Scenes From A Grandparent

But then things happen.

I have no model for the doting grandparent archetype.  My grandmother didn't dote; she made me wash the dishes, dig up her garden, mow the yard, and row her around Lake Estes at six in the morning while she trolled for trout.  I never had the experience of piling into the car for a trip to grandmother's.  Gram was just another looming fact of life, always there, impossible to ignore.  There was never a time when we didn't have at least three generations living at home.  More often than not, we had four.  There were two times I can remember when five generations got together.  Both were documented by front page photos in the "Estes Park Trail."

All of that informs much of the attitude I bring to my own grandparenting.  I always thought there was something phony or over-the-top about grandparental fawning, the eagerness to hold the little one, the faces, the misty eyes, the offers to take care of the kid at the slightest provocation, the photos perpetually at the ready for flashing in the faces of unsuspecting friends and acquaintances.  My grandmother never did anything like that.  She just kept busy manning the kitchen, setting another place at the table, greasing the rails of her burgeoning clan.  But, no, she never would have volunteered to watch the kids and she certainly wouldn't have been happy about the opportunity.  Or sad either.  Watching kids was no privilege; it was her life.

Gram was always just Gram.  She was funny.  She would drop everything to play gin rummy.  She would take out her teeth and make weird faces for the kids in the neighborhood.  I cried for days when she died.  But I don't ever remember her making a big deal out of me or any of her other grandchildren.

I always thought I would be that kind of grandparent.  I've always been able to put on a good gruff act. I remember a great day where I got Sage to help me paint the benches and the picnic table and I have to admit that many of my instructions might have been a little peremptory.  But afterwards we sat on the font lawn and I taught him how to say "hubba, hubba" whenever a girl walked by.  In fact we had three generations in the  house for a time when Michelle and Sage lived with us while Chris was on tour.  I'm sure I was plenty gruff when trying to get Sage to eat something, anything!

I need to point out here that I don't much like children, especially babies.  I don't even think they're particularly cute.  So it is difficult from the get-go for me to warm up to the whole grandfatherly thing.  I know that sounds terrible, but my sisters had eleven children between them and I was the main baby sitter for all of them.  Sure, I got paid handsomely, but the whole scene got old after awhile.  And then, of course, I had my own kids and all that entails.  I still have my hands full worrying about them without getting all wrapped up in some neonate I don't even know.

But then things happen.

Like the look on Brooklyn and Sammi's faces after a dance recital one evening when all they wanted was to be loved and for everyone to be proud.  They were and we are.  Or the time at the kitchen table I told Brooklyn to stop acting like such a brat and she stood up in an outraged huff and stormed into the living room and sat down on the couch with arms crossed.  She lasted a few minutes before she came back.  She looked across the table at me and made a face;  I made one right back at her.  Her tears went away and her glorious face erupted in a smile.  I think I might have cried.

When kayaking with either Sammi or Brooklyn we sing "Row, Row, Row Your Boat."  Since their parents have done such a nice job grooming them to be pop divas, when we get to the last line, the girls belt out "gently down the STREEEAAAM" in a big finish that can be heard all the way to shore.

When Franny gave birth to Jaydee, our sixth grandchild, we went to her house to wait for Willa to wake up while Ken and Franny drove down to St. Joseph's.  Willa started stirring about an hour later and as we were going up to get her I was a little worried that seeing us instead of her parents first thing in the morning might throw her for a loop.  I was wrong and she stood up in her crib with the same huge smile that has become her default expression.  That moment was almost as wonderful as seeing Jaydee for the first time later that day.

We kept Willa overnight and the next day took her to lunch on the way to the hospital.  We were in a booth and Willa, whose remarkably stable life had just been turned upside down, was facing the corner of the booth, presumably wondering what her parents were up to, saying earnestly into the leather cushions, "I miss you.  I miss you."  It was a phrase she had recently started using, but it was a little heartbreaking nonetheless.

We took Willa to the art museum a couple of days ago because Franny, busy figuring out how to take care of two kids in diapers, wanted Willa to go somewhere and do something more stimulating than television and watching Mommy nurse her little sister.  We didn't get past the Nick Cave interactive exhibit on the second floor.  Willa happily started placing felt shapes on the yellow walls and life-sized puppets and made sure to point out the video on the far wall to everyone who walked by.

I hope there were days when my grandmother felt as much joy.