We’re a three-generation household at the moment. I sure wish we were four gen. See, that would mean one or both of my parents would still be with us. Recently, I was in the bathroom with my granddaughter, who had somehow managed to convince me to let her shower in my bathroom. I was setting up all her favorite potions and lotions where she could easily reach them. The conversation went something like this. “Didi, who was your dad?” Me: He was Grandaddy Ted (recalling that she was too young to remember him). “Ok, well, who was your mom?” Me: Grandma Marsha. “Oh, Didi, I can’t believe this! Aren’t you so sad? You never told me you were an Oprah.” The tears that welled up in her eyes are the only things that kept me from busting out in raucous laughter. Honestly, I’d rather be an Oprah than an orphan any day of the week. This selection of the day’s memories does prove one thing. We are lucky to all be here together right now. She can read my mind and I hers. How would we have ever made it through life without this intimate time together? Yet, I won’t tell you fibs. It isn’t always easy. The boundaries, they are mightily bounding.
I devour social media the way I do my favorite dishes: solely, wholly, and with abandon, until I reach complete burnout stage. That’s what I did recently with cottage cheese, and that is what I am doing with the Instagram account of @ mindyourboundaries, aka relationship expert Jessica Miller. Each day, Jessica poses a reader submitted question that presents a one-sided account of atrocities committed by, usually, a mother-in-law toward a daughter-in-law, or vice versa. Her answer seldom fails to flesh out the side of the conversation we can’t hear, the person at the end of the sword of blame. It’s never as one sided as you’d think. Young moms today build boundaries like the Great Wall of China, it seems. They declare, “We’re going to be ridiculous with dietary restrictions, nap times, and access to these children. One cross word from you, Grams, and we will cancel you!” Yet, I cannot deny that my generation’s mantra of “sugary snacks mean love” is killing us all. And sleep training, that stuff is magical! My daughter-in-law had those kids sleeping 12hour nights in no time flat. What my Insta research has shown me is that this is an age-old battle. Grandmas want more than 24/7 access to grandkids. We want love. We want togetherness. We want the pleasure of seeing our children with their children. Yet, if I squint my eyes shut to the point of making my crow’s feet look more like a parenthesis store, I can remember a different time.
I reinvented myself at the tender age of 18. I married. I moved. There was significant turmoil within my family, and I was heck bent on showing my own parents the error of their ways by purposefully and passionately doing everything differently than it had been done for me. By 19, I was expecting my first child. I only listened to classical music. I stopped drinking sodas. In 1985, that was quite an undertaking, too! I spoke differently. I dressed in an avant garde manner that I thought mirrored Lisa Bonet on The Cosby Show. Face palm. When the baby came, my transformation continued. Child led weaning, no baby voices allowed when speaking to my son, and vegetarianism were a few of the bombshells I dropped. Naps would look a certain way. Outings would look a certain way. And, like a fine old oak tree, I would not bend. My child. My life. My rules. Through the lens of missing a mother like only an Oprah can do, how odd that must have looked to the woman who only ever dreamed of how we would partner together to raise her grandchildren.
As I read through today’s boundary issue on Instagram, I am overtaken with an epiphany. Despite our generational differences, moms want the same things: a happy, healthy, strong child who can withstand the beat down the world will surely offer – one whose wings fly strong and take them to the places we only dreamt of going. So, how can we fret when they go? I must look ridiculous with my preconceived notions of the old ways and the passé methods. Because, you see, when they fly, all you can do is trust them. When they choose a partner, I must love them the way they need to be loved. When the children come, I must remember that it is not my dream anymore. It belongs to someone else now. I need to focus on condensing all my old-fashioned lessons into little bouillon cubes - all the better to sprinkle over the grandchildren’s cherubic little heads whenever I get the chance.
But these are things only Oprah’s understand, perhaps. This is the benefit of loss, I think. The picture gets bigger and easier to digest each day.
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