Almost a Grandparent

My nearly five-year-old great-nephew answers the phone. “I miss you already,” I say. He replies, “I miss you too. I had a really good time at your house.”

Now he’s telling the truth. (He has always acquired phone manners that would put many adults to shame.) Over the weekend, Ben managed to convince his doting older cousin (my daughter), great aunt and great uncle to let him stay up until 9:30 p.m. so he could see fireflies. Coincidentally, it was also the Fourth of July, and he got to see fireworks from about fifteen locales, some as far as 20 miles away, from our house in the Berkshires. “See” is a relative term in this instance. We can view colorful pops above the horizon, but it’s not a “real” fireworks experience. However, this year the ones from Red Rock were actually close enough and visible enough through the trees that Ben sang “ooh and ah” for fifteen minutes as he ran from window to window. He kept on enumerating the colors, utterly amazed. The third rate show was spectacular. The fireflies finally came out! This was one of my favorite July Fourths ever!

Most of this is beside the point, though. I’m just bragging. Well, that is sort of the point. I think I talk about my great niece and nephew the way people talk about their grandchildren. This morning my trainer at the gym knew all about the picture Ben drew of the “purple house” where my daughter lived for her last two years of college—the significance being that this house was a five minute drive from his. He is sad that she is no longer so close by, we assume. Even better, the house that he drew had a smiling girl at every window—much the same way my daughter remembers her life at the end of college. She has posted the picture on her Facebook page.

So this is a good thing. I get the bragging rights. I even do some of the grandparent responsibility things, like drive up to the Boston area to babysit for a weekend. But I don’t have the “real” responsibilities of grandparenting. Translate: my niece does not get to complain if I don’t step up to the plate. It’s all gravy for her.

And for me. I love nearly everything those kids do. I get the hugs and the cuddling. When Ben says, “I miss you,” he means it, at least at that moment.

So the question: Do I get to judge my niece’s parenting? Do I get to make suggestions? Do I get to think she should be firmer, or less firm? Do I get to yell at her husband, “You f---ing let Harper stand on a desk chair with wheels?” as the child cries when she falls off.

Here’s my conclusion. What I think about what they do with their children is something I should keep mostly to myself. I think that clause is written into the “great aunt” by-laws. I think I’m only supposed to give love. If asked, I can suggest. But what matters is that my love remains unconditional. The bonus is that my niece and I never argue, as I assume I shall do with my own children once they marry and have kids. When I am an actual grandparent—and it’s not something I’m looking for right now—I’ll have more at stake. Then I’ll fight with them because I’ll be fighting for my grandchildren, the way I always fought for my own children. I’ll have ideas about the way things should be done. I’ll want my children to listen to me.

But right now, all I need is love.