There is a knot under my right scapula so large that it deserves a proper name. A dull migraine has been brewing for days, just behind my left temple. I am certain that my right hip is out of socket. There’s a pulled muscle in my right armpit and a permanent charley horse in my left calf muscle. All 10 of my fingernails are broken. You might wonder what happened to me. Was I in a car accident? Have I been burgled, pick-pocketed, or otherwise assaulted? Perhaps I fell down some stairs or stumbled while hiking? Nothing this problematic is causing my woes. In fact, it’s far more mundane. I just spent a week with my grandkids. It’s rough out here on a granny.
Both grandchildren are products of my middle child. They live in Houston, so I don’t get to see them as often as I’d hoped. I saw myself as the grandmother whose home would be that point of refuge from a cruel world, a place you could turn to when even your own well-meaning parents were against you. That’s how I felt about both sets of my grandparents when I was young. Their homes smelled like roasted chicken, baking bread, and pecan pie – the aroma of a hug. They were play partners, secret keepers, and expert motivators. Grandmothers are the OG influencers. They make complicated things look easy enough for anyone to tackle. I thought we’d be thick as thieves on a daily basis, always working on some amazing art project or propagating exotic plants. I imagined jigsaw puzzles that would stay on a corner table for weeks, each day getting a few new pieces matched together. My future sent me back live videos of screen doors slamming followed by little voices calling my name, overnight bags in tow simply because it’s a weekend. Alas, things don’t always pan out exactly like you think they should. Nevertheless, I am over the moon happy with the relationships I have developed with these munchkins. When they look up at me, their identical blue eyes big with amazement and wonder over something I said, I want to cry. I have realized, as we do when the years keep on a rolling by, that time is a thief in the night. We have so little time to learn to love each other. I sob on the inside, wishing each precious little nose was a rewind button I could tap to go back, just for a second. But, boy, don’t they know how to put me through the ringer.
My seven-year-old granddaughter and 4-year-old grandson go from zero to 10Gs in about 5 seconds. It starts before my 1st cup of coffee is halfway finished. Someone touches someone, or looks at some one, or thinks a single thought about someone and it’s off to the races. Once we’ve boarded the crazy train, our first stop is the Google assist device on my kitchen counter. Chynna Rose (7), is an old pro at asking perplexing questions to “the Google lady.” Did you know that Google can play you recordings of the sounds of mythical creatures? Me, either, until Chynna showed me what a mermaid sounds like. They just giggle, in case you were wondering. Ezra (4), who often goes by Teddy, is currently drawing a very short internet straw. His requests to “Goo Goo” seem to always fall on deaf ears. His sister is amazing at announcing his goo goo failure to the world. At this point, there is generally an unsuccessful attempt at a bloody coup. After I mediate this first situation, we transition to breakfast. Chynna has not accepted the fact that a grandmother’s eyes can see right through wool, so she attempts the old dessert for breakfast trick. Ezra is an al a carte king. He likes a single blueberry muffin followed by a single banana, often followed by a request to repeat these steps multiple times. While I place them at opposite ends of my kitchen island, they seem to magnetically gravitate to the center seats where their elbows and feet somehow strike against each other’s bodies at an alarming rate. There are arguments about what should be watched on television. There are arguments on what vintage records we should play on the record player. Fisticuffs often break out over who sits on which end of the piano. Their cries of “Didi, watch this” often end in shrill screams of anger as they both attempt forward rolls at opposite ends of the same room. I haven’t figured out how to look in polar opposite directions simultaneously. How dare I. As the younger generation would say, they are extra, so very, very extra.
Still, I am sitting here in tears, not because they pushed me to my physical and mental extremes, but because they are gone. I’m crying because Chynna proclaimed “Girl on Fire” to be her favorite song. I printed out the lyrics for her, creating a never-ending concert. She didn’t know lyrics were a thing. I showed her that. I’m crying because Ezra loves art. He likes to draw monster houses and aliens and wookie monsters and crabs. He is sweet. He makes up names for me like Funny Creature Didi and Silly Baby Didi. But, the art – I showed him that. They touched feral kittens lured by the smell of tuna. They watered rosebushes, sidewalks, and themselves. They left smelling of lavender soap, my perfume, and sunshine. Here’s to all the long-distance grandmothers. We can still be their refuge from a cruel world. We just have to stay in their hearts every day.
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