On the day she was born, I was the first person to lay eyes on her.
In my mind, that was all it took to know we would have something special.
With Mavis being my oldest daughter’s first child,
I have been called on often to evaluate some sleep issue, or to diagnose a rash that seems mysterious.
I have watched her multiple times a week as her mommy and daddy worked.
We have really built something here.
We have a whole system.
She has grown in my living room, with her feet nestled under one of the cats, with her special cup, being read to on demand, and having whatever show that she dictated.
As a grandma, I have learned that you really don’t have to say “no” so often.
Sometimes it is OK to just let toddler life happen.
It will be weird for a while.
Things will get messy.
Let it be what it is.
You grow to miss the mess.
It’s part of the experience.
For us, this means that, at least twice a day, Mavis (who is 2) will rifle in my mixing bowls to locate the smallest yellow one, which she will then carry to the freezer drawer as if she is on a mission.
She will haul open the heavy freezer and choose one perfect ice cube,
which she will place in that bowl, and bring to the couch, to sit licking until it is gone,
at which point she will get another.
A Mommy or Auntie would tell her she doesn’t need to do that.
They’d tell her to close the drawer and put the bowls back.
They’d try to redirect her.
I know because I’ve seen it, at which I always say,
“She knows she gets ice. I always let her.”
A Grammy wonders what the harm is to things like daily bowls filled with ice,
or a kid who likes to press her face into the mirrors.
Sometimes you need to see yourself up close while singing about a teapot.
In Grammy’s house, not a whole lot is off-limits.
(This is precisely how she ended up with two back-to-back popsicles on Wednesday, or how she goes home sometimes with a half-sleeve of temporary tattoos on)
It is how her head ends up in a Premier Protein box as a helmet,
and why she carries around things like a mop head for no reason.
I said “No” enough while raising my daughters, and every single child still ended up being themselves, exactly as they were meant to, in the long run;
So, now I just give in.
I go with it.
Maybe we’re wearing goggles today.
Maybe cookies ARE for breakfast.
(I hear they eat chocolate on toast every morning in Scandinavia)
My daughter has started pursing her lips at me about all this.
She likes laying down the law.
After all, she is an oldest daughter.
In my defense, though, I do SOMETIMES say “No.” I don’t ALWAYS give her what she asks for.
It’s not my fault that I live right next door, and the path to my house is a short one.
It’s not my fault that she learned to open the screen door to her own house and take off running like she has escaped slavery.
I’ll hear, “Grammy! Grammy!” and the rocks flying under her footsteps, and suddenly my front door will be thrown open.
Grammy’s house is “Base,” just how I dreamed of.
She has learned that the rest of this crew is filled with naysayers,
so she will come over to me real close, and say in a quiet tone, meant only for my ears,
“Grammy, may I please watch a show and sit in my cozy, quiet corner?”
(This is what she calls the corner of my couch, which is partially shaded by a giant Monstera)
And it’s almost always a yes with a snack and a foot rub, while she is told how loved she is by me.
My daughter will inevitably be showing up soon behind her, still trying to retain some level of authority.
“Mavis, you don’t always need a show. You watched shows already this morning.”
Throughout this speech, though, Mavis’ eyes will remain locked on me, in a look that says,
“Pay no mind to that sound you hear.
Keep your eyes focused on my pupils that are now twirling spirals.”
Yesterday, Her Mama said no to several things she was asking in a row,
and Mavis looked at me like I had betrayed her by my silence, crossed her arms, and said,
“Da whole day is WUINED!”
I told her then that “we must always mind our Mamas;” That “Mommy gives us rules and helps us know what to do to keep us safe and happy, because she loves us.”
This satisfied my daughter, who nodded, feeling finally part of the team: A ruling member.
While she was nodding, I gave Mavis a look that said maybe next time she should make sure she’s not followed.
I can’t help it.
I don’t make the Grandparent Rules.
They were downloaded into me the very first second I saw her red, tiny body.
I knew I was toast.
She would have everything I had the power to give her.
When I was growing up, the pushover grandparent was my maternal grandpa, Poppie.
He would show up with toys in his suitcase that made noise, and he’d take me for secret trips to the donut shop I wasn’t supposed to tell people about because he had Diabetes and didn’t want a lecture.
We would sit across from each other at a laminate table, and grin as we ate donuts, and sprinkles fell.
I can still remember his squinted, happy eyes behind his horn-rimmed glasses.
He was on my team.
It was the two of us against the world, it felt like.
I didn’t have him long, but the years I did were spent feeling safe, prized, and cherished above everything. It’s what I still feel when I think of him.
I want that feeling for all of my grandchildren.
This week, we will welcome my second grandbaby, a boy.
A whole new little being to cater to,
and I hope he knows he will be my favorite, also.
These days are filled with so much outside chaos.
There are “No”s in so many forms all around us.
I want my house to exist as a safe place in their memories; A place where they are free to be themselves.
I want it to be a place where they always knew they could run to when what they needed was comfort and softness.
I want them to remember that cozy, quiet corner forever.
I want them to still feel the foot rub,
and the way it felt to be tucked under the leaves of a Monstera.
I want them to grow up and know that from the very first moment I saw them, I made a silent pact that we would be best friends forever.
I’d give my grandchildren the whole world if I could,
So an ice cube in a bowl really feels pretty minuscule.
Mom Outnumbered
Hi! My name is Kerri Green; Wife to Justin, and mother to four highly entertaining daughters -Alena, Chloe, Tessa, and Paige. I am an artist, a writer, a daycare provider, a lover of people, a believer that there is humor and beauty in all things, and the author of Mom Outnumbered; a blog about real family life, and my observations of it. My goal is to make people laugh, to be there for them when they cry, and most importantly, to let them know that they are not at all alone in this up and down world. I live with my family in Sebastopol California, and I am opening the window into our life. So welcome! Come in. Sit down. Just please don’t mind the mysterious wet spots.
