love

I had to dash into the grocery store really quick yesterday.

I suppose the first thing to catch my eye about the young woman walking in just ahead of me on this unseasonably warm Fall afternoon was the flowy floral printed dress she was wearing. But, what really held my gaze was the little boy holding her hand. I was trying to guesstimate his age.  Maybe 7ish?

As we walked in, she grabbed a cart, but I didn’t.  There wasn’t much on my Empty Nester grocery list- milk, eggs, Coke Zero and wine – an armload at best. So, I didn’t really require a cart. These days we eat out, order in or make do. 

He was talking her ear off about his little-man day. She was listening. I was too. I was listening the way everyone within a mile of us listened to my boys once upon a time – by default…

And then I headed back to the refrigerator aisle, wondering when the last time my little boys held my hand in the grocery store. Like, seriously, when was the VERY LAST TIME?

That lady’s boy was a little on the older side, teetering on the brink, if you will… She might be nearing one of the last times he would hold her hand while walking in to the grocery store. I wondered if she was aware of that?  I bet not. Should I go tell her? I bet she was clueless. I think a small part of me (the exhausted part?) back in the day naively thought my children would always hold my hand as I we walked into the grocery store.

Endless little hands on endless grocery store runs for the endless gallons and gallons and gallons of milk we endlessly pursued…

I once read this gut-wrenching piece about how it’s good we don’t know the last time we do the things we do. The last time we nurse a baby, the last time we rock one, the last time we tie their shoe or read them a bedtime story or help with their homework. If you’ve never read it…don’t. Unless you actually want your gut wrenched.  

but…

On the brighter side of things, we truly never stop being mommies. I woke up with a startle at 3 am this morning and ran across the house with my heart racing to see if my boy made it home safely. The last thing I remember before I fell asleep last night was a text from him saying he was just leaving Dallas (9 pm) and could I leave a door unlocked (of course). I quietly tiptoed down the hall and ever-so-gently turned the doorknob of the spare bedroom so it wouldn’t creak and cracked it open a few inches – just enough so I could see in, but not enough that the light from the hall would wake him. 

And there he was. 

My baby boy. 

Almost bigger than the bed itself. I tskd-tskd a little about the state in which he was sleeping. He was lying diagonally with the sheets and blanket all tangled up in his limbs. I resisted an abnormally strong maternal urge to crawl in on all fours and make adjustments to his sleeping arrangement. I can assure you, had I done that, it would not have ended well, so I exercised remarkable restraint, backing out quietly and slithering back into my own bed (quite neat and orderly). And, believe it or not, I was actually able to fall back asleep secure in the knowledge that he was safe and sound.

He gets married in a few weeks. To the lovely girl I started praying for before she was even born. I prayed God would send someone who would love him as fiercely as I do. I prayed God would send someone who would rest in his strength, believe in his strength but also really see his tenderness and protect it. I prayed for a strong partner that would walk beside him in a world that’s not so very easy and that they would both never have their very worst day on the same day, so they can hold each other up. I prayed for someone who would laugh with him and share music with him and love their children with him. If they can have all of this, they’ll be happy.

And so will I.

And just one more thing I honestly didn’t think of back then…I’m hoping she will keep his sheets and blankets sorted out. I really don’t think that’s asking too much.

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.