By Sue Murphy
My older daughter had to return to Ireland to tidy up things for her move back to the states, so I volunteered to watch my younger grandchildren while she was away. It had been a long time since I’d had a pair of toddlers for more than an afternoon, so I had to brush up on my grandmom repertoire but fast.
You see, short term, a grandma can be just fun and games. But when Grandma is on 24-hour duty, she has to add a little bit of mom into the mix because there are vegetables that have to be eaten and fights to referee and, even if there are protests, everyone needs a bath and a nap every day (including Grandma). I drove my daughter to the airport, counting on the idea that the mom part of the equation would come back to me like riding a bicycle.
It did, but the first revelation was that, like riding a bicycle, if you stop pedaling, you will crash, or at least fall into logistical disrepair. Oh sure, there were spots during the day when I could coast, like at naptime and after the kids went to bed, but even then, I had to be ready to resume pedaling at a moment’s notice if someone woke up crying because they lost Peppa Pig in the covers.
Other things I had completely forgotten, like the fact that if you buy one of those cartoon character cereals, kids will eat the marshmallows and the cereal will end up in a sticky reject pile, or the simple truth that when kids put on their shoes, despite that officially there is a 50/50 chance of getting them on the correct feet, they will get it wrong 75 percent of the time.
The biggest lesson I relearned was that, to be a successful parent, a person needs two things: patience and deep pockets. I’m not talking about financial pockets, although no one is giving away those trips to Chuckie Cheese. No, I’m referring to actual, physical pockets, the kind that come in your jeans or your shorts or hopefully, both. Actually, you’ll need pockets in your bathrobe, too.
I’m a longtime fan of pockets. How else would you keep your tissues and Chapstick in quick-draw position? Back when I was teaching, my pockets served as transitional stops for lost game pieces. When dear old Buster Joe was with us, I was always pocketing a dog cookie or two.
For front-line parents, pockets provide a necessary level of limbo. While I was on grandmom duty, I instituted a two-pocket system. One pocket served as a receptacle for permanent rejects, like the aforementioned character cereal, a discarded yogurt lid my grandson picked up under the slide at the playground and wet wipes that were used to sanitize his hands afterward. The other pocket held things still viable but currently not in play – toys they were fighting over, small objects I feared they would choke on and Lego pieces that had skittered under the dining room table. At the first opportunity, both pockets were emptied, and just as quickly, they were filled up again.
It all worked out. My daughter returned last Saturday to find the same two children she left me with and only a smattering of Grandma spoiling to overcome. So, now I am back to just being Grandma, my pocket filled with tissues and Chapsticks … and one of Barbie’s shoes. Oh well, I’ll find her hobbling around eventually.
