melodiesaboutme.com Blog

My sweetiepie Patrick, who sits with me, side by side on thrones
of grandparenting, really wishes he didn’t have to sit side by side
as we tootle through town in my minivan.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. He gets the practicality of it. He was the
FIRST one to suggest that we purchase the added feature of a DVD
player so that when we were traveling with our precious “little
joys”, they would be entertained. Just the other day, as we were
taking little Carson home after his weekend stay, we HAD to stop
in the drug store to purchase the new SHREK movie. Carson LIKES
the original.

He’s only one year old. And PawPaw wanted him to enjoy the
sequel. This is a man crazy in love with his grandson. He is crazy
in love with grandkids period. Me, too.

That is why, when I had the opportunity of a lifetime, to get a cool
red Mitsubishi convertible sportscar like my dear neighbor Vikki,
I buckled and chose a Dodge minivan instead. At the time, we only
had the promise of grandchildren. But this cool granny-someday
was going to be ready and waiting with a vehicle that made a
statement about her heart for the next generation.

That statement is probably something that Sweetiepie Patrick
wrestles with. He, a distinguished looking gentleman with salt and
pepper hair, once pulled in the driveway in a Mustang convertible.
Silver, to match his hair. And he did look so good driving that car.
In the summertime, he looked like the sun-kissed handsome
George Hamilton. Whooo!

The Mustang was great for a while. It proved to be less than fun
as we slick-slided in the Iowa snowstorms. While we put the top
down in warmer seasons and felt like we were beach people from
Malibu, I truthfully hated having my hair blown to bits. Detangling
at the end of our joy rides put me in bad moods. I don’t sound like
much fun, huh.

The concept of having a car that felt “young” was good in theory.
The Mustang stayed around for a short while. He then bought a
Lincoln. A big, silver car. Distinguished looking and reliable. Just
like him. (It is now close to turning over the 250,000 mile mark on
the odometer.)

Come to think of it, perhaps I should have chosen a silver minivan.
He might have felt more at home in it.

I honestly bought a navy blue van to match the shutters of my
house. The salesman of the car dealership declared that he had
never in his whole life heard of anyone making a color choice
because they wanted to be color-coordinated with the shutters. I
felt a little anal when he shared that…shallow to a degree. But
hey, why not have it matching? Move over, Martha.

And sure as the sun rises and sets everyday, I desired a minivan
because of my vision for the future. I dreamt of little butts in
carseats. I wanted room for a bunch of carseats. And Sweetiepie
relented. (But while we were at it, we had to get the DVD player.)

So, for 99.9 percent of my driving time, I am the single one in a
minivan. A blue one that matches shutters. And we have carseats
that just stay put and are ready for our little darlings.

The kids, all at one time or the other, made fun of the minivan. Our
daughter Lisa inherited the old one and was a really good sport
about it. Being the optimist that she was, she tried to see the
possibilities, rather than the difficulties of being a twenty year old
in a minivan. She could haul a kayak in a minivan, if she owned a
kayak, that is.

She could have given a lot of friends rides to the mall. That wasn’t
a good idea, however, since our Golden Retrivers got bored while
waiting for me to grocery shop, and chewed through four of the
seven seatbelts.

We offered the minivan to Nate, our son, but he politely declined
saying he’d rather take the bus, cab, train, bike, walk, or if
necessary, hire a team of dogs and sled for winter travel. He
responded with a smile and that was at least, something.

And Lisa, goodheart that she was, drove our old minivan around
until the air-conditioning went out. She then felt that it was time to
upgrade to a compact car. Under her breath, she swore on the
ashes of her beloved grandmother that she would never own
another minivan.

We’ll just see about that.

As for Sweetiepie Patrick. He likes to be in the driver’s seat and
it means that there is sacrifice to be made when driving with
grandbabies. There is not a DVD player in the Lincoln, after all.

The mini-van. It isn’t considered the coolest or most hip mode of
transportation, to most. But to me, it is like having a home with
a bed for everyone. And I am most happy, when I have a houseful.
Or a van-full.

I have to say that the navy blue minivan is a big step up from the
humongo white station wagon that we drove when OUR children
were little.

But it served our family of nine, well. As will my Dodge minivan.

Maybe it isn’t the politicians that America needs to stand up and fight for “right”.
Could it be that maybe we need more “Team Gramma’s” to show their true grit?

Not too long ago, a young man cruised the aisle of the grocery store where I
shopped , looking for his beer stock, and dropping “F” bombs as casually as using
the word “the”. I was shopping alone…minus grandbabies…but it didn’t matter.

I stopped him dead in his tracks and said “Excuse me…if I had only had a bar of
soap”. It startled him that someone called him on it. He was sooooooooo
apologetic. ”Have a good day, mam. I’m so sorry I offended you.”

Here I was…deciding whether I would go for the Pepsi which I preferred, over the
Coke that was a little cheaper that week, and I found myself taking on a young
man in his twenties that should know better.

We weren’t at the local bar and grill where the locals go to dive out. We were in the
soda section of the supermarket.

It was a moment that he was uncomfortable with. No one likes taking on gramma.
Who stands a chance, really?

We hide all kinds of truths from gramma, don’t we. She is the last person we want
to dissappoint. Usually, anyway. Unless we have reached the point of having a
hard, hard heart.

Why is that?

Because she has usually chosen to see the best in us. Growing up offered
forgiveness because we were her beloved. She overlooked so much because deep
inside, there was so much unconditional love and grace that it was instinctive to
view us from the lens of focusing on our strengths.

One of the saddest losses our precious America is losing, is the courage of “team
Gramma”. We are losing our voice…our instinct…our guts.

Maybe…must maybe…if the older women of our generation would stand straight,
speak straight, and not be afraid of delivering the blow of a truth or two, our kids
would “get it”. They would fly right. They would keep the seed of conscience that
feels uneasy when “team Gramma” is rivaled.

The counselor’s office in school is a valued place. I would like to propose that in
the office next door to the official beaken of hope and good reason, be an office
for the school “gramma”.

Democrats and Republicans and Horses of a different color, any color, whether
black, white, pink, polka dotted or striped with purple pansies plastered all over are
not the answer to curing our social ills.

Team Gramma needs to show up…cape in place…goggles on…boxing gloves at
hand…ready to deliver the blows of truth followed by a warm plate of freshly baked
sugar cookies. Team Gramma should be ready to offer a little of what is desired,
and everything that is needed.

And Team Gramma should show up with confidence that she holds more power
than she could ever know. Go Team G.

Most everyone I knew said to expect it. The “surge” of joy, that
happens when you get the call that says “you are a grandparent!”

It falls in the category of peace from God that the Bible says
“surpasses all understanding”. It isn’t adequately captured in
bumper stickers, mugs, T-shirts, or anything on this earthly plain.
It exists in the heart and jumps with life at the sound of a little
voice, even when crying. It is the cutest little sound you ever
heard. The sound of grandbabies, that is.

I just love being a grandmother. It is no surprise, really. Common
sense would tell me that it would be amazing, given that I really
really loved and “still” love being a mom. Could all that
WONDERFUL be any less so, spilling down to another generation?

Don’t get me wrong. There WERE times when I truly gazed at the
first star I saw at night, and wished I may, wished I might, that the
aliens that kidnapped my sweet precious children and replaced
them with mind-of-their-own teenagers would just simply bring
back to me, what they stole.

Parents of those teens, keep heart. They will return. They will
travel the twists and turns in life that teach them truth.

And they will love you. They will forgive you for less than perfect
parenting and will love you “anyway”…as you loved them.

What went around, for me, came back around. Hannah, Emily,
Carson, Devan, Bailey, Cade and the “two buns in the oven” are
the refreshment that I find “delish” as I dwell in the land that is on
the other side of the “hill”.

I am in the sandwich generation. I have, on one side, a father
who is afflicted with Parkinsons’ disease. His story is ending up
less than my heart would have hoped for. Two broken hips,
dementia, and a prognosis that is much less than desirable is what
we all live with as a family.

Strength is found in less than expected places. It shows up in my
father as he continues to believe that he will beat the odds.
Doctors, physical therapists, and the the nursing staff of the care
center where he bides time all agree that he is now experiencing
life as good as it will get…from today on till he goes home to God.

Yet he holds out hope and it breaks my heart. It is sad.

And then I think of my beloved little ones. The other side of my
story.

Could God have known that I would need them more than ever as I
journeyed down this path strewn with thickets and thorns, as Dad
and I scribble out the final chapters of his life? Mom left us several
years ago. She, by the way, taught me the hope of joy that is
GRANDPARENTING. She wore that hat so very, very well.

I think God knew exactly how to balance out life. The promises in
the Bible that describe the “time for everything” so perfectly place
my soul in the loving grip of His hand. A time…a plan…that while
we don’t understand always, will reveal itself as a glorious
masterpiece.

My sweet one, Patrick, once stole my attention for an afternoon
and insisted that we visit a clock museum in Iowa. It wasn’t
EXACTLY the dream date that I’d hoped for in the beginning.

But, it was together time for us “old married folk”. I have to admit
that as we traveled through little town after little town (one
boasting of having the world’s largest skillet), I had to turn my
head and snicker in disbelief that my hot date and I were going to
an aged clock museum.

Most folks our age and older were going to the casinos. We took
the three buck tour of the clock museum.

Patrick and I walked away winners, nonetheless. The absolute
perfection that the architects of such beauty was soul drenching.
My sweetheart had planned the perfect date, after all.

Craftsmanship was at a peak of excellence as the hundreds of
clocks that were sychronized to tick together gave an enchanting
performance of little people dancing on the hour, cuckoos coming
out of their little home annoucing that they are to be noticed, and
bells chiming.

It was life.

Little people dancing, cuckoos, and bells chiming. Little joys,
voices that sounded dissonant and unfamiliar to our younger days
and the vibrations of celebration “anyway”. The sounds of reality
were represented with uncanny symbolism, as I recall.

And there was order and purpose and orchestration to it all.

That is where I am at . I’m in good company with so many ,many
hearts that feel the bittersweetness of grieving the old and
passing away, and celebrating the young and coming forth.

The grandbabies. (big smile) They are

“oh-my-gosh-what-did-I-ever-do-to-deserve-such-fun-and-delight”
wonders. It is true. Their poop doesn’t stink.

And nothing this side of heaven can enlighten a heart, struggling or
not, than the sound of their voice or the very thought of their
well-being.

To my sweet sweet children and children-in-law, I send you thanks
beyond words for keeping their pictures on websites and for
making the decided efforts to include us as”someone special” in
your lives and theirs.

Suzanne, Kelly, Amy, Valerie…Happy Mother’s Day. You are the
best.

To my youngest Lisa, who is ready to strike out on her own and
boldly make her own claim to fame, I love you and believe in you
so. You have given more than you have taken. You are a
wonderfully good, good woman.

I adore you all, love Mom.

P.S. To all the moms who need someone to say “Well done”…I’m
here to tell you that you are doin’ good. Keep the faith. It will all
work out. THEY are worth it.

And to all the gramma wannabees…find a little one to love. You
can search for ones that are gramma wannahaves. They are at
schools and would treasure someone to read to them…they are at
homeless shelters and would love an open hand of grace…they
are in hospitals as they struggle with illness. They are worth it,
too. Happy Momma’s Day to you all.

Love, Cookie