Being Grandma
February 28, 2001
I was in California, in Solvang, at a pizza place with my stepson and his 10-year-old son Kyle. The California mystique had put me in diet mode, and I ordered, fatefully, a salad.
“Could I get that with some chicken?”
“We just have the barbecued chicken we put on top of the pizzas.”
“That’s okay, just give me some of that.”
Gradually I began to decline. That is to say, at 11 o’clock when I left their house, I was ready to explode. I drove from motel to motel—there was no place in anybody’s inn. “Please just let me come in and throw up!”
Finally, I found a place big enough to still have rooms, I called my kids in LA the next day. “I can’t come, I’m too sick.” It was Sunday and my stepson brought me two Cokes and two 7-Ups. I had given all my change to my grandson for video games.
The next day found me still too sick, too weak to make it to the lobby to get change. I nursed my last Coke. I called my LA gang—I needed one more night. My stepson was at work, no one to take care of me. Finally about one in the afternoon, I made it to the lobby and got change for the Coke machine.
I made it to Albertson’s for yogurt about three and by four, I felt like I was going to live again. What to do?
I’ll call Kyle and ask him if he wants to get an ice cream cone. Feeling pretty self-conscious about not being the “real” grandma, I worried that he would be uninterested but called anyway. Sure, he’d love to go but he had to hurry up and finish his math. I waited until 7.
At McDonald’s we shared whatever they call their ice cream and M&M’s concoction. I was out of California diet mode fer shure. We were done at a quarter to eight. “Do you want to come see my hotel room?” The room I just spent three days in throwing up?
“Wow this is really cool! Look at all the little soaps—can I have these?”
“Would you like to spend the night?” The moment the words were out of my mouth, my soul left my body. Why did I say THAT? What would I do with him all night long? His mom will HATE me for asking on a school night.
“Mom says it would be great. She says it doesn’t happen that often. Let’s go get my sleeping bag!”
I figured we’d watch one of those $10 movies they pipe into your room and he’d go to sleep and I’d rest easy. I punched in the numbers on the phone, swiped my credit card, and…nothing. We called the lobby and the manager came. Nothing. One hundred fifty rooms and our movie channel didn’t work. “Do we want to change rooms?” No, it was 10:30 by then.
“What were your two favorite grades?” Gee, Kyle, I barely remember going to school. I guess pre-school naps—I remember the graham crackers and those little mini-school-size milk cartons, sometimes with the ice floating on top. And I remember third grade and the nun who taught me piano—how you got to leave class especially to go to piano. “What were the rest of the kids doing when you went to piano?” I have no idea.
“What are your favorite classes?” He told me about himself, about school and about his life. I told him what I could remember about me. I have to say, it was so cool. He finally turned over and went to sleep and I just laid there and thought about how this would never had happened if I hadn’t eaten that chicken and had gone back to LA.
When I got home, I bought one of those little journals where you fill out the questions. “What’s your favorite joke? Describe how to make your favorite sandwich to a person from outer space.” I answered a few and sent it along to Kyle with a stamped return envelope. He’s going to send it back and I’m going to answer some more questions. Maybe I’ll actually remember something about my childhood.
I got a book on tape and sent him the first cassette along with a note about how much I liked it and where I was on the second tape. Instant weekly mail drops. I feel like I never knew what it was like to be a grandma before this. Like I’m on my way to learning something about it.
I felt like there was a reason I got so sick and that I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
I was in California, in Solvang, at a pizza place with my stepson and his 10-year-old son Kyle. The California mystique had put me in diet mode, and I ordered, fatefully, a salad.
“Could I get that with some chicken?”
“We just have the barbecued chicken we put on top of the pizzas.”
“That’s okay, just give me some of that.”
Gradually I began to decline. That is to say, at 11 o’clock when I left their house, I was ready to explode. I drove from motel to motel—there was no place in anybody’s inn. “Please just let me come in and throw up!”
Finally, I found a place big enough to still have rooms, I called my kids in LA the next day. “I can’t come, I’m too sick.” It was Sunday and my stepson brought me two Cokes and two 7-Ups. I had given all my change to my grandson for video games.
The next day found me still too sick, too weak to make it to the lobby to get change. I nursed my last Coke. I called my LA gang—I needed one more night. My stepson was at work, no one to take care of me. Finally about one in the afternoon, I made it to the lobby and got change for the Coke machine.
I made it to Albertson’s for yogurt about three and by four, I felt like I was going to live again. What to do?
I’ll call Kyle and ask him if he wants to get an ice cream cone. Feeling pretty self-conscious about not being the “real” grandma, I worried that he would be uninterested but called anyway. Sure, he’d love to go but he had to hurry up and finish his math. I waited until 7.
At McDonald’s we shared whatever they call their ice cream and M&M’s concoction. I was out of California diet mode fer shure. We were done at a quarter to eight. “Do you want to come see my hotel room?” The room I just spent three days in throwing up?
“Wow this is really cool! Look at all the little soaps—can I have these?”
“Would you like to spend the night?” The moment the words were out of my mouth, my soul left my body. Why did I say THAT? What would I do with him all night long? His mom will HATE me for asking on a school night.
“Mom says it would be great. She says it doesn’t happen that often. Let’s go get my sleeping bag!”
I figured we’d watch one of those $10 movies they pipe into your room and he’d go to sleep and I’d rest easy. I punched in the numbers on the phone, swiped my credit card, and…nothing. We called the lobby and the manager came. Nothing. One hundred fifty rooms and our movie channel didn’t work. “Do we want to change rooms?” No, it was 10:30 by then.
“What were your two favorite grades?” Gee, Kyle, I barely remember going to school. I guess pre-school naps—I remember the graham crackers and those little mini-school-size milk cartons, sometimes with the ice floating on top. And I remember third grade and the nun who taught me piano—how you got to leave class especially to go to piano. “What were the rest of the kids doing when you went to piano?” I have no idea.
“What are your favorite classes?” He told me about himself, about school and about his life. I told him what I could remember about me. I have to say, it was so cool. He finally turned over and went to sleep and I just laid there and thought about how this would never had happened if I hadn’t eaten that chicken and had gone back to LA.
When I got home, I bought one of those little journals where you fill out the questions. “What’s your favorite joke? Describe how to make your favorite sandwich to a person from outer space.” I answered a few and sent it along to Kyle with a stamped return envelope. He’s going to send it back and I’m going to answer some more questions. Maybe I’ll actually remember something about my childhood.
I got a book on tape and sent him the first cassette along with a note about how much I liked it and where I was on the second tape. Instant weekly mail drops. I feel like I never knew what it was like to be a grandma before this. Like I’m on my way to learning something about it.
I felt like there was a reason I got so sick and that I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
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