“So it’s like a big sale at Filene’s Basement?” Mom asked J.D., wondering how a Fortnite event was important. Sharp as a tack, she gets everything within seconds and there is very little that escapes her. “Yes, sort of like that.” J.D. said, not knowing what the heck Filene’s Basement is but still, sharp like Nana, he got it. These two are cut from the same cloth, believe it or not, and it is an absolute delight to see them interact.
My kids, whether they have liked it or not, are under the watch of two Moms. If one tries to scoot by me sneaking a mini cupcake, Nana is sure to catch them. “What are you eating, Isaac?” Mom will ask him as he tries to stealthily sneak upstairs with some kind of carbohydrate. The kid exists on some variation on C6 H12 O6 since birth and I have tried, in vain, to change this. He’s even picky about what kind of bread product he will consume, eliminating pasta completely. The closest he gets to spaghetti, aka his “worst nightmare”, is to put it in a container at the end of dinner. Even that he does reluctantly, using only the tongs to touch the slippery wormlike dinner. Mom and Dad sit and laugh as the kids clean up, Dad especially treats it like a movie. We have lived together for so long now that it all happens so naturally and I have to remind myself every so often of just how atypical we all are. I used to think that atypicality was a bad thing.
The other night, my kids scrambled upstairs to their own little activities and Dad and I sat and watched “It’s a Wonderful Life” for probably the 207th time. “You once called me a warped, frustrated old man!” my dad quoted Mr. Potter. “Are you warped and frustrated?” I asked Dad. “I don’t think so.” Dad replied. He isn’t. The man, approaching 90 this coming May, has always been quiet and pliable. He agrees with everything and never puts up a fight to anything. Now in his twilight years with dementia that progresses ever so quickly and slowly all at once, it is hard to know exactly how to be his daughter anymore. We used to play on the living room floor when I was a kid, he’d swing on the swing set right next to me after dinner, I was snuck through the chain link gate at Cranberry Cove with his guidance on many oppressively hot summer nights, he bought me ice cream on the way home from the dump, his Mentos were always half mine. “He’s a really good sharer.” I used to think. He was. He still is.
Tonight Dad and I sat next to one another on the couch while Jeopardy jabbered on in the background. We looked at our Christmas tree with the big, bulby, multicolored lights. “That’s a nice tree.” he told me. “Nice and full.” He and I used to pick the tree out together, I always loved that night. “We need some tinsel.” he said. “Yes! Old school tinsel!” I agreed. I don’t think he understood the “old school” reference but, nevertheless, we are on the same page. Tomorrow, I think, I will stop and get that tinsel. My only plan, aside from doing my job etc., will be to make sure that he gets to place as many strands as possible. It is the little things, they say, that mean the most.
Last week someone mentioned to me that kids sacrifice a little bit of their childhood by living with grandparents. I was taken aback by the statement and, always open to difference of opinion, felt the need to agree or, at the very least, see the point. When discussing this with Thomas over the weekend, he said “Yeah, I don’t see it that way.” Thank god he said that because I was feeling guilty for a hot minute and I, a recovering Irish Catholic, HATE to feel guilty. I have always been able to reframe my weeks in a positive yet warped lens and I didn’t like hearing the word “sacrifice” when talking about my kids. I appreciate the sentiment, I really do. It’s just that it’s not accurate when it comes to my situation. Sure, sacrifice is all part of everything. However, we have gained so much in these past few years that it is hard for me to see that side of it until it gets pointed out. I think that’s a good thing, don’t you? My parents are OK, my kids are still kids, and I am happy. I love more than hate, like more than loathe. We have this very unique yet warm understanding of one another in this multigenerational 70s home and we like it like that—there is no room for subtlety or nuance here. Between Fortnite and Filene’s Basement, we manage to draw meaningful comparisons and progress. Sacrifice? No. We’ve hit the human lottery here.