The last 120 hours are still a bit blurry. Or maybe it was just a dream. But I think this is what happened…
The stars had aligned in such a way that one set of parents flew off to the Bahamas to celebrate dual fortieth birthdays. The other set of parents went in different but separate directions: mom to collect an award in New Orleans, dad to play in a multi-day golf event. That left six grandchildren in need of some measure of adult supervision for five days: the aforementioned 120 hours. Enter grandparents Kiki and Geep. That would be my wife and me.
School: pickup and drop off. Hockey practice. Flag football. Field hockey practice. Lacrosse practice. Laundry. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Groceries. More laundry. More groceries. Staggered bedtimes. Air traffic control at JFK is nothing compared to this. Fortunately, we had electronic and down-to-the-minute paper schedules, color-coded. What could possibly go wrong?
Unbelievably, very little. There were two bedtime meltdowns, one ride to practice that didn’t show up (Annie got there anyway), only one big rainstorm, and no broken bones. One cut finger, but that was Kiki’s, not serious.
My wife grew up in a family with nine kids so six was a piece of cake. My family of origin was decidedly quieter. As the caboose of my family’s train, I was separated from my three older rail cars by ten-plus years, so I had my parents largely to myself and, for better or for word, very little chaos. Nevertheless, and despite my lack of training, I think I held my own during those 120 hours—most of the time. No kid was ever late for school in the morning, nor left at school in the afternoon. (We did lose one cellphone, but that wasn’t my fault!) And as for the extracurricular schedule, every child met every commitment and there were no bruises or stitches, zero trips to the Emergency Room. I’d say we did alright.
I read recently that active grandparenting boosts mental health. Something about endorphins and love hormones—a lot of mushy New Age stuff. I’m not sure whose mental health the gurus were talking about, but assuming it was mine, I’m sure I’ll start to feel the benefits of my grand- parenting any day now.
I’m now back home in the recovery room. It’s strangely quiet. There’s no place I have to be right now, no chore I have to to do, no child sitting on my lap. Kiki, on the other hand, isn’t quite sure what to do with herself: no blueberry pancakes or cinnamon rolls to bake, no dishes to wash, no laundry to sort, no comfort to give. It’s very possible she was born for this kind of duty. I, on the other hand, am quick to solve crossword puzzles, and I can speak three languages reasonably well, but I counted every one of those 120 hours. Not Kiki; she’s already counting the days until the next 40th birthday, or the next award, or the next golf tournament. I marvel at that. It’s a skill I don’t have, or maybe it’s not a skill; it’s a gift.
One reason writers write is to create a structured, orderly universe, one we can reasonably control. If we happen to tell a good story in the process, so much the better. How am I doing?
I’ll be right back.
