The Granny Circuit

                                                                   

Dear friends, fam, and frenemies,

            Never heard of the “Granny Circuit”?  Read on.

            “Mom, what are you doing Aug. 30 – Sept 4?”  Do you ever get such calls months in advance? My sister, grandmother-of-eleven, warned me about this.  Somehow you suspect that your grown child isn’t about to treat you to an all-expenses-paid trip to Lake of the Ozarks, or even to Boonville, MO.   Before you can sputter, “Well, I think I’m finally going to have that big neighborhood Labor Day party I’ve always hoped to have,” the details come out.  Your daughter and her husband have been invited to a friend’s wedding in Napa Valley, CA.  And there are just two problems:  a two-year-old boy and a seven-week-old boy who need to be looked after.   In April, this all sounds very exciting and fun, esp. since the seven-week-old had not yet arrived.  Of course, I would do my grandmotherly duty.  And, eventually, I would let my husband know that he would be doing his grandfatherly duty.  Above all else, I want everyone to have a good time.  

When the weekend arrives, I even show up a day early so that my daughter can to go to yoga, get a manicure, and have a spray tan. The next day, the two-year-old and I wake up early.   He demands milk only from his “Woody” cup. When did this start?  He used to like his Mickey Mouse cup.   Eventually, I find it, wash it, and fill it.   He refuses to wear a bib and then insists on “helping” pour the syrup on his waffles (God help me). He also insists on putting on his own shoes, but not the ones I select and not on the right feet.  Never mind. His dad takes him off to day care, so I am left with only the baby.  What am I complaining about, right? 

My first day as caregiver-in-chief is underway.  As the day wears on, past days spent with babies come flooding back.  My resolve to accomplish anything other than holding and feeding the baby fades as the hours pass. Do I really need to go to the store for waffles?  Nah. Put on make-up? Nope. Vacuum the dog hair from the carpet and couch? They aren’t that bad.  Watch non-stop episodes of Parks and Rec?  Now you’re talking.  The baby is breast-fed, so I have detailed instructions as well as strict warnings (have they installed video cameras since my last visit?  I look around just in case.) on how to thaw, handle, and, most of all, preserve, at all cost, every last drop of this frozen liquid gold.  I must use the milk in date order, note the time I take it out, how long it is out (that part is hard when you are binge-watching.  I do my best..), and check it off on a spreadsheet.  Any unaccounted-for milk will surely show up in an audit. Dum da dum dum.. If I spill so much as a drop, I am to self-report myself to the La Leche League for a proper flogging or possible capital punishment.  I’m still free, so I’m either innocent, or I haven’t been nabbed yet for milk endangerment.

When it comes time to pick up the two-year-old, I have my first test.  I have to put the baby in his car seat.  You grandparents know what I’m talking about.  It’s a tricky business getting those straps adjusted. Which button do I push/pull? Have I just made it tighter or looser?  Why is it loose on one side, but tight on the other? Can the baby still breathe? I cross my fingers and carry on.

Next I hoist the car seat into the car and figure out how to drive my daughter’s car.  Who cares if the a/c is at 66? I don’t.  Couldn’t change it if I wanted to.  How do I turn down the radio?  Never mind.  Exactly where is the day care center? My phone says it’s around here someplace if I could only hear the directions over the radio.  We drive through McDonald’s on the way home for a Happy Meal.  Finally, something I know how to do.  The only problem is assembling the Snoopy toy that comes in the Happy Meal.  The directions have illustrations but no words.  How am I supposed to know how to get the little thingie to twirl around?  I finally get on YouTube and watch a “how-to” video.  By this time, the two-year-old has lost all interest in the toy….

One thing that’s always a shock as a grandparent is how much kids change from the last time you saw them.  What has happened to the sweet two-year-old?   When did he start scratching, hitting, biting, pinching, and running away?  Refusing to sit in a high chair, wear a bib, stay in a stroller, or go to bed?  Could it have something to do with the arrival of his brother?  Too late for psychoanalysis now.  

The biggest challenge of the day is about to occur:  putting the two-year-old to bed.  After seven stories and two songs, he’s still crying and demanding that I retrieve his binkies from underneath his bed.  Of course, he calls me back in the room each time a binky ends up under the bed, and this process goes on for quite some time as he has a number of binkies, and they mysteriously keep ending up under his bed.  I long to stick a binky in my own mouth and curl up on the floor.  Finally, the boy, the binkies, and the blankies are all accounted for, and he konks out. Day One is in the books.

My husband shows up, and things get a little easier.  He volunteers for the “hold the baby while he sleeps” gig which coincides with his watching a soccer match.  He also puts the two-year-old down one afternoon for a nap, albeit with no sheets on his bed.  He manages to take a few unauthorized naps himself as well as some lengthy trips to Starbucks with a book in his hand.  

The days are a continuous loop of bottles, meals, toys, naps, smiles, tears, baths, laundry, walks, meals, games, stories, and bedtime. Eventually, the parents return.  As we are  recounting the previous few days, my daughter asks me, “Mom, do you remember my husband’s friend _________?  He came to our wedding.”  I cant say that I do.  She pauses then continues, “He’s engaged.”  I say, “Well, that’s nice.”  She adds, “He’s getting married in Oregon next Labor Day, and we are wondering…..”  Well, I’m guessing that I won’t be holding my neighborhood party next year either.  I wouldn’t want to lose my spot on the Granny Circuit.  I fact, I wouldn’t give it up for anything.

Busy being Grizzie,

I remain 

Tizzie/Tiz/Elizabeth/Liz/Mom/Grandma/Grizzie