Finding my Voice

Eleven month old Henry, 2007

Just the other day, I was looking through my files, trying yet again, to get organized. I ran into a story I wrote during my early grand-parenting days when challenges were still in their early stages. Not much is written about being a grandparent, but I suppose, just like parenting, each of us has to find our own way. Somehow, our nine grandchildren, like their parents, have grown into delightful, intelligent human beings with whom we enjoy visiting each Sunday afternoon on Zoom and hope to hug in person one day very soon. Finding and reading these stories tickles my memory and brings me right back to those wonderful days. 

July 2007

Memory resides throughout the body in the strangest places. Not long ago, I sat down at the piano and watched as my fingers picked out Fur Elise, a piece I haven’t played for years. A week or so later, I was bathing our eleven-month-old grandson Henry. One moment, he splashed happily in the bathtub, the next he wanted out. In a mindless flashback, I squatted, flung a towel over my thighs, lifted him onto my lap to rub him dry. My body responded as it had years earlier when bathing toddlers was a daily occurrence. 

Then three of our granddaughters arrived simultaneously for an unexpected overnight. In the middle of the chaos, Zoe rushed into the kitchen and announced, “Abby pushed me.” No tears, no blood. 

“I don’t care,” slipped from my mouth as I transferred a load of clothes into the dryer. That was something I might have said to one of my children years ago. But to a grandchild? Never. I waited for Zoe to cry or complain or scold. Instead, she ran upstairs to find her cousins and I breathed a sigh of relief. 

Ten years ago, when I was a brand new grandparent, I didn’t want my education as a child development specialist to become burdensome. I wanted my children and their spouses to feel comfortable around me and tried to adopt their discipline techniques, behaviors and attitudes. I decided to follow my son and daughter-in-law’s lead as parents and model my grand-parenting after their parenting style in order to support and respect them. That worked somewhat for a while. 

But then more grandchildren arrived, and different parenting styles entered the mix until all five of my children had families of their own. And have I mentioned their spouses? My gears switched so often I began to feel slightly schizophrenic. A complete internal inventory needed to be developed for bedtime rituals, food preferences, playtimes, nap times, time outs, bad language, compliments, complaints. Even the universal bedtime story carried with it various nuances. My own judgment had been mangled in the process. 

Until now. With one swish of that towel and a three-word retort, I recovered my voice. 

Past experience reminds me I like to tease, to be silly and play children's games. I want toys put away and  breakables left alone. I cook one menu for all. No fights in my car.  I can only hope my grandchildren will still want to come for visits once they get to know me better.