So You Want to be a Parent?
So you want to be a parent?
January 26, 2000
“So, really, we just need to remember that this is the worst part, right?” said my son Kenneth as he tried to play cards, cradle the bottle against his chin and feed his three-week-old daughter at the same time. “Yeah, sure, honey. Of course, there’s that whole ‘Dady, I need a drink’ thing coming up.” He laughed. What I thought was Gees, Louise, should I tell him about teething? And those weird fever things they get when they have 102 and it’s always, always, the middle of the night.
Should I tell him about becoming a junkie, hooked on good report cards and finding new friends and the feeling you have when they stand up and get an ward. And the amount of work you put into getting them there? And the big lonely hole in the family when someone has their first sleep-over or goes to summer camp. AND how he’s going to feel when she brings home her first prom dress and you realize, my gosh, that strapless gown isn’t going to fall down!
I remember how desperate I felt on the anniversary of the 150th time I read, to Kenneth, at the top of the stairs in our old house, the story of the kind with six friends—fire, water, a hive of bees, a magic trunk—whatever, and they helped him do some horrible chore. I just wanted the book to stop, to go away. Ditto “Good Night Moon” and the much dreaded “Tikki, Tikki, Tembo, No Sa Rembo” who fell into the well and repeated his name page after page.
“But it’s easier when they get older, right? Al least you don’t worry about them physically, right?” Not worried about a hormone-crazed, fast driving, appearance obsessed, always gone 17-year-old? PHYSICALLY? What else is there to a 17-year-old?
And then when they’re older, you worry about their lives, their jobs, their marriages, their health. You worry if you’re going to have anything to leave them when you die and if you’ll have enough to go visit them while you’re alive. And will you be a good grandma and give great Christmas presents and be cuddly and will you grandkids like you—or will they find you you’re really a cranky, hopelessly out-of-date moron who want desperately to be loved?
You worry if you’ve said no enough to them when they were yours and at home about what’s best so they’ll be a better parent than you. You hope they’ll be smarter, more creative and patient; make better Halloween costumes, be better homework helpers, watch less TV, make wiser choices, go camping more often, spend less money and take better vacations.
You hope they’ll get all the housework done before 6 a.m. and spend every minute reading and playing and running around outside. You hope that at the end of each day they’ll have enough energy to listen to every detail of fifth grade.
Having a grandchild is the most humbling thing in the world. Not to mention the fact that it caused me to actually drive in California where they have a special breed of mutant drivers who have survived the freeway system and all hate your Utah license plates since you’re obviously a pro-life homophobe—so they won’t let you in their lane. Although, if they’d ask me, they’d find out that I’ve had wheat grass at the juice bar and that we probably have a lot in common.
The worst part of the grandparent thing is that when I read a book, mysteries, biographies, description of microbes and Utah travel guides, I always read the last page first. I really am going to struggle with the last page here. I want to see the picture of her at four, the “news at eleven,” and you she’ll marry. I want it all now! I’ve never had any desire to live to be a hundred, but now I want to be here for every minute!
January 26, 2000
“So, really, we just need to remember that this is the worst part, right?” said my son Kenneth as he tried to play cards, cradle the bottle against his chin and feed his three-week-old daughter at the same time. “Yeah, sure, honey. Of course, there’s that whole ‘Dady, I need a drink’ thing coming up.” He laughed. What I thought was Gees, Louise, should I tell him about teething? And those weird fever things they get when they have 102 and it’s always, always, the middle of the night.
Should I tell him about becoming a junkie, hooked on good report cards and finding new friends and the feeling you have when they stand up and get an ward. And the amount of work you put into getting them there? And the big lonely hole in the family when someone has their first sleep-over or goes to summer camp. AND how he’s going to feel when she brings home her first prom dress and you realize, my gosh, that strapless gown isn’t going to fall down!
I remember how desperate I felt on the anniversary of the 150th time I read, to Kenneth, at the top of the stairs in our old house, the story of the kind with six friends—fire, water, a hive of bees, a magic trunk—whatever, and they helped him do some horrible chore. I just wanted the book to stop, to go away. Ditto “Good Night Moon” and the much dreaded “Tikki, Tikki, Tembo, No Sa Rembo” who fell into the well and repeated his name page after page.
“But it’s easier when they get older, right? Al least you don’t worry about them physically, right?” Not worried about a hormone-crazed, fast driving, appearance obsessed, always gone 17-year-old? PHYSICALLY? What else is there to a 17-year-old?
And then when they’re older, you worry about their lives, their jobs, their marriages, their health. You worry if you’re going to have anything to leave them when you die and if you’ll have enough to go visit them while you’re alive. And will you be a good grandma and give great Christmas presents and be cuddly and will you grandkids like you—or will they find you you’re really a cranky, hopelessly out-of-date moron who want desperately to be loved?
You worry if you’ve said no enough to them when they were yours and at home about what’s best so they’ll be a better parent than you. You hope they’ll be smarter, more creative and patient; make better Halloween costumes, be better homework helpers, watch less TV, make wiser choices, go camping more often, spend less money and take better vacations.
You hope they’ll get all the housework done before 6 a.m. and spend every minute reading and playing and running around outside. You hope that at the end of each day they’ll have enough energy to listen to every detail of fifth grade.
Having a grandchild is the most humbling thing in the world. Not to mention the fact that it caused me to actually drive in California where they have a special breed of mutant drivers who have survived the freeway system and all hate your Utah license plates since you’re obviously a pro-life homophobe—so they won’t let you in their lane. Although, if they’d ask me, they’d find out that I’ve had wheat grass at the juice bar and that we probably have a lot in common.
The worst part of the grandparent thing is that when I read a book, mysteries, biographies, description of microbes and Utah travel guides, I always read the last page first. I really am going to struggle with the last page here. I want to see the picture of her at four, the “news at eleven,” and you she’ll marry. I want it all now! I’ve never had any desire to live to be a hundred, but now I want to be here for every minute!
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