I’m resting.
I’m tired. Stupid with
fatigue. I have exceeded my
aerobic threshold. I just hobbled
to my recliner and collapsed, gasping and wheezing. Why? Because
our first-born, extraordinarily gifted and adorable grandson spent the weekend
with me…by choice! For reasons
unavailable to mortal man, Abram asked to stay with me instead of his friend,
while his parents went to Las Vegas for a soccer tournament.
Whoa! Could
that really be??? He would prefer
to stay with me than a comrade, a soccer teammate, a fellow pre-pubescent, a “bro”
without benefit of duress or Guido the Thumbbreaker?
YESSSS!!!!! The
Baby Boomer and the Millennial – it is so counterintuitive to the generational
adversarial tribal system that has evolved through the epochs since time
immemorial between really old people and the majestically young. It defies the natural order of the
species. But it works!
Needless to say, I was thrilled. I want to be more than a cameo in our grandchildren’s lives.
I hate to get all Sally Fields-ish, but he likes me. He REALLY LIKES ME!
There is something about the first-born grandchild. When
Abram was born, I sang “Happy Birthday,” while Dennis performed the
circumcision. For one brief shining
moment, I was the favorite grandparent.
When the rites of being a male were accomplished, we began
to scrutinize and identify all the conspicuous characteristics and personality
traits resulting from generations of genetic distillation. Abram is so like Dennis, in temperament
and demeanor. He is quiet, confident,
composed, and endearingly charming.
He stole my heart.
However, I am also a primary DNA contributor to this boy. Abram and I are startlingly
similar. We are both fair. He is legally blonde. I am feloniously platinum. We are both tall and lean…except for
me. He is without guile. I have ample for both of us. He has the courage of his
convictions. I am obstinate. It’s practically the same. With only a few inconsequential
differences, we are nearly indistinguishable.
In order to transform myself into a geriatric savant of
biped recreation, I embarked on a rigorous training program. My goal was to become a cruise missile,
a whirling turbine of forward thrust, turbocharged locomotion. This endeavor sucked up an enormous
amount of caloric intake.
I commenced my training regime by upping my caffeine
quota. And then I began rehearsing
what I hoped to be the “mother tongue,” my apocalypsie cliches:
Boo Yeah! In Yo
Face! Sup?
And I diligently practiced my texting shorthand: YOLO, Luv u 2, etc.
Next, I ditched every shred of evidence of my personal CD
collection – which is comprised mostly of Billy Joel, Elton John, The Beatles,
James Taylor and…wait for it…Johnny Mathis! (That last one went into its own
unmarked brown paper bag.)
Apparently, CD’s are not only obsolete, they’re archaic.
I then enrolled in classes ranging from Adele 101, Basic
Mumford and Sons, Fundamental “One Direction,” Beginning Beyonce, British Boy
Bands for Dummies, and Remedial Taylor Swift. I even committed some of her poetic and extremely cerebral
lyrics to memory, so I could warble the words off my tongue in admirable
fluency, without any trace of cognitive brain function: “We’re never ever ever getting back
together.” (Inevitably, my
rendition is over-loaded with excessive “never-evers.” Abram smiles indulgently and says
nothing, extending diplomatic courtesy like his grandpa before him.)
I used copious amounts of concealer to mitigate the ravages
of time that turn the once-silky skin to that mottled pinkish hue I refer to as
Gram Spam – in order to perpetuate the illusion that I’m smothered in muscle
and prefer stilettoes to orthopedic smurf shoes.
For good measure, I fired up the Crossfire, put down the
top, and we motored to his soccer game at a cruising speed of just under 65
m.p.h., which is slightly faster than “the little old lady from Pasadena”
velocity. (It is decidedly UN-cool
to get a ticket for adolescent acceleration!) I drove amid swirling wind that billowed my hair and
swaddled my head in a halo of platinum and re-growth, revealing the sad fact
that Granny has a dark side, and shattering forever more the myth that I’m a
natural tow-head.
It requires astronomical energy to disavow reality.
I had a grandmother whose influence is still enormously
powerful. I adored her, and in my
mind, I still flee to her home when I need refuge and sanctuary. I want to repeat that experience for my
grandchildren. I guess it’s a
patrilineal phenomenon, and assures smooth succession from one generation to
the next.
Abram and I talked.
About a lot of things. It
was good. It is essential to tell
the stories of our lineage, like tribal griots, so the youth can make sense of
our world and give it order.
Mortality is fragile.
Our essence is what we give the world by our presence.
When the weekend was over, and the time came for Abram to
return to his home, I was understandably reluctant. It’s mysterious how comfort arrives. Each grandchild has a portion of
Dennis. It’s a gift. Abram is particularly endowed. He is so
like his grandfather. I try not to stare.
I rarely succeed.
As he got out of the car, he said, “Love you, Grandma.” He always does. I said, “Love you, too.” He said again, “Love you,
Grandma.” I said, “Love you,
Bud.” Once more he said, “I love
you, Grandma.” I said, “I love
you, Abram.”
I stood vigil till he was safely in the house. Then I drove home.
I was glad it was dark.
