How is it something so small can be so explosive? Truly, I believe grandchildren are sent to remind us of our limitations and challenge us to call ourselves anything but out of our depths. I do not remember having the cold hand of fear grip my heart so fiercely when I was raising my own kids. Nor do I remember my mother ever showing signs of fear or worry for our safety until we were teenagers out of sight.
I do remember as a child I would wander outside and dig in the dirt, climb a tree, and watch my brothers carefully. Once climbing a tree, I think I fell out. However, all I remember is my brother lifting me down after my shorts got snagged on a short stub of a branch. I think it saved me from plummeting to the ground. I don’t remember my mother hovering, though.
Then there was the time when my other brother was pitching a tent. I wanted to help and, of course, he didn’t want me to. I was determined, so I did not go far away. I couldn’t have been more than six or seven years old, so he would have been about 11. He was intent on his task of driving in the wooden stakes. I stepped up, unknown to him, and peered over his shoulder. Just as that, he came up with full force, and on his back swing he struck me with the blade side of the hatchet he was using as a mallet.
I have little memory of the event other than he dragged me into the tent — I guess I was bleeding — and begged me to be quiet and stop crying or Dad would not let him use the hatchet again. I have no recollection of my mother coming out or what happened later. All I know is I have a scar to let me know this is fact, not fiction.
As children we had freedom to roam with little concern by the adults in our lives. Unless it was a catastrophic accident, of which there were many, parents had little worry or concerns over day-to-day living. Their fears might be limited to falling down an old well, or getting locked in the barn with the bull, or falling out of the hay mow while swinging on an old rope. Getting hit with a hatchet was an odd bit of business and out of the norm.
While I also can’t remember being overly fearful of my children’s day-to-day activities, I am unsure if it was simply because, like my mother, I was ignorant to the pending fears I should have witnessed, or ignored the plethora of possibilities of what could happen to my children. In hindsight, where my son was concerned, my ignorance saved my sanity. They would go off and play with friends and I would find out after the fact they were caught setting fires (in Shane’s case) or caught smoking (both my kids) and maybe sneaking off to play piano. (That was the seriousness of my one child’s escapades.)
This said, as a grandmother I swear my imagination is on steroids as to how fast things can happen. Is it wisdom or stupidity? Unnecessary fear or truth?
Last week we went to dinner together, my daughter’s family and I. At the end of the meal the boys were getting restless, and I offered to take them outside while Mom and Dad finished up. As soon as the two-year-old, Isaac, ran and pushed the automatic door opener and the five-year-old, Owen, ran into the parking lot, I realized my mistake.
Taking two small tornadoes, whirling dervish like structures, cyclones of energy hopped up on apple juice, out into a parking lot was a gramma nightmare. While I warned the five-year-old to within an inch of his life he was not to leave the sidewalk, he heeded me dutifully. However, he used the sidewalk as his racetrack and took off around the corner.
The two-year-old, diaper drooping, took off after him. Thankful I am a runner, I was able to keep up until the sidewalk split and one went one way, and one went the other. I was watching carefully and calling out, “Stay on the sidewalk,” when Owen yelled, “I gotta go pee!” and he took off back to the restaurant door. As he travelled, I lost sight of him because he is smaller than the parked cars
I grabbed the baby and, while he was kicking and screaming because he did not want to be carried, I took off to catch up. Just as I was about to lose all hope, I saw Mom calling to Owen as he flew toward the door. I dropped the baby down to go to his mom and I went with Owen inside. Whew. Grateful for walls and a mother’s arms, I could breathe a sigh of relief. Like the day I forgot the brake on the stroller, and it rolled away down the hill, flipping over with Isaac in it, there was no damage done.
Is it wisdom or stupidity to worry so? Historically, why did I not worry? Why did my mother not seem to worry? And most of all, why, when I saw my daughter, was there a peaceful smile of welcome to her boys and no sign of worry?
Later that night, as I placed my head on my pillow, 1,000 different endings to this story just kept rolling through my mind like a B-rated movie, the endless reels of “what ifs” scrolling and scrolling. All fiction, of course. However, for some reason it made falling down an old well, or getting locked in the barn with the bull, or falling out of the hay mow while swinging on an old rope seem like a cakewalk. Or getting hit with a hatchet. Child’s play and just another day in the life.
Oh, the stress of being a grandmother. Do you think God has provided mothers with some form of anesthetic for the formative years only to have it wear off later so, as grandmothers, we can die from the heart attack brought on by the “what ifs” of our existence while spending time with our grandchildren?
Cynthia Breadner is a teacher, author, grief specialist and bereavement counsellor, a soul care worker and offers specialized care in spiritually integrated therapies. She works as a long-term care chaplain assisting with end-of-life care for client and family. She is the mother part of the #DanCynAdventures duo and practises fitness, health and wellness. She is available remotely by safe and secure video connections. If you have any questions, contact her today at [email protected] or visit breakingstibah.com.
