Grandparenting – Page 3 – One Woman's Quest

Is Daddy Dead?

Tucks her granddaughter in,
gazes into wide blue eyes,
flashes back to another girl –
now grown – apple cheeks,
and an unruly thicket of hair.

Nostalgia is shattered as
the child smiles back, lips
betraying a trace of another –
once father – whose absence
clouds the old woman’s heart.

She holds the child closer,
reassuring her undying love,
cannot not shake the echo
of words spoken only that day:
Kayla’s daddy always picks her up.

Told the teacher her dad is dead;
a reasonable conclusion for a
young mind unable to articulate
the questions in her heart: why
his name is only ever whispered.

Tries to draw his picture, talks
of missing his cuddles, surely,
cannot remember a man who
left before she was two – the
grandmother prays silently.

What will they say when she asks?
Niceties about how he wasn’t ready?
Leave her to believe she is somehow
lacking, unlovable, when in truth
it is he who is incapable of loving.

Chases women like cotton candy,
three or four a day, cannot help
himself, an internet-driven obsession,
uses his daughter’s picture as bait –
perhaps she is right, her father is dead.

Win-Win

“First one to ten wins,” I tell my four-year-old granddaughter.

We are seated beside the large, corner, picture windows facing the street. It’s a favourite spot of ours, and we spend hours contemplating nature, or playing “I Spy”. Today, she is counting white cars that drive by and I am counting red.

“There’s a white one!” she exclaims, jumping up and down on the couch. “I’m beating you by one.”

“You are! Eight to seven.” Is it wrong, I ask myself, that I am teaching my granddaughter to be competitive?

“First one to ten wins a prize,” she adds.

“Okay,” I respond, smiling warmly. I love how she brings such enthusiasm to the simplest of games, and amusingly notice how she always manages to work a treat in. Competition, I decide is a natural part of life.

“Another white one! And another. That’s ten!”

“Oh you beat me. What prize would you like?”

She thinks about it for a moment, her blue eyes studying my face for any signs of disappointment. “I know!” she beams. “How about we keep playing till we both have ten and then both of us can have a treat?”

Another white car drives by and I point it out.

“No Grandma,” she chides me. “We are only looking for red cars now.”

In a matter of minutes two red cars pass and she declares that we are both winners and can now claim our rewards. Playing along, I follow her into the kitchen, wondering what it is she has in mind.

Holding open the pantry door, she considers the options. “Do you have any gummy bears?”

“No gummy bears, just fruit snacks. Would you like a cookie?”

“Umm, no….you can’t eat that.” I am impressed. She sincerely wants me to share in the honours, and as she well knows, this Grandma doesn’t eat cookies (unless they are gluten free). She yanks open the freezer drawer and finds popsicles. “Here you go Grandma.”

We sit at the table, commenting on our chosen flavours and whether or not we lick or bite our frozen treats, all the while exchanging loving glances.

“I love you Grandma!” she tells me between bites.

“I love you, Sweetheart. Thanks for letting me be a winner too.”
She cocks her head to the side and grinning broadly gives me a thumbs up and I marvel at the lesson this little soul has just taught me about compassion and win-win.

Sedentary

Spent the day in prone silence –
first as a human pin cushion
in the naturopath’s office –
motionless except my mind
pouring over Christmas plans.

Later, beside my granddaughter,
three-year-old arms akimbo
daring not to budge, until her
innocent breaths deepened –
my body burning to move.

Now, the window of energy
closed, I lie here with you,
no longer motivated to sort
or organize, my brain spent –
mindless poem on fingertips.

Grandmother’s Rhapsody

Tiny pink boots,
with yellow ponies
stomp on the doorstep
announcing the arrival
of a granddaughter.
Wispy blonde hair
gathered atop her head
bobs as she chatters
not stopping to say hello.

“Hello Pumpkin!” I announce
helping her out of her puffy
pink jacket, purple leggings
jumping up and down.
“My cousin’s a pumpkin, too!”
“She is indeed!” Pumpkin two
dances up behind her, eyes
shining, also in pink, barging
ahead with hugs and a kiss.
I pull them into a group embrace
and breathe in the wonder
of their sweetness.

Dinner time is wiggles
and lighthearted scolding:
“Stay in your seat if you
want cake.” Easily excited.
Rapturous laughter over
the silliest of things –
a word that sounds funny,
an eyebrow raised,
an involuntary snort –
such innocent glee.
My heart is full.

Afterwards, little feet
scatter, giggling as
they scramble –
the smallest one
taking a running leap
to scale our massive bed –
duck beneath my throw,
make a sorrowful effort
to hush – hiding –
as if i cannot see the
two-humped mass
beneath the blanket.

On tiptoes, I sneak
around the bed,
grasp the edge
and whisper “Boo”
as I lift the cover
to delighted squeals
and we play it again
and again, as if for
the first time, until
the smaller can no longer
contain herself and falls over,
weakened with rapture.

We cuddle, me sandwiched
in the middle, tiny legs
draped over mine,
heads leaning in.
“It’s so fun here, Grandma”
pudgy little hands touch
my cheeks, blue eyes
speaking such tenderness.
“Promise me you’ll come again.”
Then it’s time to leave,
and with mighty hugs
and mushy kisses
they are gone
and the sound of their
joy echoes in the silence
of their absence, filling
the empty spaces.
My heart smiles on.

Speaking of Clouds

“Look, Grandma! We match!”
We are both wearing gray.
“You match the clouds, too.”
Grumpa adds = perplexity.

“No, the clouds are not gray;
they are white.” Consternation
spreads across 3-yr-old face,
examining the overcast sky.

“I can’t see them!” Panicking.
“I don’t see gray clouds!”
“Do you see white clouds?”
Hoping to restore rationality.

“No; they just look dirty. Why?”
So, not gray, will be the answer.
“They are full of rain.” “Ohh!
Dark clouds mean a storm.”

“Or snow,” I suggest; am corrected.
“Snow clouds aren’t dark, silly!”
“They’re not?” Serious revelation.
“They are white!” Sound logic.

“Do you know, Grandma, when
the snow comes all the leaves
will fall down from the trees?”
“That’s right,” Grumpa asserts.

“When your cousin was two,
she was worried the trees were
broken and wanted to fix them.”
“Even I know that’s not true.”

“It’s not?” irresistible goading.
“No, the leaves will grow back
when the winter is over.” Precise
wisdom charms this aged mind.

One Way Conversation with Dad

Happy Birthday, Dad. You would have been 88 today.

I miss you today, Dad. I miss your wisdom; I could use some right now.

I don’t know if you can read this, Dad, or hear me, but I’d like to pull up a chair anyway, so we can talk. You see, I’m just not feeling that confident today, Dad.

I know, I know. You’d say “Why not Squeegie? Life’s what you make of it, and you’re doing a pretty darn good job, from what I can see.” And I would smile, despite myself, and thank you for the vote of confidence.

Truth is, I’ve made a lot of mistakes in life, Dad, either from stubbornness, or just plain stupidity, and I’m beginning to think that that old saying is about me – you know, the one you used to say all the time: Failure to plan is planning to fail. Well, I failed to plan, Dad.

Before you say anything, I’m not bemoaning my life – it has been good. I’m just recognizing, at my age, that if I had planned, life would be a lot different right now. I’d be retiring with my friends, and looking forward to spending many days with my grandchildren. Instead, I don’t even have a full-time job, so retirement is definitely not in the cards.

I know what you’re thinking: you weren’t a very good role model, because you failed to plan also. ( Oh, by the way, I was mad at you for that – for leaving Mom with so little, despite all the money that you made.) Seems I’m doing the same to myself.

But it’s more than that, Dad. I just don’t feel like I can trust myself, enough to make right choices, career-wise. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I have a hard time telling if I’m doing a good job, or am appreciated. I always feel apologetic or inadequate. Why is that?

No, don’t start, it’s not all your fault. Okay, you didn’t help, but I’m an adult now, you’d think I’d be over that. I’m just tired of doubting myself.

Remember when my marriage fell apart, and how the day I realized it, I drove directly to you? You sat in your chair and listened, while I crumpled on the couch, spewing anger, and disappointment, and heartbreak. I felt so defeated, and you cried with me, and shook your head, and raged on my behalf. I don’t remember exactly what you said, but this is what I heard:

“Squeege (your pet name for me), I don’t know why this has happened to you, but I do know this: you are a bright, loving woman, and you give your heart and soul to everything you do, and everyone you love, and you deserve better than this. Goddamn it, you deserve better than this!”

You could be a bastard, a lot of the time, Dad, but you were also my rock.

I’m just sorry that today, you weren’t here for me to tell you so. As for my problems, guess I’ll have to figure this one out on my own.

I was too proud to tell you when you were alive, Dad (and too stubborn), but truth is, I needed you. Still do.

Thanks for listening, and by the way, Happy Father’s Day.

Love you,

Squeege

Innocence and Authenticity

I am five. Chronologically, I am five. Inside, I feel as old as I’ll ever be.

I am free of the burdens and distractions that surround me, and often, alone.

I have a sense of something I can’t quite articulate – purpose, mingled with wisdom; trust, and a connection larger than me.

I do not question whether I am wearing the right clothes for my figure, or if my hair suits my face. I do not worry about where the money for the next bill is going to come from. I seldom wonder if what I say might offend or is relevant at all.

At five, I live honestly; authentically. I am all that I’ll ever be: undefined, yet confident. I am alive for a reason. I feel it.

All I have to do is be patient and wait for life to unfold.

My true self.

Half a life time later, I still remember her: that girl with such a full future ahead of her. Such an innocent.

Like a treasure, she is buried within me, holding space. I look for her in the mirror, but her light no longer shines in my eyes. I search for her in the clutter that has become my mind, yet her clarity eludes me. In the eyes of others, I am mother, friend, teacher, lover, and adviser, but not innocence; never my true self.

So, I seek to ignite that sense of self, through the inspiration that is my granddaughter. Her smiles, her tears, her constant curiosity and unabashed response to life is a reminder: somewhere in all of us there is a simplicity of being that defies any other reality. Our true self.

The Nature of God

I heard a story years ago that merits repeating here. (These are my words, not the original.)

A three-year-old asked to be left alone with her newborn sibling. The parents, obviously, denied her request, but when she kept persisting, the grandparents suggested that the baby be put in the crib, and a monitor in the room turned on so that they could listen in. The adults were curious. As soon as the little girl thought they were alone, she whispered to her new brother: “Quick, tell me about God. I’m forgetting already.”

Imagine if we could all remember where we came from. If God was not a mystery, but one evolving, omniscient force to which we all were consciously attached. Imagine how that would change the world.

Yet, we do not have such memory. We have opinions, speculation: faith. Some would kill for their convictions, even without proof. God is a super-charged, elusive concept that can empower, or stifle life, depending on human interpretation.

I don’t know anymore than the next person about the nature of our origins, but I do know this: looking into the eyes of my newborn granddaughter there is a presence of something beyond the innocence of her being. Watching her approach life with such enthusiasm and hunger, makes me believe that there is an innate wisdom there that surpasses our mundane knowing.

I have more questions than I’ll ever have answers.

Children As Mirrors

When I think of my grandchildren – one now six months, and one on the way – my heart swells and tears fill my eyes; I love them so much. I hope that I have extolled upon my daughters that children are a blessing to be cherished.

One thing I can tell them is that children will be their greatest teachers. Honest, straightforward, and ever curious, children will tell it like it is, question inequities, and challenge everything. Like little parrots, children repeat what they hear, and mimic gestures and behaviours. They will also reflect the good, the bad, and the ugly.

My moment of revelation about how intrinsically linked mothers and children are came when performing therapeutic touch on the mother of a boy with severe autism. His constant spinning and screaming was a source of anxiety for the young mother seeking my help. She had hoped I could calm him, however; he was not receptive to staying still, so I offered her a treatment instead. Amazingly, as soon as the mother began to relax, so too did her son.

All the way home, I thought of my own children, and questioned how many times their anxiety or distress was merely a reflection of my own emotional imbalance. Over time, I had to admit there was a definite link. If I would return home tired and distraught, that would be the time my children were acting up. If I was feeling happy and positive, the children would reflect that back.

In therapeutic touch we have an analogy that the therapist is like a tuning fork: when s/he is centered and grounded then the client can follow suit. The same goes for children.

Another way of looking at this, is that children are mirrors for their parents. When my oldest, Marie, is being impulsive, she is reflecting my own tendencies. When Ester is feeling anxious, or John is burdened by being overly introspective, they are exhibiting the very traits I myself struggle with. The challenge for me, as parent, is to a) take ownership of my shortcomings, and b) work to heal them so that my children can do the same.

Children are teachers because they offer us the opportunity and the incentive to become better people.

Grandchildren teach us how to fall in love all over again.

I’m so glad I enrolled in the school of parenting!