Chicken Soup for the Grandma's Soul (9 page)

The mother/disciplinarian in me from years ago no longer exists. I stand by calmly as he empties the ice tray in my refrigerator or the bowls from a kitchen cabinet. I get down on my knees with him to wipe up the water he spills from the cooler. Cheerios on the floor, a broken dish are no problem. I don't scold. I am Grandma.

Now there is a little sister who joins us on Tuesdays. Caitlin is a chubby baby who spends her days eating, sleeping and smiling. She is the promise of more firsts.

So every Tuesday my son pulls his SUV into my driveway and unloads babies and bags of diapers, clothes and bottles. A little boy strolls up my walk, smiles and holds out his arms for me to pick him up. Behind him is his father carrying an infant seat overflowing with baby girl. Her eyes crinkle in recognition when she sees me.

“Any time you feel it's too much, just let us know,” he says.

Not a chance.

Alice Malloy

A Day at Grandmom's House

T
he chief pleasure in eating does not consist in
costly seasoning, or exquisite flavor, but in yourself.

Horace

My eleven-year-old grandson Ryan was on his way to the school bus when, as he told his mother, his stomach began to bother him. It felt queasy. He didn't feel he should go to school. My daughter had a doctor's appointment in another city, so Ryan came to Grandmom's house.

He looked a bit pale when he walked in, and a bit taller, as if he had grown inches during the night. I settled him down in my big, king-sized bed, put on his favorite TV cartoons, puffed up his pillows as I once did for my own son at his age and asked him if he was hungry. That's the first thing grandmoms ask under any circumstances.

“I think I could have an orange,” he said listlessly. Usually he was full of energy. Today, his body seemed limp, unable to withstand any physical activity.

So I cut up an orange and delivered it to him on a plate. He gulped it down.

Soon after I asked him again, “Would you like something else to eat?”

“I think I could have two pieces of toast,” he said. “And maybe two hard-boiled eggs.”

“Wonderful,” I responded. I boiled some eggs, buttered some toast, put some jelly on the side and carried it on a tray to his bed.

He gulped it down.

An hour later we were both munching on our favorite cookies.

Followed by potato chips.

Followed by pretzels.

We finished just in time for lunch.

“Would you like a turkey sandwich?” I asked about noon. “With sliced tomatoes?”

“That would be great,” he said.

He had some color in his face now. In fact, he seemed quite content. He lay beneath the blankets, my dog at his feet, the cats by his shoulder, the cartoons playing in the distance.

When lunch was over we attempted a game of cards, but we didn't have an entire deck. Usually, we find something to talk about, sharing things we don't share with anyone else. Today, neither one of us seemed in the mood for conversation. So we turned the cartoons back on and had an ice pop, a few more cookies, some water and some cold cereal.

He didn't move for eight hours. He just ate. And ate.

And ate.

It occurred to me during this eating orgy that I had witnessed the same behavior with my son at the same age. I called it the growth spurt. He would complain about his stomach, saying that he didn't feel good. And he would stay home from school. And then eat for an entire day. It seemed he grew taller as he devoured the food. Just sprouted up. When you're eleven, it's difficult to understand that growing taller takes energy. And food. Grandmoms know exactly what to do about growth spurts—and eleven-year-olds whose bodies are changing as rapidly as the world around them.

An apple, watermelon, lollipops . . . all followed.

My daughter called to inquire about Ryan's health. “How's his stomach?” she asked.

“Fine,” I answered.

“Be careful what he eats,” she cautioned.

“I'm being very careful.”

We ended the day with a game of Scrabble. Finally, he turned to me and said, “I'm feeling better, Grandmom. I think I've got to get out of here and get some air.”

I smiled. I had done my job. Ryan was ready to go out and face the world again.

Probably two inches taller.

Harriet May Savitz

This Ain't No Bull

E
very house where love abides and friendship is
a guest is surely home, and home, sweet home;
for there the heart can rest.

Henry Van Dyke

My grandson, Danny, looked in awe at my elbows. He couldn't understand why or how, when he pulled the skin, it remained out. “That's cool, Grandma. How do you do that?”

These questions and numerous other adjustments were to follow when our son realized I was getting “up in years” and offered to build me a new home near him on his farm. “Then when you get old, it will be easier to take care of you,” he said politely. He invited me to live with him, his wife and their four children during construction.

I accepted the offer, but I worried what it would be like living with the kids on the farm. I'd had no experience with farming.

On my first day they showed me to my room. Granddaughter Heather had given up her bedroom for me and moved in with her sister, Kari, a sacrifice for both teenagers. “Mom just wallpapered my bedroom, Grandma. Don't you just love it?” Near the ceiling, a border of horse heads stared down at me.

French doors opened out of the bedroom onto a balcony where the view was spectacular. I watched the horses graze, and I could see the cows, pigs and chickens. A creek wandered into a pond at the bottom of the hill, which a blue heron, geese and ducks shared as their home. Life on the farm, living with the kids began.

I used to sleep in until 8:00 A.M. Life here began about 5:30 A.M. Have you ever heard four hair dryers all going at the same time? Then kids running downstairs, kids running upstairs, then down again? You can't beat it. So I'd wake up, stretch for a few minutes and say hello to the horses on the wall. They made me grin.

In the evenings in front of the TV, every sofa and chair was filled. On the floor, kids lay in all different directions, along with their dog, Annie, and two cats, Cupcake and Ziggy. Who would have thought those cramped circumstances would be enjoyable? Yet that scene became a lasting memory for me, like a scene from a Norman Rockwell painting.

Being the hip grandma that I am, I thought I ought to learn some of the chores around the farm so I could be of some help. My oldest granddaughter, Shannon, agreed to show me the ropes.

“Come with me, Grandma. We'll start with the chickens.”

That seemed easy enough. We entered the coop and I immediately noticed a rather large rooster with a big plume on his tail eyeing me, but I continued into the pen. All of a sudden that rooster made a beeline for me and chased me around the pen. He pecked at my ankles, and I screamed. Shannon came after the rooster with a stick to scare it off. I made a huge jump for the fence and hurtled over it . . . landing in a nice mushy pile of cow manure!

Shannon wore a sheepish grin. “Wanna try feeding the horses?”

Granddaughter Kari had put her mare out to be bred a few weeks before. The time came for the vet to visit the farm to perform a pregnancy test. I wanted to be right there to see how this was done. The old vet drove up in his truck and went to the back, I supposed to get what he needed to do the pregnancy test. Now I'm not too smart when it comes to the farm, but I knew he wasn't going to get that horse to urinate on one of those chemical sticks to watch what color it turned! But when he came out from behind his truck with his arm in a rubber glove up to his shoulder, I gasped!

In this house, the kids did the laundry. I've never seen so many pairs of tiny bikini panties, except in department stores. I chuckled when I overheard one of the girls giggle as she unloaded the dryer, “Wow, Grandma wears big underpants!”

One weekend when the family went away, I stayed by myself. While walking down by the pond, I heard a mournful moo-o-o-o come from one of the cows. Upon investigation, I found she had just presented me with a little calf! Sheer excitement! When the family returned, I proudly informed our son that the cow had a calf while they were gone. I'd seen an appendage on the calf's underside, so I told my son it was a boy. He took me at my word and called a friend to come castrate the little guy, as was routinely done on the farm. He raised the calf's tail and said, “Uh-oh, guess what? This ain't no bull, it's a little heifer.” Everyone looked my way for an answer, but I couldn't sputter one out.

As you can see, life is not boring when you live with your kids. Eventually my new home was finished and I moved into it. The Norman Rockwell picture changed.

Although I am happy, I miss the laughter and fun of my son's household.

As you get older, if you are faced with living with your children, don't be afraid of it. Hang on! Perhaps Rockwell has already painted a picture of the pleasing life you are about to experience. Or maybe you'd like to paint your own picture. Either way, it will be as good as you make it—or better.

Joanie Gilmore

Everything but the Kitchen Sink

W
e are all here for a spell; get all the good
laughs you can.

Will Rogers

By my teenage daughters' standards, her purse was huge. Theirs were tiny things that could barely hold a lipstick and compact; they wore them on their shoulders just under their arm. Grandma's handbag, suspended by thick, black leather straps, hung down on her hip. It was big enough to hold everything you could possibly want.

One day we were all in the car when my daughter Shazara spilled some drink on the back seat. “Mom, do you have any napkins?”

“No,” I replied.

Suddenly, Grandma reached for her handbag on the car floor near her feet and opened it wide. Her head almost disappeared inside as she rummaged around, pulling out a handful of napkins.

“There you go, sweetheart,” she said as she handed them to Shazara.

In my rearview mirror I could see my two daughters sitting there with a huge grins on their faces.

“Mom, there's a thread hanging from my T-shirt,” Reece called out.

Again opening the jaws of her handbag, Grandma rummaged in the darkness of her purse and retrieved a pair of scissors.

“There you go, love, “ she said, handing it to the girls in the backseat.

They sat with wide grins on their faces that itched with orneriness.

“Mom, I need a knife and fork! “ said Shazara, trying hard to sound serious about her request.

Again Grandma opened her bag and her head disappeared into its depths. She handed Shazara a neatly wrapped plastic knife and fork in a white napkin. “Here you are, Shazara.”

I could see the girls' faces, looking quite amazed. Surely they weren't going to ask their Grandma for anything else.

“Oh no, my hands are sticky,” Reece complained. “Have you got anything that I can wash my hands with, Grandma?”

Again, she delved into the black handbag. I could see the girls waiting in anticipation to see what Grandma was about to produce from her bag this time.

“Here you go,” she said, passing a wet tissue in a sealed packet to Reece.

We all laughed out loud when Reece joked, “For a minute, Grandma, I thought you were going to bring out the kitchen sink!”

Nadia Ali

Trying Times and Dirty Dishes

T
he flower that follows the sun does so even in
cloudy days.

Robert Leighton

I cleared the table and stacked the breakfast dishes on top of the dinner dishes still in the sink from last night's feast of macaroni and cheese with carrot sticks. I braced myself for the cold, clumpy feeling of the dishwater, then plunged my hand deep into the sink, searching for the plug.

“Yuk! Why didn't I do these last night?” I asked of who knows who. The only people around to hear me were my kids, ages six, five, three and two, and my six-week-old baby.

It wasn't just the dishes. The dryer had gone out that morning and sheets were drying over every available chair and table—to the great delight of my sons, who were playing fort all over the house. I would have hung the sheets outside, but it was ten degrees and the path to the clothesline was under a foot of blizzard snow.

The living room was an explosion of toys, and the way

things were going it would be lunchtime before breakfast cleanup was done or we were even close to being dressed. The flu that had run through the family had finally caught me after six nights of little sleep while I cared for each of their needs. It caught me the same day my husband, recovered and healthy, flew out of town on a business trip.