Grandparenting’s extra hard through isolation
All around the country, fit, able-bodied 55to 70-year-olds (or boomers), are isolating away from their grandchildren at the very time their children need them most. The tables have not only turned, they’ve been thrown out the window, as daycares, schools, and universities close, and families stay huddled together, leaving many grandparents on the outer.
Our children’s lives have reverted to the existence we once lived, when we had children at home all day, playing (or fighting) in the yard.
Like many of my peers, I’ve been put out to pasture just when I’d finally mastered the car-seat clips and the collection points for each child. I know I’m not alone and a generation of drivers, pram walkers, babysitters, bakers, and part-time parents have been removed from the equation.
In our house, as in nearly every house around the world, we’re keeping connected online, and it’s timely here to give a shout-out to all the grandparents who’ve been doing this for years.
My husband is trying to teach our 6-year-old grandson to read an ancient analogue timepiece.
He sits at the table with his laptop open on Messenger and the old wall clock propped up, so Master Six can see the hands as my husband moves them around.
It’s quite a tricky concept to understand that No 1 on the clockface is five-past and the three is quarter-past. It’s a fairly unnecessary skill and getting Master Six to sit through the lesson is more work for his exhausted parents.
I’ve been singing to the babies who can’t move yet, so they’re effectively trapped, and I’ve read Brown Bear so many times it’s now stuck on repeat in my brain as I try to sleep at night.
But yesterday, during storytime, my ineffectualness reached a new level.
My daughter-in-law settled the 2-year-old on the couch for another virtual reading with me. She took her moment of peace to bring the washing in.
It was a cosy moment as Master Two’s face beamed through the screen and he said, ‘‘go’’.
I began. Quite soon though, I realised he was distracted by something interesting on the window ledge. No amount of expressive reading or suggestions to sit down could bring him back to the story, and I watched nervously, helplessly, as he climbed up to grab his older brother’s sunglasses. My reading petered out, then stopped. Master Two balanced the glasses upside down on his nose and laughed with delight. Master Four turned to check things out and, of course, he had to charge in to retrieve his goods. They got stuck in.
Sibling wars flare up like bushfires and, as I’m one of the eldest in our lineup, I also know how vulnerable the little ones are. And how tough.
Master Two didn’t fold as his fingers were bent at 90-degree angles. He only whimpered when his head got shoved into the corner of the chair and I could see it was a matter of principle that he wouldn’t relinquish the glasses. Master Four had no choice but to move on to that most primitive form of sibling torture, the nail dig.
My protests were futile as I saw his nails sink into the pudgy flesh of his little brother’s arm and as they wrestled, and the little one cried, I was kicked off the couch.
I landed with a thud on the floor and all I could see was the roof. My calls for order, for mercy, for peace-time talks were drowned out and it was with relief that I saw the basket of clean washing pass over my view.
Peace was quickly restored and we were all picked up and plonked back in our positions.
I looked at my poor, snivelling, little grandson as he inspected the half-moon cuts on his arm. I couldn’t hug him. Nor could I help fold the washing, or make my daughter-in-law a coffee.
I felt useless. In fact, I felt like one more chore for her. I know she’d deny it, but I’m sure I saw relief wash over her face when she was finally able to press END on me.
Mary-anne Scott has raised four boys and written three novels for young adults, all of which have been shortlisted for the NZ Book Awards for children and young adults. As one of nine siblings, there aren’t many parenting problems she hasn’t talked over.