Grandkid Gametime... Two Decades Later

Does an age gap exist among your children/ grandchildren? Then you, like my husband and I, may wonder what sneaky thief siphoned the energy that once fueled kid-time adventures.

When our first grandchildren appeared, Hubby and I kept up with those pint-sized people … most of the time. We hauled car seats, playpens and other equipment without hydraulic lifts. We carried sleeping or kicking children to and from church. We pushed merry-go-rounds (“Faster! Faster, Grandma!”), scaled fast-food playlands and grabbed kids before they dove off curly slides. We chased, wrestled, swam, swung and slid into home plate. With workouts like that, who needed the gym? We stayed skinny. Fit, even.

Although when aging bones and muscles rebelled, a Fisher-price parking garage, once cherished by our children, saved our lives. With its eclectic collection of matching Fisher-price cars, Hot Wheels, and yellow speedsters acquired from boxes of Cheerios, the parking garage was good for up to half an hour of semi-peace.

Years later, five of our seven grandchildren rarely dive off playland curly slides. Their grandfather and I no longer split one Happy Meal between kids.

Now teens, they mostly concentrate on thumb-tapping activities. They do take part in various sports, but Grandpa and Grandma serve as spectators. Fine with us. Hubby keeps in shape by frequent walks to teach class, but climbing bleachers or hauling camp chairs from the parking lot provides me sufficient exercise for a week.

That watch-the-game role changes, though, when our youngest grandsons come to call.

Does a rainy morning slow down these little dynamos who emote enough energy to power New York City? Only in our dreams.

“Grandma, let’s play soccer! You’re the goalie.” The youngest already has deduced that he can beat Grandma at anything but cooking Thanksgiving turkeys.

Hubby is virtuously occupied with doing dishes, so my fate is sealed.

Still, could anyone turn down those twinkly, shoe button eyes? That eager little face?

Years ago, Grandma could not refuse, and she cannot do it now.

We adjourn to our lengthy hallway, long designated the play area because we have no basement.

I am instructed to “stand there.” Has an invisible target been etched on my nose?

Don’t be a wimp, I admonish myself. I have watched this kid miss a ball on a tee 31 times in a row. How dangerous can this be?

The little dude kicks five balls that either die halfway or sail beyond my reach.

See, my inner voice chides. All that drama for nothing.

Then, the “soft” ball I bought for him wallops me in the midsection. It rearranges my love handles. Not to mention a few internal organs.

“My turn!” yells the nine-year-old.

When he bats, he does not miss 31 times. I mentally give myself last rites.

Actually, Big Brother’s kicking accuracy improves Grandma’s chances for survival. Unless you count heart attacks.

Fortunately, the boys’ father, though fresh from a shower, says he wants to play goalie. We alternate until I draft Grandpa, who has been trying to remain in cognito. But low, ornery chuckles from the kitchen betrayed him.

Before long, his love handles and internal organs also have been rearranged. Not to mention, his nose.

Taking pity, I suggest the boys play with the Fisher-price parking garage.

They stare at me as if I have implied they need a diaper change.

After two decades, no one wants to play with the parking garage?

Our daughter-in-law rescues us this time, corralling her children to dress, brush teeth and gather belongings before they leave.

Hubby and I are filled with mingled grief and relief. So, I imagine, is the dusty parking garage. As our oldest grandchild soon enters her 20s (!), we visualize future great-grandchildren succumbing to its charms. Eventually, we may play more hallway soccer.

Canes will add a whole new approach to gametime.

We watch the boys carry loads to their car. Did our playtime even begin to drain their energy?

Not a chance.

After goodbye hugs, they bounce into the backseat and engage in the Wrestling Championship of the World before taking off.

Neither Big nor Little Brother needs a nap.

But Grandma and Grandpa do.