Browsing Category Parenting and Grandparenting

Missing: Have you Seen My Grandchild?

Journals serve several purposes. Among other things, I sometimes use mine to reflect on and heal memories. A case in point is the year when my two-year-old grandson went missing. That was the scariest day of my life. Like every parent whose child suddenly vanished, I lived my darkest fear. I envisioned missing child flyers with my baby’s face stapled on tree trunks, taped on store windows, and the Amber Alert system broadcasting citywide. The thought of my darling grandbaby frightened, alone, and defenseless in a world infested with child predators and other twisted evil-doers sickened me.

Although that unsettling event occurred over three decades ago, every time the memory of it resurfaces, as it often does, not only do I relive it, it sends a shiver down my spine as if it happened yesterday.

It was a late afternoon that spring day when my daughter, her two toddler sons, Ken and Donnie, aged one and two, and I walked to the mini-mall two blocks from my home. Like numerous other mini-malls in the city, the one in my neighborhood occupies about half a block and includes an aging market, dry cleaners, a nail salon, and four or five other frequently changing small businesses.

When we reached the mall, my daughter and I split up. She went to the market with the two little ones alongside her while I went to check out a recently opened Peoples Drug Store a few feet away. We agreed to meet outside the drugstore in five minutes. After browsing for a few minutes, I bought a few things and went back outside. My daughter was already waiting for me; Donnie was by her side.

Her eyes widened when she saw me, and I realized why after she asked me, “Ma, where’s Ken?”

“What? I thought he was with you,” I said.

“No,” She said. “I had Donnie; I thought you took Ken with you. He must have followed you.”

A knot began tightening in my stomach as fear gripped me like a vis.

She and I rushed back inside the stores we had just left. I searched aisle-by-aisle for Ken to no avail and then told myself that my daughter had surely located him in the market, so I headed there. When my daughter saw me approaching without Ken, panic spread across her face. Suddenly, we were experiencing every parent’s worse nightmare.

Usually, when we took the kids out, we always held their hands. But, that day, for whatever reason, after we crossed the street and reached the mini-mall, we let loose their hands, letting them walk alongside us, ignoring what every parent knows – or should know – full well that if you are not gripping your child’s hand, you’d better not blink.

We decided to split up and look for Ken, going in opposite directions along the sidewalk. My daughter walked north, gently pulling Donnie along. I went south. My heart was racing. The street was uncrowded, making it easier to spot and study any small child I saw walking alone or accompanied by an adult. I glanced in the doorways of the few buildings on the block, returned to the mini-mall parking lot, and peered between the parked cars. And even though I figured it was a long shot that Ken had crossed the busy avenue, I looked to the other side of the street. He had to be on this block, I told myself. Fear was gripping me, so I could barely walk.

Suddenly frantic, I was about to tell my daughter that we should call the police when squealing tires made me freeze in place. I was afraid to look in the direction of the sound, but when I did, I was relieved to see a car driven by an impatient driver racing through the intersection to beat the light.

Seconds later, when I looked forward again, I spotted my precious little small fry. I don’t know where he came from, but Ken suddenly stood near the blue USPS mailbox a few feet away as if he dropped from the sky. With his back to me, he turned his head left and right, looking for us or perhaps trying to decide how to get home. A couple of pedestrians side-stepped him as he strolled toward the intersection.

“Ken!” I called him. He didn’t look back but maintained a snail’s pace as he moved toward the curb. As I hurried toward him, I looked at the traffic light facing us and was glad it was red. But, of course, traffic lights don’t mean a thing to a child who has never been outside alone and doesn’t know how to cross the street.

“Ken!” I shouted louder. He turned around just as I reached out and grabbed his arm. Although I didn’t intend to frighten him, it was obvious that I did. The little fellow’s big brown wide eyes welled with tears, and although he appeared to relax when he realized it was me, he gave me a pouty look. I was so glad to see him that I felt like doing a happy dance, but I didn’t. Instead, I picked him up, hugged him tightly, and whispered, “Thank you, Jesus!” as I stood him back on his feet.

Then, Ken muttered the heartbreaking words I will never forget, “Grandma, you lost me.”

“I’m so sorry, Ken. We didn’t mean to lose you.” I said.

I stooped and hugged him again as an elderly woman with a cane walked around us, and my daughter, who had been near the other end of the block when she heard me calling Ken, had joined us. She hugged her baby too.

As careful as we had always been with the children, I know my daughter promised herself, as I did, to be extra vigilant from then on. We never wanted to relive that horrifying experience again.

Ken is a grown man now and says he only remembers that day because he’s heard about it so many times. Whenever he visits me, and I start telling someone else about that frightful event, he playfully rolls his eyes as if to say, “Here we go again.”

I’m glad we can all laugh about it now because Ken’s story could have had a different and tragic ending.

0 Comments

Mother’s (Birth) Day and other Special Occasions

Had my mother lived she would have turned 91 years old on her forthcoming birthday, October 22nd. Instead, she slipped into eternity early on a warm summer morning four years ago.

I’ve seen where many people wish Happy Birthday, Happy Anniversary or post other heartfelt greetings to their deceased loved ones on social media; and if that works for them, that’s fine. But I can’t help but wonder – why?

When my mother’s birthday arrives in three weeks, I won’t wish her Happy Birthday on Facebook nor will I post it in any other public place. Because if the Bible is to be believed – that the dead know nothing (Ecclesiastes 9:5) – then mother won’t know that I wish her a Happy Birthday anyway. And as much as she expressed her disdain for social media when she was alive – by the off-chance that there is Facebook in the hereafter, she surely would have nothing to do with it.

My mother’s chosen religion forbids their members from acknowledging birthdays and other so-called pagan holidays; so when she was alive wishing her happiness on such an occasion often led to a repetitive interchange between us.

Mother would say, “You know I don’t celebrate (whatever the holiday in question).” And I would protest, “But I do.”  The conversation usually ended there, until the next time. Yet, to my pleasure, she never refused to accept the cards or gifts that I gave her on those days. And she always (perhaps begrudgingly, although she didn’t show it) acknowledged the gesture with a polite, “Thank you.”

I regretted the fact that mother would not allow me to take her out to dinner, to a stage play, or someplace special on her birthday, but it bothered me more on Mother’s Day. Even before I became a mother, I relished Mother’s Day and considered the day to be a special occasion for honoring and showing reverence to all mothers and especially good mothers like mine.

Since my siblings and I were adults when mother decided to convert her faith, I have wonderful memories to cherish of earlier times of family get-togethers at my parent’s home on holidays like the Fourth of July (Can you say crab fest?), Thanksgiving, and Christmas. And for a few years, even after my siblings and I married and had families of our own, we’d all bring our kids to the grandparents home on festive occasions. Unfortunately, those happy get-togethers dwindled and eventually stopped; too soon.

In three weeks when mother’s birthday arrives, I won’t publicize it on social media. I will acknowledge it privately. And before the day is over, I know I will smile with tear-filled eyes as I remember a recurring dialog that she and I shared many times in the years before she died.

“You know I don’t celebrate birthdays.”

“But I do.”

 

2 Comments

Pass the Baby, Please

Until recently, it had been some time since I held a newborn child. My now two grown children blessed me with six grandchildren. As a result of the good fortune of those accumulative births, I have fed, changed, bathed, and bounced on my lap a fair share of babies. But recently when I went to visit the child born to my first cousin’s daughter and son-in-law, I was a little nervous about holding the infant.

Let me take a moment to explain my kinship to the new infant. My first cousin, Lori’s, daughter had a beautiful baby boy. Lori’s daughter is my first cousin once removed. The child born to Lori’s daughter and her husband is my first cousin twice removed. Contrary to what I used to think (and what some people still do), that newborn is not my second or third cousin. Such family structure would be too easily understood. Instead, there is – in my opinion – an illogical and confusing design of the genealogical tree that determines the status of cousins and other extended family members. So, to simplify the relationship of the newest infant in our family to me, I will henceforth refer to him as my distant, baby cousin. That clarified, let’s get back to the point.

Continue Reading
4 Comments

Grandma’s Hands — and Heart

“Grandma’s hands used to hand me piece of candy; Grandma’s hands picked me up each time I fell …. ”  Lyrics from Bill Withers’ song Grandma’s Hands

 

Grandkids -3 of the crewI love my grandchildren. The whole crew of them.  Children are a blessing and grandchildren are the bonus prize.  My grandchildren provide me a second chance for nurturing, loving, and doing things with or for them that I was unable to do for my children when they were young.

Grandma. I smile at the sound of the word and all that it signifies. While some of my friends enjoy the status, they don’t like to be called grandma. They think the word is outdated. They say it makes them feel old. If that’s the case, consider this:  A grandma by any other name is still . . . you know where I’m going with that, don’t you?

I proudly answer the call, “Grandma.” I don’t prefer a nickname like nana, ne-ma, madea, or big mama. On second thought, there is one nickname that I enjoy. My twin grandsons when they were just beginning to talk had trouble saying grandma, so they started calling me gee-gee. I liked that handle – still do – and I encouraged all of my grands to use it as they grew up, but alas they dropped it, except for my eldest grandson. He still occasionally calls me grandma gee-gee. It makes my day.

Grandmothering gives me the opportunity to do things for my grands that I was unable to do for my children. The unexpected transition from wife and mother to divorcee and then single parent, left me struggling to raise two small children on my meager salary and sole income. Although I occasionally made the sacrifice, I could not always afford to take days off from my job to go see my children perform in school programs, or accompany them on class field trips. Sometimes I was too tired after work to even attend PTA meetings.

We three lived in a bare boned, paycheck-to-paycheck existence, but thank God and my parents I was determined never to resort to welfare and I never did. For a while I had both my three year old son and his 24 month-old sister enrolled in a church run daycare center while I worked. When they entered Kindergarten and pre-K and began advancing through grade school, my mother took care of them.  As they grew older, I would set out cereal, pop tarts, or other easy to fix breakfast foods for them before rushing off to my job; leaving them on their own to get dressed and off to school, lock up the apartment, and let themselves back in after school, with standing instructions to “Call me when you get home.”  My children were latch-key children long before the term became popular.

Sometimes on paydays we would have McDonalds’ meals for dinner or go to a movie on Saturday. Those were infrequent indulgences pinched out of money that for child support purposes I was required to list under disposable income when I filed for divorce. Disposable income – are you kidding me?

Anyway, all of that is behind me now. My children have children and whether it is unconditional love that propels me or a tinge of guilt over what I was unable to do for my own youngsters, regardless, I go overboard with my grands. When they were just little rascals I made sure they had nice clothes, plenty of toys, the hobby horse, roller skates, Big Wheels and bicycles, whatever was age appropriate.  And more so than the material things grandma gave and continues to give them plenty of love, kisses, hugs, and unsolicited advice.

Sure I spoiled them, but they are grateful and they show it. They have never asked me for anything, not the four of the six who have recently become young adults nor the two mid-teens, because they know they don’t have to. I have grandma-ESP. When I anticipate a need or a desire, if I can I fulfill it – it’s done. My reward is seeing them make me and their parents proud – as they do.

*     *     *

The preceding page is from my forthcoming book, A Whistling Tea Kettle and Other Sounds of Life. If you would like to be notified when the book is available, please provide your email address by clicking this button

0 Comments