Two weeks ago …

It’s 1 a.m. and the apartment is quiet. The parents are taking their shifts, The Littles are in Dreamland and I’m two glasses into a new bottle of Rangeland Cabernet and the final season of “The Crown”. It’s raining outside and will do so throughout the night. I’m alone with my thoughts, far away from “home”, my California, family, friends, my other life.

For more than a month I have been a full-time grandma and mother to my daughter who is figuring out her new life with three Littles Under Three. 

I described our life this way to my older daughter who is somewhat envious of her little sister: It’s like being in a blender filled with pineapple, ice cubes and Matchbox toys. Smooth, grating, flamboyant, super loving, delicious and exhausting. 

It’s easy to romanticize Motherhood. Even Grandparenthood. Perhaps it’s sacrilegious to say it is anything other than Holy. It is Holy. And Sacred. And fulfilling. And whipped cream frosting-ed with joy. And really truly amazing. But it is also never-ending, and a little boring, and former-life-missing and ingratiating and thankless and rewarding and photo-snapping and loud and never silent, mostly messy, and often creative, legacy-building—work. 

For example: The babies wake up before you’re ready. Some days they’re happy. Some days they need Mommy. Some days they want breakfast. Some days they want sausage or a smoothie or toast or Cheerios or organic tangerines or nothing at all. For now, I’m in charge of The Morning as my worn-out daughter does her best to catch up sleep from a sleepless night nourishing The Wee One. Granddaughter needs to get to school by 8:15, so I roll out of bed, assemble something predictable and magical for breakfast—which she mostly rejects. Her fashion tastes are also discerning— the girl knows what she wants, and anything less can instigate a teen-age tantrum. So you learn to tread lightly and choose your battles, “Yes, it’s fine to wear the leopard print cardigan with a red plaid dress and Halloween leggings.” 

“Brush your teeth.” 

    I don’t want to.

“Put on your socks.” 

    I don’t like those.

Not the boots? The light-up purple tennis shoes? 

    No, they hurt.

Not the black coat, the jean jacket with a sequined unicorn on the back? Where is your backpack?  Where is your water bottle?” 

It feels like I put in a day’s work before 8. Eventually, she gets to school, which happens to be downstairs from the apartment, then I swing into Duty 2: helping with our two-year-old, his Cantonese-speaking grandpa, and weary mom and three-week old baby brother. We play—as long as we can—-to give Mommy time to rest. 

Our only break of the day is naptime, around 12:30, when we tidy up, make food, read, return phone, pay bills and chill—out before picking up the Granddaughter at 2:30. When she gets home, we play some more, wash dishes, fold clothes, go to the grocery store, make dinner, clean up, read books, take baths, and on lucky days, us grown-ups get to take a shower.

At 9, I retreat to the bedroom I’m borrowing while I’m in town, that precious space normally inhabited by the in-laws, but has been set aside for me while I’m here for a few months.

It’s 1:30 a.m. and I’m typing, abandoned the idea of sleeping a second night, because I’ve been here a month and am processing the blessings, the life, the traumatic shopping trip to Costco this afternoon with my two-and-three-year-old grandchildren on a Sunday when there were 20 carts waiting to buy eggs and a traffic jam the likes of which I never want to experience again. 

Here in the Forest Hills area of New York, one must drive about 30 minutes away to shop at the Long Island Costco, so there’s that, and the flash flood warnings for the second weekend in a row. 

My granddaughter vomits when we arrive at The Co. My toilet-training grandson’s pants are wet, and it’s pouring outside as we traipse across the bumper-to-bumper parking lot.

I am mot worn out, but I’m getting there. 

I miss Mexico. I’ve only been there twice, once to Tijuana with my parents when I was in middle school, and Juarez when I was a reporter. I miss the unknown, the gentle celebration, the simplicity, the margaritas. So yesterday when both parents were home, I decided to postpone my way back to the apartment after a sun-drenched family pre-nap outing to the French bakery and gleefully skipped over to the local taqueria to treat myself to a margarita and avocado tostada.

It was lovely. 

I considered ordering a second drink, but realized I’d likely stumble back, which isn’t a particularly flattering look for a grandma. Upon reflection, I probably should have indulged. A phone call with one of my kids about money woes completely erased all evidence of intoxication. 

I wish I was a runner. I wish I was a climber. I wish I was a gymnast able to balance on a balance beam. 

Being of service, being in the moment, being needed, and wanted, that’s a good feeling. But I realize, particularly after last Fall’s two-month sojourn in my camper van, that my longing to come up for air, get out of my pj’s and escape, keeps me sane.  

In these days of Photoshopped lives, the reality of parenthood—and even sainted grandparenthood—-isn’t always dusted with powdered sugar. It is, of course, a blessing and I’m so very grateful to have the time to spend with my grands and daughter during this special time of their lives. But sometimes, us grandmas need time not to be grandmas or parents or any of the other roles us caring folks take on. Sometimes, a walk, a nap, an escape to the movies, a few minutes to write or read, paint, draw, listen to music or dance, is all one needs to re-boot the soul.

Postscript:

January 1, 2024.

There’s a lot going on, for everyone. The end of a year, that might have been filled with wonder or immense challenges, and the start of a new one. All the resolutions. The diet. Dry January. Saving vs. spending. Getting rid of junk. Being more present. My resolution is to try to not burn the candle at both ends, as my mother used to tell me. Being too much. Trying too hard. Caring for others more than myself. It’s a hard habit to break. But I’m going to do my best to turn this lifelong trend around. I’ll keep you posted.

In the meantime, do what you need to do to make you feel fulfilled, joyful and at peace. Find a way to incorporate the healthy, positive things that fortify and refresh your life. Every day. It’s a tall order, I totally get it. But we only get one go around. Today is the last today we’ll ever have. No more putting yourself on the back burner.

Happy New Year, dear friends. May this be the best one yet!