The Grandma Chronicles

They’re not with me right now. One is at Redondo’s CDC summer program and the older, pre-middle school grandson, is hanging out with friends. Even Yogurtland, an after school treat we indulged in on his ride home from fifth grade, wasn’t enough to lure him away from his adolescent priorities. 

I’ve been a grandma of little kids for 11 years now, but our relationships are slowly changing. Grandson No. 1 no longer hugs me in front of his school friends. He waits until we’re safely around the bend, hunkered down inside Teddy Owen Roosevelt, our agreed-upon name for his and my green Subaru, and only then will he allow me to scrunch hug his broadening shoulders. Once inside our Jurassic Park-pretend Jeep, he lets down his guard and returns to his sparkly-brown-eyed-Legos-consumed self. God knows how much I love this boy. 

My middling, soon-to-be in fourth-grade, grandson doesn’t mind public affection. His hugs are goofy, and smiles rocket to the stars and back. But he, too, is on the verge of being embarrassed by Grandma. Until that day comes, our teddy bear hugs are like popcorn; a single bowl is never enough. God knows how much I adore this boy.

And don’t me get started about my crazy grandma-love of, and for, my two youngest g-babies, Millie and Hudson, whom I’ll get to hug and hug and hug later this week when Grandson 1 and I fly out to visit the Kwoks and New York and Washington D.C. and Virginia for our U.S. History Tour. Thank goodness for Facetime; I get to participate, in a way, in their daily lives; bathing, munching, screaming, wrestling, and grandma-cam-ing. I ask her, “Is it time for Grandma Cam?” and she almost always says, “Yes!” I take her on a video tour of the apartment; the fridge, the dirty oven, closets, Auntie Bevie and Wendy’s room, snarling Monet, the balcony, what I’m cooking on the stove. And that inspires her to take me on a tour of her home. It’s “our thing” and brings us closer. God knows how much I adore these baby birds. 

How I wish my fledglings lived closer.

We grandmas and grandpas and aunties and uncles’ hearts are fused to the youngest members of our tribe. We bring softness, strength, security, laughter, and fun to their lives, as they do ours. It’s a role not to be taken lightly or for granted.

Of all the jobs I’ve had in my life, being a grandparent is, by far, the most profound. 

Being in the homestretch of life, Act III, you realize that all the experiences, conversations, and observations you’ve had, has bridged you into the coveted position of Elder, aka, Wise One. Wrinkled, grey, often discarded as past our “prime-time”, our little ones don’t see us that way; to them, we are a combination Yoda, Harrison Ford, Mary Poppins and “Encanto’s” Mirabel, magical and adoring. We are consistent, stable, vulnerable, yet a tad fragile—just like them. Our Littles know that we love them with a force as mighty as The Force; they instinctually sense that we’re here to teach them how to tap into their unique powers with gusto and intent.

It’s such a strange, yet natural, phenomenon, being a grandparent; we realize, and accept, that time is ticking—FAST! This lifespan thing just sort of just creeps up on you; you’ll see: SURPRISE—you’re 67! You look back, shake your head, What just happened?

Wasn’t it just last year? The rains. The cold. Selling my beloved home of two decades. Me, on the road with Monet driving in the Fall along the 395. Worrying about where I’d live while the Eurovan was being fixed. Bleeding out money for repairs. Ending up at the Motel 6-styled Portofino apartment with a forever view. Sharing the short-term rental with my homies and often-visiting grandsons. The seals, now battling algae bloom. The nesting egrets and herons, saved because we rattled some cages, called the International Bird Society, Redondo Beach Animal Control, U.S. Fish and Game, alerting them that cutting the “egret” tree at the wrong time would mean destroying the birds’ habitats, their homes. Informing them for every fledgling displaced, it’s a $5,000 Federal Migrating Bird Protection Act fine. Knowing that for now, while we’re here—watching, informing the correct Powers That Be—this season’s generation of baby birds are safe. Taa-dah! Super Hero-caped Crusader Upstanders Save the Day!  

Which is a lesson, isn’t it? Step up. Get involved. Listen. Do what you can while you can. Cogs in the wheel of life. People with a purpose. Animals who teach us not how to die, but how to live. Monet, dear Monet, with a zest for life, for me, that defies her prognosis. Resting, cuddling, eating, pooping, trusting in the rhythm of life. Like my grandchildren, who have no idea what’s around the corner, nor do they care. They play and eat and poop and are up for the next adventure with Grandma or are cool chilling with a big bowl of popcorn, binging on “Raiders” or “Star Wars” or anything else on Disney Plus. Their brows don’t furrow. They don’t care about Trump or Biden or whoever else is running for President. When my little g-boys sleep, they sleep in a blissful alpha state today’s adults need sleep meds to attain. 

As for me, I’ve been sleeping really well of late. When I feel that drowsy state of sleep come upon me, I roll with it and allow the fog, the fairy tale mist, to envelop me. “Once upon a time…,” I hear Dad whisper as I snuggle into my sleep mat on the floor, next to Monet, next to the blasting, nonsensical TV watched by an insomniac member of the household, and fall into a deep slumber. The best sleep I’ve had in forever. No aches. No pains. No worries. Just love. On my foam raft, wading down the river, with no destination in mind.