What's So Grand About Grand-parenting?

It’s happened again. The stuffed animals flung into a corner and found days afterwards. One tiny sock surfacing in a load of otherwise grown-up laundry. The Hello Kitty toothbrushes languishing in the guest bathroom. Little reminders of two little visitors who take over my life and then vanish.

I adore my grand-daughters, don’t get me wrong. They are two bright, funny, surprising, loving and challenging little girls who regularly say “I love you” and squeal my name with delight (no better ego boost) at the start of every visit. I cherish all the traditional grandma moments – the nightly bedtime rituals, the silly jokes at the dinner table, endless rounds of Simon Says, the cuddles and confidences. I love all that stuff.

It’s the leaving I struggle with, the aftermath of their sunny presence. How badly I miss them when they are gone. It’s embarrassing really. I’m a relatively young and (dare I say) “hip” grandmother, I have a full life, a secure identity, a busy schedule with work and friends and travel and interests beyond baking cookies and here I am wandering around the house like my puppy just died. What’s going on here?

I think back to my single-mom days when my only child left for college and I found myself, for the first time in 18 years, coming home to an empty house with no one to cook for and no pressing responsibilities. Did I mope, did I sigh? Did I feel sorry for myself? Sure, for a day or two. But in short order the overwhelming emotion was exhilaration, as in “Hey, I can do anything I want! Cereal for dinner? You got it. Meet a gal-pal for drinks and a few laughs? No need to rush home. Read magazines and munch popcorn all evening? Go for it.” Then, I reveled in a new-found freedom that, having married at 19, given birth at 20, and divorced at 33, tasted sweet and not at all bitter. If anything, I felt a teensy bit guilty for enjoying my independence so much.

So, is this hollow ache from the grandkids’ departure karmic payback? Or just a sign that I’m slipping into maudlin sentiment that will find me tearing up at Hallmark commercials and cooing at random babies I encounter in the Acme? At least I’m not alone. My friend Sylvia confides that, after her three grandchildren leave, she feels so bereft her husband warns that future visits may have to be curtailed to avoid the moody hangover. Luckily, unlike Sylvia, my husband is not yet retired so is not around the house to catch me stuck in “woe is me” mode.

I ponder the change in my attitude. Clearly, I’ve traveled some distance from my 30s, when the prospect of freedom and the solitude of a quiet apartment felt like an unexpected gift. Back then, as I celebrated the synchronous independence of my college-bound daughter and my liberated self, I began to see how change that feels painful at first can reveal itself to be a blessing. Now I ask myself if I can apply the same lesson to the Grammie in me.

My thoughts stray to another friend, a dear woman who is several years older and not in the best health. At 60-something, she’s married off two daughters in the past few years and pines for grandchildren in the worst way. Her prayers were answered recently when her youngest got pregnant. Alas, a miscarriage shattered those hopes. In time, perhaps, her wish for a grandchild will be granted. For now, she’s heartbroken.

I wander the empty rooms echoing with the phantom shouts and laughter of my dearly-missed grand-daughters, and I realize I am blessed. Being a grandparent is a grand gift indeed, despite the pangs of separation. I reserve the right to mope for a few hours, and maybe even gush over babies in the grocery store occasionally. I won’t wallow, but I will count the days to the next visit.

The Hello Kitty toothbrushes are ready, and waiting.