Grandmothers

It’s getting harder and harder to ignore the fact that I’m being cheated on.  It’s scandalous.  And, yet, no one seems to care except the other ladies in my Book Group. 

Most of them are getting cheated on too.  We meet monthly to discuss various and sundry books, but we inevitably meander off-topic.  The last time we got together, we ended up lamenting this rampant infidelity that’s uprooting our otherwise happy lives.  

Almost every woman in the group could relate.  Admittedly there were a few who hadn’t experienced it YET, but they were warned by the rest of us…

 “Don’t be naive!”

“Just you wait!”

Adding insult to injury, we all agreed, is the fact that the little cheaters don’t even have the decency to try and hide their betrayal from us.  I mean Zero Discretion!

“Bye Grandma Laylay!” they chirp cheerfully as they hug and kiss me goodbye, “We’re off to Mumsie’s now!”

It’s really hard not to feel betrayed when they skulk off to the open arms of another woman while you stand around surveying your broken home that resembles a war zone in the aftermath of their departure. 

Mumsie is, “The Other Woman!” Or, as my 3 daughters pragmatically refer to her, “their children’s other grandmother.”  Of course, they’re not ALL named Mumsie.  There are 3 of them and they go by various other grandma monikers, but the principle is the same. 

 I am sharing my grandchildren with other women.  

Women who, I’ve been told, love and dote on them as much as I do.  That could be true, I suppose.  How would I know?  I’ve never been, “The Other Grandmother.”

This would all be fine and dandy if the competition weren’t so FIERCE.  We’ve all been mystified by the reality TV shows about  “Sister Wife” arrangements.  This is where a small group of women amicably share the same husband, children and chores.   It’s an intriguing plan, as marriage and family can be EXHAUSTING.  I don’t know many women who haven’t given at least passing consideration to the concept.  But we always quickly dismiss the idea when we remember how we could potentially be compared unfavorably to the other ladies in question. 

I’m not admitting I’m competitive, but I don’t love it when I come up short when compared to others…

Case in point:

My daughters and I were all sitting around the other evening enjoying a little wine-time together, when we happened to get on the subject of their mothers-in-law.  Three lovely ladies whom my daughters all adore and the feeling seems to be reciprocal.   

Eventually the conversation took a turn, when one of my daughters asked her sister about her MIL’s grand-parenting style .

“Well, she’s just a different kind’ve grandmother from Mom, which is wonderful, because my kids get to experience the best of both worlds!”

My ears pricked right up.  How is she different from me I wondered.  I didn’t have to wonder long…

“How is she different from Mom?” the other sister asked. 

“Well, she’s just the type of grandmother who gets down on the floor at their level and wrestles around playing with them.  She’s super high-energy!”

“What?” I protested, with what any casual observer would agree was quite a bit of energy.  “I’m ALWAYS on the floor playing with them!”

I can’t even remember which daughter pointed out that I was currently sitting on a white couch sipping my Cabernet from a long stemmed wine glass, while the grands had been instructed to play in the playroom.  I wanted to slither off the couch onto the floor that very moment, but I knew that would look all too obvious.   So, a few minutes later, I got up to pour myself some more wine; when I re-entered the room, I lowered myself gracefully down to the floor.

What???   I just wanted to be down there all approachable and Grandma-like in case one of the little darlings sauntered back into the room. 

She then went on to explain how the other grandmother makes Rice Krispy treats with the kids and how very taxing this is to do with children.   Girl, I get it.  I raised 5 kids, everything is taxing when it involves children.  And for sure, stirring melted marshmallows into cereal is no job for the weak and weary.  

I’ll gladly cede the entire Rice Krispy Treat World to my formidable competitors. But, also, unbeknownst to me, apparently I’ve relinquished the entire world of On-The-Floor-Fun-Grandma-Energy.  

So unfair.  

This is why it’s difficult to be a, “Sister Grandma” with another woman.  Sure, it’s nice to know there’s another woman out there helping to carry the full weight of your load.  These kids are a lot, so that part’s great.  All up until someone goes around inferring that you can not, nor will not melt marshmallows or roll around with reckless abandon on your living room floor.  

Oh well…

I knew from Day 1, as we were passing that little burrito bundle around in the hospital, this was inevitable.  These kids were born with a wandering eye.   They suck all the fun out of one Grandma and then move right on to the next one waiting around with arms wide open.  

But you can bet the next time those little Home Wreckers come tearing into my house shrieking at the top of their lungs, 

“Grandma Laylay, Grandma Laylay! We’re here!  We’re here! Where are you?”

I’m going to answer,

“Down here!  On the floor!”

No one’s ever going to accuse ME of not being childish.  I can easily get down to the level of a toddler.  

 

As one might imagine, the topic of “aging gracefully” and general overall “lucidity” has been on the table ever since our two mothers spent a few days with us attending graduation festivities last week. Right before we took my husband’s mom to the airport to catch her flight back to New Orleans, we stopped for a light lunch, which was really just an excuse for a few more minutes of soaking up her wisdom, chatting about life and stuff. That’s when Mimi tossed out this precious gem…

“Well, all I can say is…Y’all will know when I am LOSING IT. Y’all will be able to tell if I ever even walk outside or, God forbid, go anywhere without my makeup on.”

I met my mother-in-law when I was 17, and even back then, as a know-nothing young girl, I pegged her as the true blue, dyed-in-the-wool Southern Belle that she is. One look and you can tell she has some really high standards with respect to appearances, but still, her comment gave me considerable pause. (The fork in mid-air, I-even-stopped-eating-for-a-second kind of pause.)  I looked at my hubby in mock concern…

“That may be fine for gauging Mimi’s mental state, but I run all over town without an ounce of makeup on now, so we can’t be relying on that as an indication of when I start LOSING IT.”

“That’s the God’s Honest,” he readily agreed. “Or if you start ramming our cars into one another on our driveway, no one will be worried. We will just know that’s the kind of thing you’ve always done.”

(Touche!  I’m sure I deserved that!)

Foolishly caught up in the moment, I couldn’t resist adding, “If I’m an old lady that turns on the faucet and then forgets to turn it off and floods the entire Senior Center, you won’t be panic-stricken, like ‘Oh My God, she is completely losing it!’ You’ll be all calm like, “That’s just her way!”

“And, if you completely fall off the face of the Earth and don’t answer anyone’s phone calls or return their texts, no one will think a thing of it!” Mimi offered, in that sort’ve sympathetic ‘Bless Your Heart’ style only a truly Southern mother-in-law can pull off with charm and  ease.

Undaunted, my husband continued, “Or even if I found your car keys in the freezer or fact-checked your embellished statistics and stories, I wouldn’t blink twice!”

“Or if you threw away actual money!”

I get it. I get it. I get it.

He’s just all bent out of shape because one of the first payments I’ve ever received for “published writing” came in the mail the other day and he brought it straight to me, bubbling over with the joy and relief of a man who just realized he might be in a “dual-income relationship” for the first time in 33 years of marriage. I was standing in my closet at the time he ceremonially handed the check to me. We haven’t laid eyes on  that check since the initial 2 minute celebration, but I’m sure it’s in my closet somewhere.  Besides, it still counts as “getting paid to write” regardless of whether or not you get around to cashing the check.

But that’s all completely beside the point – I’ve got bigger fish to fry here.   With no distinct or discernible signs of my own mental impoverishment, my loved ones will be completely clueless. If I start to unravel, how will they be alerted to the utter gravity of my condition in order to render aid?   I’ve got to pull my act together somewhat.

I’m turning over the proverbial new leaf. I plan to tone it down and rein it in a bit from here on out. I’ll start by tearing a page out of Mimi’s book and splash a little more make-up on consistently every day, for that dewy-fresh “I’ve totally got my crap together” look!

“Age-defying makeup” just took on a whole new meaning for me…

Bless My heart, Y’all.