In a way, being a long-distance grandparent reminds me of being a divorced parent with shared custody. When I'm with the girls, I'm with them 100 percent — really, 200 percent. But when I leave, I'm suddenly out of the loop, at least in that hands-on, brush-their-hair-after-bath-then-cuddle-and-read-them-stories way. I had eight hours to ponder this the other day on the flight home from Paris, where I had visited my two expat granddaughters.
The transition from being Nonna on the spot to Nonna faraway gets me every time. It makes me remember how I felt when my ex used to come to pick up my son and take him to his house for the week. I'd put on a cheerful face, but as soon as they were out the door, I'd burst into tears. I couldn't help myself. But after a while, maybe an hour or a day, I'd get used to being on my own and adjust to the new normal.
Now, after I say au revoir to the girls, it takes time and a few tears until I readjust to seeing them on Skype. After a few days I become accustomed to blowing kisses into the camera on my computer monitor instead of tickling and cradling flesh. I miss that, of course, but I'm one of a growing legion of long-distance grandparents in our shrinking global village and there's nothing I can do about it. (I only wish the number of time zones and hours I spend on airplanes crossing the village would shrink as well.)
Getting to Know You (Again)
The moments of transition when I arrive at their apartment in Paris also conjure memories of the past, when my son returned home from his dad's house. It didn't take long, but we had to get used to each other again and get back to what was, for me, the old — preferred — normal.
In Paris, the pattern is similar: At first there's a lot of hugging and kissing; the girls and I are excited to see each other. But then there are a few shy moments while they adjust to having me around — my suitcase stuffed with presents helps ease the process — and I try to absorb the many changes that have taken place in them since the last visit.
Then we're off and running, as if we hadn't been apart at all. Until suddenly, it seems, after two weeks or so, it's time for me to go, again.
I sometimes try to imagine what it would be like if my son and his family still lived a mile away from my husband and me in Washington, D.C., as they did when their first daughter was born almost five years ago. We would have our routines, for sure. Maybe I'd spend an afternoon a week with the toddler and fetch her big sister from school another day. I'd babysit — but probably not quite as often as their parents might like. (Granny Nanny is not the role for me.) Still, I'd be on call as backup. And I dream of weekly Sunday suppers.
Focusing on the Positives
| Are you happy with your arrangement? |
 |
 |
Yes, I see the kids as often as I like 24.3%
No, I live nearby but don't see them nearly enough 29.0%
Yes, we don't live nearby but everyone makes an effort 25.2%
No, we live far apart and it's out of sight, out of mind 21.4%
| |
|
|
The truth is, there are consolations with the current arrangement. For one thing, if I lived nearby, my arrival would be less of an event. The kids might even take my presence for granted — something that won't happen as long as I drop down from the sky like Santa Claus a few times a year. (All told, the number of presents they'd receive would likely be about the same, but dispensed in smaller quantities.)
Best, of course, is the fact that there is no divorce involved, no children splitting time between Mom's house and Dad's house, with all the emotional and physical baggage that comes with that. It's only me and the other grandparents, who live in California, who feel the separation so acutely. The girls and their parents are just fine with it.
What's more, I've heard grandparents who live around the corner from their grandkids tell me that they hardly ever get to see them. Clearly, distance — great or small — is only one of many factors that affect our experience of grandparenthood.
There's one other big plus for me, both thrilling and an ironic twist of fate. Paris. When my ex-husband and I were carefree hippies tooling around Europe in our VW van — him behind the wheel, since I didn't know how to drive — he refused to stop in Paris, even though I begged him to. It was the 1960s and he was "down" on cities, so he took the bypass around the City of Light, with me shouting and pleading all the way.
It took me another 35 years to get there, but now — for as long as I can afford the plane ticket — I always have Paris.
Get more insight into tricky family situations on Grandparents.com:
Home
