeting. So fleeting. And tomorrow they will start school. And the next day they'll be graduating. And I will have the satisfaction of knowing I had a part in it all. That for these few years, they've been mine.