Grandmother Olympics
13 Jan

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I just finished watching the Winter Olympics in Seoul. They were exhilarating, emotional, and exhausting. Kind of reminds me of grandparenting.

We’re expecting a grandchild to be born this week, and I’m already trying to imagine what this little human, who is already so cherished, will bring to our family. I’ve loved watching how my grandchildren’s personalities, gifts, and interests have emerged from infancy. Right now we have seven grandchildren whose traits are as diverse as their parents’. Two love sewing, at least three love to dance, some could play outside all day, several are as photogenic as movie stars, and all of them are musical.

Although I adore these children, I’m not naive about their flaws. God bless their mothers because there isn’t a wallflower among them. They’re half Sicilian, after all. Sometimes, when I’m asked to babysit, it’s a snap. But other times, all can go horribly wrong.

A week ago I decided to “do a card craft” with four little girls ages 3 to 10. What was I thinking? The three year old just wanted to stick heart gems on anything she could find. I found a line of them like ants stuck to the kitchen floor. The four year old wanted to use up all the glue. The six year old decided to wrap both her cards with yards of ribbon, and the poor ten year old, after helping the littles, somehow lost her own lovely creation.

It took me a week to clean up the mess.

Similar fiascos have happened on picnics with dirt sandwiches, bike rides that ended in heat stroke, skinned knees, bathroom accidents, lost puzzle pieces, lost mittens, lost boots, lost socks. One kid left my house in the middle of winter without a shirt.

The hardest for me is when I can’t soothe a crying baby. I try to use what worked with my own children: rocking, singing, cuddling. But since these aren’t my children, I don’t always know their rhythms and preferences. At first they look at me indulgently as if to say, “You mean well, little pretend Mama,” but then fiery indignation takes over.

At one such time I wrote a little poem describing the frustration between a one-year-old and me.

Nap War

Her mother says to tell her it’s naptime a few minutes ahead.

Night, night Papa, night night froggy, night night chair, night-night ball.

I try to offer a choice: Do you want to take your nap in the crib?

No.

Do you want to sleep in the playpen?

No

Blue room or yellow room?

No.

So I choose the crib.

Bad call.

I put in a pillow for her head, a dolly to cuddle, a blankie and her binky.

As I lift her over the side, she tries to crawl up my chest,

starts wailing before her feet hit the mattress.

I exit and watch from the hallway.  

First she throws the most important piece of equipment on the floor - the binky.

Next she tosses the blankie, then the pillow, last the dolly.

By now her rage is rattling the windows.

I go back in, pick up dolly, blankie, pillow and binky and try to soothe her.

Before I walk away, they’re on the floor again.

Back in the hall, I decide to give her a minute which feels like an hour.

Another two minutes - two hours.

Finally I gather her in my arms and retrieve all her stuff.

She nestles into my shoulder, shuddering from her ordeal.

When I carry her into the blue room and lay her in the playpen,

she falls asleep immediately.

I tiptoe out and try to recover.

The poem reminds me of when I want my own way with God, refusing whatever comfort He offers. I rant, try to control circumstances, and eventually succumb to exhausted despair. But He is much wiser than a befuddled grandmother. And kinder.

Like my granddaughter, I eventually wake up, rosy-cheeked and subdued, ready for the next adventure. The memory of my tantrum is gone, buried in His tender love.

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