Motherhood, Grandma-hood and Soggy Goldfish

I was 17 years old when I began to feel like an adult. I was a junior in high school. I knew who I was, what I wanted, and in all my naivete, I was sure I knew more about life than my parents, especially my mom. And because my mother and I spent a lot of that year arguing, I decided that when I became a mother, I’d be different. I even made vows to myself about what kind of mother I would be.

I wanted to be the kind of mom that always treated my kids with kindness and compassion. I would remember how stressful it can be to be a kid, a teenager. I would listen, always, to whatever my kids had to say. And I would be there for them, I’d always have their backs. I would respect their opinions. These aren’t bad goals. But always is a strong word, near impossible to live up to. And at 17, I didn’t know a thing about what it was like to be a parent.

Writer Lori Borgman, whose column I read religiously when I was a young mother, wrote a book entitled, “I was a Better Mother Before I had Kids.“ Could there be a better title for a book on parenthood? My own mother bought this book for me after I had my second daughter. Together we laughed over its content.

I had no idea that after having a child, 80% of the time I would feel like I was winging it. I loved my children with all my heart. I wanted to be everything they ever needed. The problem was, I didn’t always know what they needed. I was learning along the way. Also, kids don’t always know what they need. Often I had to make decisions my kids vehemently disagreed with. Decisions that were sometimes counter-cultural.

At 17, I could never understand just I how much energy it would take to work, be present for your children and your husband and take care of the dogs and get dinner on the table every night. Yes, my husband helped but Lord have mercy on all the mothers.

And who knew those memories of what it’s like to be a teenager would be foggy thirty years later when I had teens. Not to mention those memories are buried in my brain, way beneath my remembrance of ‘80’s song lyrics. I also didn’t know life would be so different for my kids. The pressures and concerns my kids faced were not the same as what I experienced as a teen.

Now though, I’m a grandparent. I no longer have to worry about raising a child or how to best discipline or teach.

This weekend Steve and I went to the park with our granddaughter. It was a joy to hold her hand as we explored the playground and splash park. This tiny girl ran around the playground. She wanted to swing on the swing. Play with the large Xylophone. Run through the tunnel. Everything lasted five minutes or less.

She’s over two now and has opinions. Do you want to play on the splash pad? “No.” How about Goldfish crackers instead of the fruit snacks that nice lady sitting on the bench gave you? “No.” We let her know she isn’t really ready for fruit snacks, that she might choke. She doesn’t care. How about you just carry the fruit snacks around, I finally suggest. This works for a while. Eventually her mother swaps out the fruit snacks for Goldfish crackers and we head toward the splash pad. Little Miss is carrying her water bottle (because yes, these days even toddlers have water bottles) and her cup of Goldfish.

I offer to carry said snacks, but that too is answered with a no. So, this bucket of energy runs around the splash pad, snacks in hand and puts her face in the sprays of water that jet up from the ground. She giggles and does it again and again. Eventually the Goldfish crackers get soaked. Oh well, I think, who cares.

When she’s done with the water, she says “Sit, Gamma.” I obey. Together we lounge just outside of the splash pad. Drips of water land on our legs, so satisfying on a hot summer day. My granddaughter eats her wet Goldfish crackers while I allow my mind to wander. Seeing my daughter as a mom reminds me of my own years as a young mother. I think back to those days. Was I too strict? Too Easy? Was I attentive enough?

My granddaughter looks up at me and smiles. Because she is a mirror image of her mother, I’m transported to 1997. One toddler at my feet and a baby on my hip. My hair was short because I didn’t have time to style it. I ran around in mom jeans and t-shirts. But like my high school memories, those days of young motherhood are a bit foggy.

I remember being tired. Trying to get through the day, making sure everyone had what they needed. I had lots to do and little patience for listening to a lengthy story about what happened on Spongebob Squarepants. I remember trying to conduct a phone interview for an article I was writing. I told my kids “Do not open this office door unless you are bleeding.” They didn’t, but they did slide a note under the door asking if they could have Popsicles.

I remember all the fun things we did. Taking them to the playground, the pool, a concert in the park. I remember the smell of their wet hair after their bathes. Snuggling with them to read books before bed. Also, I’m pretty sure I would have snatched my kid’s Goldfish crackers so they wouldn’t have gotten wet at the splash park. Because wet crackers would be wrong, right? Was I too uptight?

After the park we all go out to lunch. As we visit, my daughter asks me, “Did I do this? Did I do that?” I try to wipe the fog off the memories, picture my daughter at my granddaughter’s age. A few photographic moments seep through. “Yes,” I say, “you definitely did that.” We laugh about toddler antics.

Soon, it was time to head back home. I hugged my daughter and my son-in-law and lingered as I hugged my little nugget. I now know how fast these years with little ones go. I want to soak up these hugs while I can.

On the drive back, I wondered how Steve and I got this old. All those years of being busy, hauling our kids to every sporting event, Brownie meetings, art lessons. I wish I could remember more about what kind of mother I was. But maybe I don’t.

It’s easier to remember the times I messed up versus what I got right. No way will I ask my kids how I did. At least not the two who haven’t had kids yet. I’m sure they have their own vows of how they want to be if they decide to become mothers. As it should be, right? I wonder too, about my own mother, what she thought of me as a mother. Whether I was as good of a mother as she was. Now that she’s gone, I look upward and apologize for the arrogant and sometimes cocky teenager I was.

I was/am not a perfect mother, but then again, perfect mothers don’t exist. Maybe I was good enough. And maybe good enough, is good enough. Now I’m focused on my new role: Grandma, or Gamma as my girl calls me.

Knowing what kind of Grandma I want to be, this is much easier. It really comes down to one thing: how to best love her. And I guess, when you think about it, that’s the most important part of being a parent too. The other stuff, being present, listening, respecting your child’s opinions, these matter too. But love, well thank God that love covers a multitude of mistakes.