Raising A Grandchild

Raising a grandchild is not something I planned on doing when I was raising my own children. It can come about in a myriad of ways. But when it happens to us, we have to make adjustments. We have to deal with a new reality, the reality that there are significant differences between being elderly and being a child.

The biggest difference between the elderly and the child is the sense of time. For the elderly, time is going by quickly; for the child, time is going by slowly. This makes for some problems when it comes to deadlines. It makes for conflict. The last thing we grandparents want is conflict, but there it is day in and day out. We grandparents are in a hurry, because time is running out. Our grandchild is not in a hurry; to her time is going by slowly and she has all the time in the world. So, when it comes to getting her dressed, or getting her to school, or getting her to go just about any place, especially places she doesn’t want to go, conflict raises its ugly head.

                “Hurry up, you’re going to be late,” we say over and over again as the child dawdles.

                We’re focused on one thing—being on time. The child is focused on another—the imaginary friend he's playing with, the toy he can’t find, finishing the game he's playing in his mind.

                What are some of the conflicts we encounter virtually every day? Getting the child dressed. Getting the child to eat (eating seems to be the last thing on kids’ minds, at least, until they get hungry). Getting the child to the point of readiness, in general. Getting him bathed and to bed at a reasonable hour.

                What does this mean for us grandparents? It means we have to be patient. We have to control our temper. We have to walk a fine line between prodding the child along without screaming at her, without physically manhandling her and, at the same time, getting her to the state of readiness. It tries us in ways we can hardly tolerate, but tolerate it we must.

                The conundrum is that as elderly people, we want to focus on ourselves and the things that interest us. Of course, one of our interests is our grandchild, and we must focus on him or her first. We must slow down, think, be patient, and manage the conflict.

                What is the reward for this? The reward is that our grandchild loves us. The child wants to shower us with love, and he does. When the child slows down, he or she hugs us, sits on our laps, kisses us. It’s genuine love he or she has for us. And that’s the reward we get for the sacrifices we make to raise our grandchild.

               

Summer is gradually coming to an end. Is my writing?

I like summertime. It's a chance to swim in the pool on hot days. It's a chance to swim at the beach. Many plants flower during the summer. And I've had a good summer. My daughter, who moved to Georgia from Florida a year ago, has moved back. I had my three grandchildren around me for much of the summer. I painted in the hot garage almost everyday, my grandchildren right around me, also drawing, coloring, and painting. They produced many masterpieces, which are hanging on my garage walls. But it was hot in that garage. I came inside the air-conditioned house, sweat dripping off me, my shirt soaked. And I didn't mind it at all. The grandchildren are back in school now, so I have more free time. I'll be signing up for another drawing class, which starts next week.

The one thing I didn't do this summer was write. I wrote hardly a word of fiction. It was a thinking, reading, and wondering kind of summer. To be honest, the wondering has been about whether I'll continue trying to write fiction or give it up. My characters used to live inside my head; I temporarily became each character, feeling their feelings, thinking their thoughts; I became a different person for a while (actually, many different people), which is an amazing, emotionally satisfying kind of experience. That doesn't happen anymore. I don't become my characters. I'm not sure which is the mental illness: being able to become someone else, or not being able to become someone else. This is a serious issue. Not being able to become someone else leaves me with nothing to write about. I feel as if there's no life in what I'm writing. And, if there's no life in it, what's the point? This is what I'll be trying to figure out this fall, whether there's a reason to write anymore.

Life is always full of changes

I retired two years ago, but I've struggled to get any writing done, because I've been caring for my grandchildren. I love my grandchildren dearly, but it was frustrating not being able to get much work done, very frustrating. I always knew that they would eventually be in school, and I would have more time to write, but that wasn't enough to make me happy. Afterall, I'm getting older each year. Who knows how much time I have left? I certainly don't.

All of that has changed now. My daughter and her family moved to Georgia. And my grandson Kathan started preschool yesterday. I was so out of my element yesterday, I almost didn't know what to do. I had trouble letting go of the stress I've been under for the past two years. Believe me, if you don't know it, raising todlers is stressful, especially when you're in your early sixties. I rarely sat down for more than one or two minutes at a time without having to jump up and do something for one or all of them. My days of caring for them started early and ended late. I've listened to and watched more Sesame Street, Dorothy The Dinosaur, The Wiggles, Caillou, etc., etc., than I ever want to see again.

I was worried about Kathan going to school. I was afraid especially that he would cry when I left him, and his going to school would be stressful for me too and I'd feel guilty about it. No way. Not only did he not cry when I dropped him off at the school, he was happy and joined in with the other kids in their activities without even a look back. Last night, when I put him to bed, he said he wanted to go to school again. This morning, as I was unbuckling him from his carseat at school, he said, "Thank you for bringing me to school, grand pe." It almost brings tears to my eyes as I write this.

I'm still having trouble dealing with the freedom. I mean, I can really do things without trying to get them done in a hurry, without little kids hanging on me, without worrying that I've only got an hour to work, so I must get something done. I mean, this is unreal. I worked two solid hours on my writing yesterday, and I've worked for an hour or more this morning. It's just incredible. And I still have several hours ahead of me to do what I want. I mean, I feel like I'm free. And freedom feels good.