Grandchildren

I Didn’t Know

~ Nancy Malcolm ~ 1 Comment

         

            I didn’t know I should play with my children or join them in creating art with finger paints, Play-doh, or watercolors.

            I never knew to let them help me in the kitchen, baking cookies or bread.

            Growing up without my mother short-changed my own daughters in ways I never expected, in subtle ways that surprise and sadden me.  My mother became ill when I was three years old and died when I was four.  I have no memories of playing with her.  I have no memories of her interacting with me at all.  My basic needs were met as a child, but playful interactions by an adult were extremely rare.

            I recall once, my father coloring with me, but when I didn’t want to outline each picture and make sure I was within the lines, he lost interest, feeling frustrated at my lack of perfectionism.  To this day I can feel my relief when he stopped correcting my coloring and just moved on.

 “Go play,” I would say to my girls. “Find something to do in your room or just go outside.”  But now I see my own girls teaching their children how to play games and think creatively.  Their interactions are sweet and tender and not rushed, the way I imagine my mother might have been with me.  They show patience by letting a little one crack an egg to help make cornbread or when they play ‘Go Fish’ for the hundredth time, seemingly having fun, and enjoying their time together.  It amazes me.

            As a mother, I was always hurrying, and if I am honest, I was always anxious.  Children hate to hurry and often it would be me causing their meltdowns, by forcing a quicker pace.  In the mornings, I wanted to get as much done as possible before heading out for school.  “Make your bed!  Brush your teeth!” I barked at them, while I hurriedly straightened the house, wanting to leave everything in order.  Rushing a child is like herding snails, it rarely works out well.  My underlying anxiety was focused on doing ‘it’ right.  “Am I doing it right?”  I constantly asked myself.

I only knew how to be productive, as in working.  I worked at work, but I also worked at running my home and parenting my children.  My heart was filled with love for my girls, but I didn’t know how to relax and enjoy the moments together.  An impromptu tea party would have made more memories than mess.   If I could only go back.

            As a working mother with two girls, I felt exceedingly inadequate and always lacking.  I lacked time, energy, and patience.  With deep shame, I confess my short fuse and agitation at their questions and childish dallying.  I felt I had to run a tight ship, remembering to color within the lines.  I didn’t know there was another path with less resistance and much more peace.

            I began my grandmothering in much the same way.  When my grandson was born, I was more than excited; I was genuinely in awe of this child of my child.  I felt honored to hold him and tend to his needs.  But soon I became aware of an underlying tension that threatened my happiness and serenity.  It lived right under my skin for months.  One afternoon when he started to cry, I walked him around the house and patted him, but nothing would work. “Shhh shhh,” I whispered in soothing tones.  No nourishment or jiggling or patting; nothing would quiet him and so without even being aware, tears began to pour down my face and I sobbed right along with him for reasons different than his own.  I had to lay him in his crib, and I sat sobbing in a chair nearby.

            “Dear Lord,” I prayed.  “Help me.  Calm me.  Help me to be enough.  Forgive my anxious, anger at not being able to soothe him.  Change this, change me and heal this hole.”

My mind shifted that day and my heart cracked wide open with such reverence, and love that I finally saw my truth and felt a change within me.  I felt calm, and I realized that my trying to be perfect, to do “it” right, only caused me to feel less than and kept me from just loving.   In the time it took to whisper my prayer, I hugged that little one to me and felt a peace inside that began from the inside out.  I was able to slow my breath and heartbeat and when I did, his did too.

“Oh,” I thought.  “This is what it feels like.” And I took a long, deep breath.  If ever I start that anxious dissent or forget to enjoy the little moments, I have only to whisper, “Help me.” And the calmness returns.  I can breathe in the joy and settle my insides.  I can stay in the present moment and let go of unattainable perfection that threatens to flatten me like a penny run over in the streets.

            And so, my house is messy now when our grandchildren are over.  Train tracks, Hot Wheels, and glitter.  Dress-up clothes, blocks and books are scattered about because we have fun together.  Playing, imagining, laughing; all the things that create a bond of love.  The love in my heart is demonstrated as I showed them through my time and attention how important they are to me.

            Last year, my little granddaughter and I spent an early morning watching the snails on our patio table.  We created the Snail Motel and talked about life as we herded the snails back into their make-shift housing.  And as much as I feel I didn’t know these things while my daughters were growing up, I do know this now.  That morning on the patio was delightful and pure and memorable, and I am filled with gratitude for another answered prayer.

            My grandmothering has become an amends to my daughters.  Amends for the things I didn’t know back then.  Amends for so much hurrying.  Amends for not enough play, silliness, and laughter.  Amends for too much stress.

            And almost as important is the amends to me.  For after all, I did the best I knew how.  I just didn’t know.

            But I do now.

Just Do It

~ Nancy Malcolm ~ Leave a comment

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As long as I can remember, I’ve been discreetly cautious around water.  I detest the icy water of a swimming pool or even the ocean before the sun has warmed the tide.

I’ve never been one to Baywatch-run into the ocean and frolic in the waves, and I watch with envy those that do.  I’m the one at the swimming pool who gets in inch by inch trying to gradually get used to the water.  I sometimes hear the whisper, “Just do it.  Jump in.”  But I argue with myself, listing all the reasons I can’t do that.  I don’t want to get my hair wet, it’s too cold, or I feel fat.

I’m getting tired of the inch by inch life that weighs me down until I cannot move.  I’m disgusted by my lack of adventure and cautious moves.  I’m ready, I think, to embrace a more fulfilling way of life.  If others can do it, why can’t I?  This hesitancy is a long-ago habit that started when my mother passed away.  My four-year-old mind could not fathom the loss of my mother, but her death left an imprint on my body and soul.

That’s when I began my demure misgivings.  Shyness and fear took hold of me like a creeping fog from the sea, enveloping my very spirit.  I didn’t hear the whisper then;  I only felt the grip of an uneasy foreboding.  “Shrink back,” it beckoned.  “Hold back,” and so I did.  It’s much easier to shrink back than to push forward.  It instantly felt like a safe place to be and I began to try it with every situation.  My carefree childhood came to an abrupt halt and I became wary of life in general; my maturity at a standstill.

This past summer I heard my grandchildren prodding me, “Jump in Nannie, it won’t be cold for long.  Just do it!”  I sat on the steps of the pool watching them splash and play, their joy out front for all to see.  Where did their bravery come from?  It never occurred to them to shrink back or limit their fun.  I envied their unbridled joy.  

As I began my slow descent inch by inch into the water, I was aware of their growing impatience with me.  They stopped encouraging me and I felt the sting of disappointment from them and myself.   On my deathbed will I say, “I’m so glad I didn’t get in the pool and play?  I’m glad I shrunk back?”  I know I will not feel that way.  I fear my regret will be heavy and I will be deeply saddened that I missed their screams of delight and wet grip around my neck.  I’ll ask myself why?  And so, against my fearful judgment, I did jump.

I jumped for all the shrinkers who let the icy voice of fear stop them in mid-stride.  I jumped to prove to myself that I could, and I jumped for that little four year old who lost her mother and was afraid of life.

Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, a psychiatrist who was a pioneer in near-death studies, knew this very fear and spoke these wise words, “Live, so you do not have to look back and say: God, how I have wasted my life.”  Never again, I tell myself.  Never again will I shrink back from life, although I know there is a big chance that I might, at least a little.  I have made progress and perhaps that is all I can do.  It’s a good start, and today I can let that be enough.

Dear Daughter,

~ Nancy Malcolm ~ 1 Comment

 

Dear Daughter,

Dear Daughter,

It is impossible to predict circumstances or situations that might befall us.  You did not choose the life that was given you.  I did not choose to be motherless, just as you had no choice in being without a grandmother.

I feel it sometimes when I recall my own Grandma.  She taught me to sew and fixed me old-fashioned hot cakes in a cast iron skillet.  When I spent the night with her, she would tuck me in, piling home-made quilts on top before telling me she loved me.

I hear it in your voice when you say we spoil our grandkids by giving them too much or catering to their wishes.  I forget that you didn’t have that.  You didn’t have a grandmother’s love.  You may not know that it is a grandmother’s privilege to give this unconditional outpouring to her grandchildren.  I have heard it said that a grandmother is like an angel who takes you under her wing, she prayers and watches over you and she would give you anything.

Just as I cannot know what my relationship would have been with my mother, I cannot know how she would have been as a grandmother to you.  I cannot predict how the past might have been.  I cannot describe what never was.  But, I am sorry you didn’t have a grandmother.  I’m sad you missed that bond as you grew up.  I would give anything to have her here for you as well as myself.

It seems unbelievably unfair that we have had to navigate life without a mother and a grandmother, but, we have done just that.  Perhaps, in a quiet moment, we can reflect on our depth and our capacity to love even though our guide was not able to be with us.  Somehow, we learned to be in this world while receiving our direction from above.
Christopher Morley said, “It is as grandmothers, that our mothers come into the fullness of their grace.”   As I am coming into the fullness of my grace, I wish for you to feel your grandmother’s love through me.  When you see my interactions with the grandchildren, stop and feel the love for yourself.  Whatever I do, say, feel and express to them…..take it into your heart.  Let the little child within you be at peace, and as you do this, feel your grandmother’s love through me.  The healing balm of her love transcends time and space, we have only to believe…..and I do.
Love always