This article is adapted from Judith Guest's essay in Eye of My Heart: 27 Writers Reveal the Hidden Pleasures and Perils of Being a Grandmother (Harper, 2009), edited by Grandparents.com columnist Barbara Graham.
Back when I first got pregnant, I made up my mind early on to be the world's Perfect Mother. Of course, that went out the window the first day we brought the baby home and our friends came to visit, lighting up cigars and blowing smoke rings toward the crib, toasting the little tyke with their beers. And what of the little tyke's mom? Did she rush to his rescue, shielding him from the sins of the world? No, she stood there smoking and drinking right along with the rest. It could only go downhill from there.
Nevertheless, when I became a grandmother I was certain I could master perfection this time around. After all, I had learned a lot in the preceding 25 years. When our three sons and their wives starting having babies — seven in all, four girls and three boys — I knew my calling. I would achieve absolute perfection. Catch me dead if I ever raised my voice or criticized; that's what parents were for. My job was simply to gaze, praise, and be amazed.
For years it was a snap. They called me
Hoodie, a name that has stuck, and I called them by all manner of gooey nicknames. I loved everything about this job – bragging and babysitting, reading to them, taking them on outings and expeditions, teaching them to cook and play cards, buying them fancy overpriced duds. Of course there were minor problems — they whined and bossed and broke things and spilled things and squabbled and scribbled and sniveled and teased and tantrummed. However, that didn't let
me off the hook. I had sworn to be flawless, and flawless I was. Until the summer I decided to take my three oldest granddaughters to a dude ranch.
The brochure painted a picture of rhapsodic adventure: We would spend one glorious week currying, grooming, and getting to know our horses, taking long rides into the mountains, having cook-outs with the wranglers, swimming in the river that meandered through the ranch. I borrowed a friend's RV to make the trip from Minneapolis to Colorado, and it had everything — bunks and a card table, a sink with running water, a refrigerator, even a tiny bathroom with its own shower, as well as air conditioning, a TV and a DVD player. We would travel out west in our miniature palazzo and, when we arrived, we'd move into our own little cabin on the ranch. We would have 11 days of non-stop fun.
"Ma, don't let 'em gang up on you," was my son's parting shot. He made the motion of a lion tamer cracking his whip before a trio of circus cats perched upon their stools. I laughed. The girls were 12, 11, and 10. I was 66. I'd been around the block a few times. I wasn't worried. We left Minneapolis early on a morning in June.
The Trouble Begins
The two sisters, Priya and Lollie (aka Quibley and Bickerstein), begin at once to negotiate the rules of the road.
"First leg I ride shotgun."
"How long is the first leg?"
"Let's say till I get tired."
"Let's say 30 miles."
"Thirty miles! How long will that take?"
"Depends on how fast Hoodie drives."
They turn to me. "Hoodie, how fast are you driving?"
"Twenty-five," I say. At this point we are still inside their subdivision, nine blocks from home.
"How many miles have we driven?"
"One."
"How many more to go?"
"Nine hundred."
Groans from the back of the van.
The ensuing miles progress in a similar vein:
"Hoodie, I'm suffocating! This air conditioning is lame!"
"Lollie, quit touching me!"
"Isn't it my turn to sit in front yet?"
"What else can we watch? These videos suck!"
"Lollie, quit farting!"
"I can't help it!"
"You can, too! You're making yourself do it!"
| Could you drive across the country with your grandchildren? |
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Absolutely; we'd survive and thrive 82.0%
No way; we wouldn't make it past the state border 18.0%
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After five hours of this I have turned into a person I no longer recognize. I am a banshee. I am Bette Davis in
Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? I turn around and yell:
"Shut up! Look at the scenery! Stay away from each other! Don't talk or fart or touch each other until I tell you to!"
Shocked stillness from the back. Priya and Lollie squinch away from each other and Isabel flounces to the floor. We travel the next 30 miles in absolute silence. I put on Brubeck and hum to myself, trying to ignore the little needles of guilt. After all, they're just kids. They're restless, maybe even homesick. Who wouldn't be after having been bawled out by the Wicked Witch of the West? At last, beset by remorse, I say, "Okay, guys. You can talk now if you want to."
No response. I glance in the rearview mirror; all three are sound asleep. Tranquil and relaxed — the picture of trusting innocence. When they awaken they are chipper and sweet, no complaints, no hysteria. The Peaceable Kingdom. I resolve to file the day's fracas under Scenes That Never Happened.
A Humble Towel, a Major Explosion
We arrive at Sylvandale Ranch and for a while all is well. The girls quickly learn the basics, go streaking past me in both skill and natural ability. I fall off my horse and lose my glasses. I buy a temporary pair at the drugstore and soldier on. Meanwhile, inside our cabin things start to slide. Each day we jump out of bed and scurry around, getting ready for the morning ride. It goes like this:
"Hoodie, these boots don't fit!"
"There's no hot water left in the shower!"
"Where's my clean socks?"
"Somebody stole all my sugar cubes!"
Disaster comes in the form of a wet bath towel. It's been lying on the floor of the bathroom since morning when, on my way out the door, I asked somebody to please pick it up. It's the first thing I see when I come in after being jounced around all day on Linda, my depressed but strangely jumpy mare. I collapse on the couch.
"Somebody pick up that towel," I say.
Nobody moves. I don't know why I single out the towel, since the rest of the place is a mess: jeans, socks, shirts, boots, hats, jackets and miscellaneous items are draped all around, and the level of chaos in the bathroom is even more daunting. But the sodden bundle in the middle of the floor is the thing that grabs my attention.
"Whose towel is that?" I thunder.
Three heads turn toward me: O, Lordy, what's she on about now? Three pairs of shoulders shrug. Three voices answer in chorus: "Not mine."
Three identical smirks. "Maybe it's yours, Hoodie," says Lollie.
A rumbling begins inside my head. Smoke comes out of my ears. Only they can't see it. Or else they just don't care.
"No," I snarl. "Not mine."
"Are you sure?" asks Priya. Isabel laughs.
Ignition. Liftoff. I am a banshee again, shrieking about people living like slobs and what it says about class, about character. When my voice cracks and my eyes start to water, I move into the bedroom and slam the door. On the other side of it I hear sudden scurrying, the sound of shoes being picked up, pop cans emptied, suitcases being moved, beds being made. Five minutes later, timid knocking. All done, Hoodie. Everything's cool. Let's go to dinner.
They run ahead of me down the road to the dining hall, eager to escape their crazy keeper. Later Isabel informs me, "I didn't think grandmas were allowed to yell like that."
"They are," I say. And I laugh, to show it was all in fun. But the sound rings hollow. I have blown it this time. The jig is up. I am a fake. I am so far from perfect it's ridiculous. Worse, there's no way this will ever be forgotten. Humbled, I pack up the van for the drive home.
The trip back to Minneapolis is hot, slow and sticky. The next campground is a dump. We stumble over the rutty roads in the rain, looking for our campsite. We find it and there's no running water. We drink warm pop and eat ham and cheese sandwiches and toss on the hard couches until 4 am, when I fire up the van and we take off.
At the End of the Road, a Surprise
The last hours are gray and gloomy. Priya rides shotgun and stares moodily out the side window. The two in back are whiny and worn out. I am merely sad. The trip had started out like gangbusters and had ended up a fiasco. I turn on some classical music, to soothe myself. Priya reaches over to turn it off.
"Hoodie," she says. "We need to talk."
Uh-oh. Worse than I thought. Now I'm about to get a lecture from a 12-year-old.
"Listen," she says. "We have to go out there again. We have to go next year."
"Please say we can, Hoodie," Lollie chimes in from the back.
"It was the best vacation ever," Isabel says. "And now it's over!"
"Everything's over," Lollie states gloomily. "The whole rest of the summer is just gonna suck."
Voltaire knew a thing or two: The perfect is the enemy of the good. What does it matter that my granddaughters prefer Maroon 5 to Brubeck? Or that they double-pierce their ears, iron their hair, and text-message each other non-stop? They are Valley Girls, but they're my Valley Girls and I love them to pieces. And I am their loony, idealistic grandma.
Hitting the road to see your grandkids — or traveling with them? Stop here first:
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