Sad and Sorry

Last week I spent a couple of days visiting my grandchild. He's nearly three. I loved being with him, as always, but he had a nasty virus that made him congested and feverish. He felt awful. His parents felt awful, too, since they got almost no sleep for several consecutive nights.

My grandson has learned to verbalize his feelings. Over and over he told whoever was in the room, "I'm sad." Sometimes it was "I'm so sad." After a while he expected a response and provided promptings when necessary. "Are you sad?" he would ask. Indeed I was, I always responded. Somehow it didn't seem enough, and so I would direct his attention to my face. I made sure my face looked really, really sad.

Other times he would inquire, "Are you sorry?" I couldn't emphasize enough how truly sorry I was. When I mentioned a telephone call from my husband, he asked "Is Granddaddy sorry? Is he sad?" I answered Yes, and my grandson nodded gravely.

At one point, when the fever was down and he seemed in the mood for it, I injected a little humor into our conversation. Face in hands, I pretended to sob over his plight. He squealed and clapped. More! More! He recognized Over The Topness when he saw it.

One of the benefits of being two is surely the power to direct the emotions of others. I admit it, I was a little envious.

Gigi

Grandparents are often called funny names. That's because they receive these names from their grandchildren. My husband's mother, who was only in her mid-forties when our first child was born, made it clear that she preferred being called "Grandmother." None of this Granny or Grammy stuff. Just plain, dignified Grandmother. Alas, it was not to be. Unable to pronounce Grandmother, our toddler named her Maw Maw. And, of course, the other five grandchildren followed suit.

I have no hang-ups about being called Granny. It's what I want. I called my own grandmother Granny, and my children called my mother Granny. So far my only grandchild has not been able to say Granny. Until recently, he's been saying GaGa. Not exactly catchy, but I figured it was only a small twist of the tongue away from Granny.

Last week my daughter called me. Barely containing her laughter, she asked me to hold on a moment. I could hear her saying to my grandchild, "Say hi to Granny."

"Gigi," he chirped into the telephone. "Gigi."

He had been saying it all afternoon, obviously referring to me.

Gigi? Gigi??

I'm trying to be open-minded. Maybe my immediate assumptions and reactions to the name were wrong, I googled Gigi. Here are some of the words and phrases associated with Gigi:

burlesque; Italian restaurant; bar; movie (1958); fitness center; acoustic rock artist; pet boutique; merry-go-round horse; designer belts for babies; bikini wax; prom dresses; French poodle. Don't exactly remind you of me, do they?

I don't know whether I'll have to get used to it or not. He was still saying Gigi today, but Granny could be just around the corner (hobbling along with her cane, of course).

Bop Til I Drop

It's fun to not say no. I like not setting limits.

Of course, I could only be talking about grandmothering. Generations of grandparents have discovered this before I did. My daughter says it takes several days of detox for my grandson after he returns from a visit with me. I try to express sympathy but, secretly, I'm proud.

Yesterday morning my grandson and I danced. Sometimes we've joined hands and danced, but this time he wanted me to pick him up and carry him as I twirled and dipped. We put our cheeks together for a while, then he'd pull away and clap his hands together. His mother danced near us, and her dramatic moves made him shriek with delight.

I've never been an especially good dancer. Nor have I been known for my agility, strength or gracefulness. But my grandchild thinks I can-- and should-- be able to do anything he asks. If that means dancing, then by golly this granny is gonna move.

Part of the reason I'm able to follow my heart and do whatever he wants is that his parents set the necessary limits. I'm glad they do. I value them. But I don't want to be them. I want to be the granny who bops 'til she drops.

Sandwiched

If something just won't leave my mind alone, I write it down hoping that the muddle will explode into eloquence. That's just a dream. Usually I'm satisfied if I have a little more clarity at the end of a session at the keyboard than I did at the beginning.

Sometimes I begin writing a blog post that I'm not sure I'll publish. The reason for that, most of the time, is that I know I may get fed up and delete it! Other times I realize that, whoa, I don't want people to read this.

I don't know when I first heard the phrase "Sandwich Generation." It was catchy, whenever it was, and I thought it might apply to me. I still had children at home, though two were teenagers, and my parents were getting older and needier. I introduced the term to friends in similar situations, and together we pondered the meaning of belonging to this newly identified group.

That was long ago, but my membership card has not yet expired. No, I'm not taking care of my children now (though I'm still available for giving advice!), but I have a grandchild I want to be with as often as possible. And my father's life is one I lean into more each day.

My reluctance to write about this (see second paragraph) stems from fear that people will think I'm complaining or, worse, glorifying my importance. The truth is, I don't do that much. My grandchild is in another city. My dad lives in Waco but not in my home.

Still, I feel "sandwiched" between my desperate need to be in my grandchild's life and my helplessness to change my father's. The two longings don't compete with each other, but trying to maintain my footing as I leap from one to the other is tricky. And I think I just changed metaphors, because sandwiches don't jump.

Yesterday evening I sat with my father as he described another hopelessly bad meal, throbbing hands that make it tortuous to tie shoes and button shirts, and his sickening dread of a nursing home. I know he usually feels better the next day. But the tears I held back as he talked fell freely the rest of the night. In my frustration I slammed three doors.

As I write this, my dad has gone out to breakfast with my son. I didn't sleep last night but I'm better today, too. Why? Because I'll soon hold a baby. . . .