“Many of us want a second chance.
As working mothers, we carried around bales of guilt because we felt (or were made to feel) we weren’t there enough
for our kids. We know what we missed out on, so we’re making up for it by pouring not just money but also time into our grandchildren.”—Lesley Stahl, “Grandbabies: The Great Reward for Aging,” The New York Times
Having been a lola’s girl, I want my grandchild to enjoy the same kind of relationship with her Booboo, which is how she calls me. My lola had a long career as a school administrator before she retired and assumed the role of “granny nanny” during our Baguio summers. While she saw to it that we were fed, clothed, sheltered and enjoyed gambol time in the parks, she had a life as treasurer of the local church and civic worker. She set the bar high for us.
Now that Kai is on her sixth summer, I am her full-time granny nanny from the time she wakes up and puts her hands on my back to surprise me as I sit huddled over the computer to the time she marches up to my bed with a book or two for me to read aloud to her. Although she can now read by herself, she still requests read-aloud moments under the bedside lamp. If I am to believe reading experts, such moments enable children to associate reading with the security of love.
When she’s alone reading and encounters new words like “depressed,” which she pronounced with an extra syllable (“de-press-ed”), she comes up to me to ask how the word is properly said and what it means.
Sometimes she baffles me with what I call theological questions, like “Why isn’t God as real to me as you are?” Short of asking why she cannot see Him. Another thought that seems to consume her is death: What will happen to her if her grandparents and her parents are all gone? Will she live alone in our house? When I say she will have her own life and family to fill up her time, she frowns at the thought and a hint of panic fills her eyes.
Then there was the time we went to Sunday Mass, and she referred to those lining up to receive Holy Communion as “eating white chips.” I had to explain what the “chips” stood for.
Lately, she has taken to blowing air on my palm after eating ice cream so I could feel the coolness. Once she said, “It’s snowing in my mouth!”
Another Kai-ism overheard during a thunderstorm was: “The good news is we’re inside the house. The bad news is it’s brownout.”
I don’t think I can collect these quotes from the mouth of a babe if I always insist on a life of my own away from the pull of immediate family. Grandmothering, as Ms. Stahl better puts it, allows working moms to make it up to our grandchildren.
I recall that at the beginning of one school year, I forgot to make arrangements for my toddler-age daughter to be collected from school. A teacher called me at my office to remind me that the child was waiting. I hurriedly punched the number of my mother on the phone—thank goodness she was home and she could pick up the child.
Another time when my daughters were older and going to different schools, I again almost forgot about them as I enjoyed a poetry performance. It was dark when I realized my oversight. A friend offered to drive me to their schools where we picked up my kids by their school gates, patiently waiting for absent-minded mom.
I think Kai has taught me to be more mindful. I ask her if she’s in the mood for a snack, and we enjoy one together. She has to be more independent, so at bath time I just give instructions to soap her body, spread the shampoo on her hair, etc. When I want to see certain family-oriented videos and watch the trailers on YouTube, she takes care of jotting down the titles.
Had these been all what I have been doing in my younger years, I would’ve been filled with angst at the thought that I was squandering my life. But things are different. A friend asked how I was doing. I texted: “My life is simple. I take care of Kai, feed her, play with her, watch videos with her (I’ve introduced her to opera). Once a week our family eats out.”
My pal replied: “That is a perfect life. You can’t ask for anything better. Add something more, and the problems start coming.”
Elizabeth Lolarga, 61, is a freelance writer.