We Are Grandparents
BY SUZI SHULTZ GOLD
We did it our way, “shooting from the hip”. Our parenting style involved OJT (On-the-Job Training). That meant passing on some of the lessons from our childhood. I remember Mom’s words of wisdom: “Save it for the important things.” “If it can be fixed with money, don’t worry about it.” My other half quoted his mom: “Sleep before midnight is better than the hours slept after midnight.”
Of course, we made mistakes. Some by being overwhelmed, “Uh oh, we missed Stacy’s birthday party. I just forgot!” and some by over-protecting. “NO, just because her mom lets her go to the mall alone, you can’t, but I am happy to go with you.” Unquestionably, we did what we thought was best.
It is often said that the days are long, but the years are short. In the blink of an eye, whoosh, the kids grew up and were on their own. We became empty nesters and were no longer the center of their universe. Our children found partners to take our place, and suddenly, we were untethered, trying to anchor ourselves. That’s life- the way it should be. It’s a hard lesson.
With a glimpse into their world, we now see our son and daughter, the parents of our five “perfect’ grandchildren. They follow our lead in some respects and ignore other lessons from their formative years. It’s their turn now. They make the rules: “Take off your shoes when you come inside the house.” “You need to ask to be excused from the table.” We listen, zip it up. We know how to keep quiet. It is sometimes difficult. “Is it so bad to have dessert every night after dinner?” “Does every kid have a cell phone so young?” We question their parenting-but only to each other. We are certain our parents did the same.
“In the blink of an eye, whoosh, the kids grew up and were on their own. We became empty nesters and were no longer the center of their universe. Our children found partners to take our place, and suddenly, we were untethered, trying to anchor ourselves. That’s life- the way it should be. It’s a hard lesson.”
Three of our grandchildren live on the opposite coast. It is a source of melancholy when we think 2500 miles separate us from their warm hugs. In this last chapter of our lives, we calculate that we will see them a couple of times a year if we are lucky. We vow to make the best of each visit.
We fly to New York in late fall, layering our warmest California gear. We visit again in spring, when rainy days and sunny days alternate, and cheer for the grandkids at their soccer matches and ice hockey practices. During the summer, they travel west to San Diego. They mimic typical California kids, learning to surf, going barefoot at the beach, and making s’mores around a bonfire by the ocean. We relish those fleeting weeks.
Looking forward to sharing our annual Thanksgiving with them, we packed our suitcases, added puffer jackets, and flew east. Our tradition included watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade then settling in front of a sizzling fire. We savored gooey cheese logs before stuffing ourselves with traditional, delicious turkey and sides. We are together and healthy. How lucky.
The grandchildren had grown considerably in just a few short months, and we were eager to show them that we are old but still have some life left. The weekend began by walking to the donut shop for an overdose of sugar. We followed this up with endless board games, house hockey, and judging “who did it best” while making sure each kid won enough times.
“That’s when the six-year-old looked directly at me, tears welling up in his sea-blue eyes, and snapped, “You go back to California!”
Our granddaughter, mini-Ina Garten, was eager to bake every minute, usually eating half of the cookie dough before it hit the oven. Our five-year-old grandson wanted equal time, nagging impatiently, “Grammy, come shoot baskets with me.” We dribbled and shot balls through the hoop hanging over the closet door until I was exhausted, and he was bored.
On school days, we pushed our three-year-old grandson in the stroller a couple of blocks through the upscale neighborhood to the school playground to pick up his brother and sister. One afternoon, we waited in the company of moms, dads, nannies, and other grandparents as the bell rang, signaling the end of the school day. We caught sight of our granddaughter. Fluffy wisps of chestnut hair framed her face, and she was loaded down by her pink heart-covered backpack. She saw us, smiled, waved goodbye to her friends, and ran to give us warm, tight squeezes. In that very moment, my heart exploded with love. At the opposite exit, younger students rushed out. We eyed our Kindergartener, the boisterous boy among a cluster of buddies, each talking in pre-puberty shrill voices over one another. His striped t-shirt showed the remains of yogurt from his lunch. With a huge grin, he jogged over to us and then tossed his backpack down. “Hi Grammy, hi Grandpa, I’m going to the playground,” he shouted as he dashed off with his pals towards the blacktop.
“Suddenly, the five-year-old came running over. “I have to go pee-pee. I must go pee-pee.”
We gathered the other two kids and pushed our way to the asphalt. Like ants finding water, groups of children dropped their bags on the ground, gathered around the jungle gym and the basketball hoop, and then clambered up the slide.
We watched the chaos: balls zigzagging through the air, sand flying, a mom calling repeatedly, “Timmy, it’s time to go home. NOW.” The assembly of kids, free of school authority, released the days’ worth of pent-up energy. The little guy in the stroller’s head swirled as he followed his siblings from his comfortable vantage point.
Suddenly, the five-year-old came running over. “I have to go pee-pee. I must go pee-pee.” The doors to the school were locked. “Okay, let’s run home. It’s only two blocks. Quick! ‘Grandpa said.
Then he blurted out, “I want to ride in the stroller.” “No, your brother is in the stroller. It only holds one person, and I can’t run home carrying your brother,” Grandpa countered. The shrill voice of the small being grew louder and more adamant: “I want to sit in the stroller.” And the repeated response, “No, you can’t. Now let’s go!”
And that’s when the kindergartener took off like he was in training for the Junior Olympics. With strawberry-blonde strands of hair flying, he ran across the playground, heading towards the exterior gate. “Go after him,” Grandpa shouted.
I ran. Without thinking, I sprinted, if you can call it that, fifty feet behind the little guy, fearful that he would run into the street. When I got close enough, I shouted firmly, “Don’t you go out there. Stop right where you are!”
That’s when the six-year-old looked directly at me, tears welling up in his sea blue eyes, and snapped, “You go back to California.”
I was taken aback. I was out of breath to say the least. More to the point, I was stunned that the pint-sized kid thought it was a possibility… to send us home.
Grandpa reached us and carried the sobbing boy the short two blocks that seemed like a 10 K. The rest of us were quiet, especially the three-year-old, seated contentedly in his stroller, like a king on his throne.
“But after a full week of ‘grandparenting,’ we were ready. The expected roar of the plane on the six-hour flight ahead seemed like white noise compared to the past week.”
When we arrived, the middle grandchild ran to the bathroom, up to his room, and promptly fell asleep on the bed, still heaving quiet sobs as he struggled to catch his breath. An hour later, a different child appeared, a slight smile creasing the tracks of his tear-stained cheeks. He slowly walked over to squeeze between us on the sofa. In a meek voice, he murmured, “Hi, Grammy, hi, Grandpa, can I sit with you?” Barely acknowledging his arrival, fearful of breaking the calm, we gave him a gentle hug and pretended to continue watching Paw Patrol with the other two kids. The tears had dried, and our grandson had forgotten his demand that we “Go back to California”.
But after a full week of ‘grandparenting,’ we were ready. The expected roar of the plane on the six-hour flight ahead seemed like white noise compared to the past week.
We needed a bit of time and our quiet routine to recuperate so we would be prepared for our next visit with our ‘perfect’ grandchildren.
