As I write this, preparations are under way for our grandson’s wedding. It’s an exciting time, a time for dreaming of the future, but also a time for remembering the past. And getting a bit sentimental about it.
We’ve enjoyed each stage in our
grandkids’ growing up years, from the thrill of the newborn babies and our
shock at becoming grandparents, to the cute little-kid stage, the challenges of
adolescence, then watching each one mature into an adult. And of course our
relationships changed as they grew older.
This morning I’m remembering our
grandkids as cute little-kids. We loved being with them, relishing their
adoration of Grandpa and Grandma. For the most part, this was easy and fun. It
was their parents’ turn to do the hard stuff, especially the disciplining.
“For the most part,” I write. From
time to time we volunteered (or were asked) to care for the kids while their
parents traveled for some reason or other. (Sometimes it was to have time off,
away from their kids!) That was when it got harder for us. Our grandkids were
all normal, active, sometimes mischievous kids who knew how to take advantage
of an opportunity to get away with behavior their parents might not allow.
I remember one time 15 years ago
when our daughter asked Hal and me to spend a week taking care of our three
grandchildren, ages 2, 5, and 8. Their parents were leading a group of
middle-schoolers on their annual trek to Washington, DC.
I approached the week with both
fear and anticipation. We had planned a list of fun activities and a menu of
meals we hoped would please as well as nourish. We knew the behavioral rules
and household routines their parents followed and determined to lovingly but
firmly carry these out.
All this preparation helped. But I
was again impressed by how challenging it is to raise children. Especially
little children. They can be tough critters.
One of my tasks became combating the perception that the role of grandparents is to be on continuous call to entertain, to engage in a non-stop marathon of sword fights, hide-n-seek, I-spy, story books and movies, bike and scooter races, Monopoly, Chutes and Ladders, X-box, trips to the park, and on and on and on. Not to mention the special needs of our two-year-old autistic grandson who loudly repeated every demand until he knew without a doubt he held our full attention.
I simply did not have the energy
to keep up the continuously fun-loving grandma facade. I found myself mentally
repeating, “You are an adult. Respond like one.” The low point came early in
the week when I caught myself in the middle of a fight between the 8 and
5-year-old, yelling at them to “stop all this yelling!” At that moment I felt
like the world’s worse grandma.
But eventually my mature self kicked
in. Hal and I were able to support one another and find balance, to be
ourselves and the grandparents these kids needed.
Many highlights brightened the
week, like the morning Paige and I spent outdoors building a fairy house. Her
idea, this was to be a refuge for fairies from the rain, hidden under a bush
and behind a rock. We traipsed all over the yard gathering moss, leaves, pine
cones, petals—anything that might make a cozy fairy house.
“Oh?” I responded, waiting for
what would come next.
“But I think God could make some
fairies if he wanted to.”
“Yes, he probably could,” I
replied.
Long pause.
“Don’t you wish he wanted to?”
Yes, Paige, I do wish that.
And I wish God would make me into the perfect grandma.
The kids were glad to see their
parents at the end of the week (perhaps not as glad as we were!), but I was
encouraged when Paige asked me, “Do you have to go now, Grandma?”
Our son is now a grandpa himself.
We love watching our great-grandchildren as babies, knowing we will probably
only have a peripheral role in their lives. Our grown kids get to be the
grandparents; it’s their turn.
And that’s the way it should be.
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