I recently posted this on Facebook, along with a cute pic of
my grandgirls eating pink frosted donuts in their PJs:
When I keep my grandgirls,
I have two non-negotiables: safety and rest. That means pretty much everything
else goes. Sprinkle-donuts for breakfast? Why, yes, Taking a bubble bath
instead of going to school on time? Duh.
Yesterday at Animal
Kingdom (which had a lot of moments of not feeling safe, so Gramma was a little
bit of a mess), a cast member pointed at Brooklyn's face and said to me,
"Umm, I think she's got some, you know, maybe chocolate on her face?"
I looked down at my ice cream-smeared granddaughter, who was grinning like a
fool, and I looked back at the cast member and said, "Yep! She sure
does!" Did I wipe it off? Nah. (eventually)
So. They pick their own
outfits, which make them look like extras in a clown show. They eat popsicles
in the bathtub. They change their princess panties anytime they feel like it.
We watch too many episodes of Strawberry Shortcake, and we eat pizza picnic
style on the living room floor.
If
they turn out to be irresponsible, self-centered adults who refuse to put their
shoes on without help? Not my fault, man. That's on their parents. I am FUN GRAMMA.
HEAR! ME! ROAR!
What I didn’t post is this:
These kids scare the living crap out of me. Kennedy is
impulsive (code for “not thinking before doing totally ridiculous things like
taking her daddy’s scissors out of his desk and screaming, while running,, ‘I
want to cut things, GRAMMA!’”), and Brooklyn has a hot temper, all too ready to
feel wronged at the injustices a two-year old suffers. Like having to wear
clothes.
I’m not kidding when I say I get angry. Like angry enough
that I have to give myself a time-out in the bathroom because I’m shaking, and
I don’t want to say something hurtful or pick up a thrashing body less gently
than I absolutely must.
So I step over the wailing kid and I snatch the scissors
from the hand that is flying by and I go stand in the bathroom, shaking and
sweating and willing my breathing to
slow
down.
If Matt is nearby, he says helpful things like, “They miss
their mom,” or “Let’s try a distraction.” If he’s not nearby, I keep my hands moving,
hoping that picking up tiny stinky socks or wiping down the counters will
return balance to the force. Sometimes that works, and I remember to laugh at
my little nutcases. I remember that I have the power to choose my reaction,
even if I do not have the power of control.
And that’s really what all my fear and trembling is about:
control. How much I have. How little I have. How terrified I am.
I stayed with my little ones for a few days recently so Mom
and Dad could get a little vacation. Here’s what happened at 11:15 p.m. the first
night. I woke up to hear Brooklyn wimpering. Somewhere between that first
wimper and 11:20 p.m., she delaminated. She roared and screamed and hit and
flailed and screeched, and every suggestion I made meant to sooth her was met
with full-frontal rage.
I held her through much of this, rocking and singing and
assuring her all was okay. When I set her down for just a second because our
combined perspiration was making her to slippery to safely hold, she ran as far
away from me as she could and then fell down sobbing.
It was awful. I realized what she wanted—let’s be super specific
here—was not me. I was right. Matt came in a few minutes later with her sippy
cup and a piece of watermelon (her favorite), and she instantly quieted. I
scooped her up and asked, “Should we put Owl Baby back in your bed?” She
hiccupped and nodded. “Do you want to lie down with Owl Baby in your bed?”
Another nod and sticky arms wrapped around my neck for the walk back to the
room she shares with sissy.
I laid her down gently gently gently, whispering, “I love
you” over and over. She curled around her baby doll like a little roly poly
bug, but then glared up at me one last time. “Covers ON, Gramma!” she bellowed.
Yes, love. Here you go. Blankie right up to your tiny chin. Sleep well, angel.
And then I stayed awake for the next, oh, three hours, heart
pounding.
What in the hell was
that?
The next day, Matt and I talked about what happened. He
reminded me again of the necessity of distraction. Of offering her exit ramps from
her fury. I was frustrated to hear this. Dang it all, I’d offered her the sippy
cup, favorite toys, rocking, a snack. I told Matt that his timing had been
miraculous, and she had tired of crying at the exact same moment he showed up
with a piece of watermelon. He looked me doubtfully and said, “Sippy cup.”
Fine.
In the hours after the meltdown, I laid in bed, my eyeballs getting
grittier and grittier, my heart beating faster and faster. I couldn’t stop
worst-case-scenario-ing. What would I do on the nights Matt couldn’t stay over,
when I’d be alone with Scissor Girl and Princess Rage-a-Lot? Would Brooklyn
wake up livid again? What if she didn’t stop crying? What if she hurt herself flailing
about in her temper tantrum? What if Kennedy did something so impulsive, she
got really, seriously injured? Where is the nearest hospital? If a kid is
bleeding, do I have to buckle the car seat?
Eventually, blessedly, my mind wandered. I thought about the
Blue Babies Pink podcast. After
decades of begging God to remove his same-gender attraction, Brett remembered the
serenity prayer:
God, grant me the
serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things
I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.
Oh. Yes. That control thing uh-gain.
So I prayed.
Jesus, I can’t change
Kennedy’s impulsiveness or Brooklyn’s temper. I just can’t. And that makes me
freakin’ crazy. But I can see that the frustrations of a toddler are real. I
can choose how I react—which is not in fear, because fear isn’t on your team—and
I can be present and calm even in the meltdowns. I can start over as many times
as it takes.
I fell asleep murmuring the serenity prayer. I fell asleep
asking God to change me rather than “fixing” a little girl. I fell asleep. I
fell asleep.
And the next few days? There were more meltdowns, more
unpredictable and unsafe behaviors. But there was a ton of laughter, too, way more
laughter than tears.
Truth? This little girl, the one who is almost fifty years
old, can be just as reckless, just as angry, as her grandgirls. Although I have
a handful of coping mechanisms in my toolbox, I don’t always use them. I’m all
too ready to do before thinking, react before breathing, blurt out before
praying.
Every night and every day, though, I am loved. There’s a
good and gentle and kind God who knows and sees, who pulls the blankie up to my
chin, who overlooks my demands and my glares and my bellows, and whispers,
“Sleep well, my angel. Sleep well.”
No comments:
Post a Comment