*BEST of mamazine.com* Grandmamas Get Real: Deadlines, Fathers and, Thank Goodness, Grandchildren
"Just checking—your column is due next weekend." That's the email I received last Saturday when I was working my day job for the third weekend in a row! Yikes, I had been so busy with work, squeezing in a couple days at the coast with my husband and keeping my two-days-a-week-with-the-grandkids going that I didn't realize November was racing towards me. I haven't even had time to read more than one chapter in Joan Didion's new book
 yet—of course I fall asleep these days easily when I get cozy with my red throw wrapped around me now that the weather has decided to at last turn to fall. How do the editor-moms find time to write not only two or three columns for this webzine, grade 50 papers a week, work a couple part-time jobs that allow them to be home early in the afternoon or for long weekends plus deal with little ones yelling, "Mom, mom, mom"? Why is it time moves faster as we age? Does time fly by for you? I thought it was in high speed when my children were growing up but it must be going at 80mph now. Anyway, I had been working on a column about a couple books I wanted to share but then my dad called…
Fathers are wonderful, painful and exasperating! Especially when they are 84 and think they are younger than their son and son-in-laws and maybe even their grandsons. Ever since my mom passed on a year and a half ago, he can't sit still. He wants to sell the motor home (has bought and sold two), buy a new car (has bought and sold two), sell the house (hasn't done that because then he would have no room for the cars and motor home). When he calls to tell me about his newest purchase, I want to ask if he had made a donation to the American Red Cross! But I don't. When he couldn't take his time backing out of the garage in his new car and connected with the garage door, I wanted to scream at him, take your time. But I didn't. When he wanted to buy touch-up paint for the three dings in the new car and fix the garage door himself to save a few dollars, I wanted to send him to his room. But I didn't. When my sister lost her dear husband so quickly this past summer and our father could only talk about his grief for the woman he had lost after such a much longer partnership than hers, I wanted to give him a "time out." But I didn't. The term "sandwich generation," which technically refers to "those caught between the often conflicting demands of raising children and caring for aging parents."* has been mentioned in several articles I have read on this subject, and yesterday I felt the squeeze. In the last years of my mom's life there were several times, usually at the last minute, that I would have to cancel plans with children and/or grandchildren to rush to the emergency room or doctor's office. I had a busy schedule—full-time job, scheduled vacation time off for "alone time" with each grandchild, and I had already raised my own children—now my parents (who sometimes didn't even ask if I was able) were rearranging my time. I would of course never have said no or wished not to help, but it was so frustrating and so sad for everyone—for them because life was getting complicated and out of control; for me because it was like being an only child since my brother and sisters live so far away. It seemed my phone number was the only one on "speed dial." How do you handle your parent who was always the independent adult in your life but who now asks for your help and when you try, acts like you are trying to be the parent? Then I stopped and thought about my three grandchildren. Earlier that day Ruthi (my 5-year-old granddaughter) gave me a detailed description of her Halloween costume on the phone ending with "Grandma, I can't walk through the door with my Charlotte's Web costume on, I have to turn sideways," followed by long sigh. She also mentioned that she was really just too old to attend a class she had been to because they just did "silly things!" After a sweet goodbye and "I love you," she was off to an "event at school" instead of traditional trick-or-treating. I remembered another sweet moment when my daughter called to tell me Clyde (the 2-1/2 year old) had walked in the room and spotted the photo she had taken of me and the three grandchildren on my birthday and said, "There's my friend, Grandma!" Later that night, as I put my head on the pillow and decided I wouldn't try to read my book since I would only fall asleep again, I felt one of those great, giant hugs that 1-year-old Caroline gives. That's when it hit me; maybe it's not so bad being in the middle of the sandwich! Happy Thanksgiving, I hope you don't have to cook. I don't; in fact, we're off to the coast again and I think I'll take that book along. *The Sandwich Generation term was taken from sandwichgeneration.com written by Carol Abaya. |
_(archives) Beverly Reed
 Beverly Reed (pictured above with her grandchildren) is a mama (to co-founder Sheri and her brother Mike) and grandma to Ruthanne, Clyde, and Caroline. She lives in Sacramento with her husband, Roger, and has worked in the English Department at CSU, Sacramento for 30 years. She hopes this column will open her creative self and lead to more daring adventures in the future. search mamazine:
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