The Price of Being the Best Grandma
Well, I’m almost packed. I’ve got two big long foam-rubber floaties because I really hate to be stuck in a swimming pool without them. And I’ve got two little inner tubes and some of those arm things that keep kids from drowning. I better take my air pump because I’ll need it to blow everything up.
Then I’ve got some kites, four in case it takes four to get two that work. And one of those rocket blaster things they’ve got out in front of Funfinity, the Springville toy store. And two plastic croquet sets from Walmart so we can all play. And a plastic bag full of Duplo blocks. And a puzzle of the United States. And my jacks. And my Prilosec and my Wellbutrin.
I’ve got seven t-shirts for when people wipe their snotty noses on my shoulder or my ice cream cone dribbles; my knit roll-up peasant skirt so I can show up at Primary and be a good example, and two pairs of jeans plus the ones I’m wearing on the plane. I’ve got a pair of those stretch jeans that are supposed to hold in your tummy, the ones that advertise that they let you wear one size smaller. Well, don’t believe that! One size smaller makes you look like a grape on a stick. Those suckers hug that bum of yours like a sock and make it look like the bottom of a V. Then everything else spills out over the top so you look like Sponge Bob Squarepants.
So, I’m ready to spend five days in a hotel with my grandkids.
This is our special trip, the one we’ve taken every year for the last five years. I baby sit while Mom and Dad go out to dinner every night, see friends, and yuk it up at an annual convention. We started this tradition five years ago and now it has become A TRADITION. A five-day period that is sacred to my granddaughter and I.
We have many secret ceremonies that accompany this week. We go to a certain pizza place, we make ceramic plates at a certain ceramics place, and we go to a certain place on the beach and climb to the top of the rocks. We buy a toy at a certain toy store.
However, the highlight of the week is Walking Down the Very Darkest Road In the Dark At Night. I don’t know how we started doing this, but it scares the snot out of me. We walk down this dark road past a little neighborhood park and when we can’t stand it anymore, we turn and run back up to the lighted main street. I’m always sure we’re going to be killed by the boogie-man, but my granddaughter loves it. I hate the dark, I hate thinking I’m going to be killed, and even thinking about it, here, when I’m safe at home, makes me start to sweat. I guess that’s why I’m a good grandma, I keep doing this stuff even though I’m pretty sure we might die. (Actually it’s a very safe neighborhood—of course, that’s what everyone always says, “He was such a nice boy, we had no idea he had bodies in the fridge.”)
However, this year will be complicated by the addition of a three-year old brother who has finally reached the age that he can no longer be pawned off on his mom as a baby. The logistics are going to be complicated—do we let Brother loose in a ceramics shop to maim the birds and dogs we plan to paint? Will he think our daring street adventure is stupid—or worse, will he cry? I’m sure there will be moments we’ll wish he would just go away, but we might as well initiate him early for the duration.
My motto is the obvious one: A suitcase full of toys: $75; an entire bottle of Advil for the resulting aches and pains: $4; trying to be a good grandma: priceless.
Then I’ve got some kites, four in case it takes four to get two that work. And one of those rocket blaster things they’ve got out in front of Funfinity, the Springville toy store. And two plastic croquet sets from Walmart so we can all play. And a plastic bag full of Duplo blocks. And a puzzle of the United States. And my jacks. And my Prilosec and my Wellbutrin.
I’ve got seven t-shirts for when people wipe their snotty noses on my shoulder or my ice cream cone dribbles; my knit roll-up peasant skirt so I can show up at Primary and be a good example, and two pairs of jeans plus the ones I’m wearing on the plane. I’ve got a pair of those stretch jeans that are supposed to hold in your tummy, the ones that advertise that they let you wear one size smaller. Well, don’t believe that! One size smaller makes you look like a grape on a stick. Those suckers hug that bum of yours like a sock and make it look like the bottom of a V. Then everything else spills out over the top so you look like Sponge Bob Squarepants.
So, I’m ready to spend five days in a hotel with my grandkids.
This is our special trip, the one we’ve taken every year for the last five years. I baby sit while Mom and Dad go out to dinner every night, see friends, and yuk it up at an annual convention. We started this tradition five years ago and now it has become A TRADITION. A five-day period that is sacred to my granddaughter and I.
We have many secret ceremonies that accompany this week. We go to a certain pizza place, we make ceramic plates at a certain ceramics place, and we go to a certain place on the beach and climb to the top of the rocks. We buy a toy at a certain toy store.
However, the highlight of the week is Walking Down the Very Darkest Road In the Dark At Night. I don’t know how we started doing this, but it scares the snot out of me. We walk down this dark road past a little neighborhood park and when we can’t stand it anymore, we turn and run back up to the lighted main street. I’m always sure we’re going to be killed by the boogie-man, but my granddaughter loves it. I hate the dark, I hate thinking I’m going to be killed, and even thinking about it, here, when I’m safe at home, makes me start to sweat. I guess that’s why I’m a good grandma, I keep doing this stuff even though I’m pretty sure we might die. (Actually it’s a very safe neighborhood—of course, that’s what everyone always says, “He was such a nice boy, we had no idea he had bodies in the fridge.”)
However, this year will be complicated by the addition of a three-year old brother who has finally reached the age that he can no longer be pawned off on his mom as a baby. The logistics are going to be complicated—do we let Brother loose in a ceramics shop to maim the birds and dogs we plan to paint? Will he think our daring street adventure is stupid—or worse, will he cry? I’m sure there will be moments we’ll wish he would just go away, but we might as well initiate him early for the duration.
My motto is the obvious one: A suitcase full of toys: $75; an entire bottle of Advil for the resulting aches and pains: $4; trying to be a good grandma: priceless.
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