Visiting The Past

 Cleaning up my blog I found that I wrote this 4 years ago and never published it.  Well, here it is:

There seem to be countless Twilight Zone episodes about people visiting the past.  Or at least that's how I remember it.  I've had that experience this week, but only sort of.  You know, visiting the past.

First the setting:  I am in Upper Arlington, a suburb of Columbus, Ohio.  Or near.  If you are from Ohio, don't be angry if I got that part wrong.  It's a beautiful community with tree lined streets, families biking, small shops, houses with awnings over the windows, and a decided lack of graffiti for the 21st century.

Second the circumstances:  One of my daughters had a baby.  She already has a busy, busy two year old and I left my life as an accountant behind to help her out.  Interesting phenomenon in itself.  I had six children and only had minimal help, and that was with only my first and then my last.  The four in between were handled on my own.  Oh, and I also had post-partum depression, crying for weeks on end, brought on in large part by the exhaustion of caring for all of those children alone.  Therefore, I think this helping out is a great phenomenon.  I'm happy, grateful even, to do it.

But I was surprised at the emotions that surfaced once I jumped into this pond from the past.  For example, today I took Thomas to the park.  He is an adorable little boy, a little miniature for his age, but not too much; just enough that people are surprised with how precocious he is, greeting strangers; for example thanking the postal worker for delivering the mail.  Thomas takes delight in life and, as such, he makes people smile wherever he goes.  At the park, I found an odd mix of young mothers and grandmothers.  Most of the other grandmothers had that weary primary care giver look; an older person with less energy having a physically demanding job thrust upon them, for whatever reason.

Then there was me.  This was a vacation from my real, much drearier life.  This is temporary and you always look at things differently when they are just temporary.  It was adventure for me, freeing, and lifting.

However, I wanted to say to those young mothers, "You don't know it, but what you are doing is just temporary, too."  I thought it was forever when I was doing it, but it's not.  You know, the diaper thing, the getting water thing, the being the center of one little person's universe.

Which brings me to the mixed emotion part.  It occurred to me that I am not the center of anyone's universe.  I was once.  I literally sustained six other human beings one at a time, not just giving them life but food for months after.  It's an exhilarating and exhausting task.

Now it's long done.  They are adults and other smaller planets now orbit around them.  It's odd and I feel somewhat displaced.  I'm welcome but not really, truly necessary.  I know that because I did without someone like me when I was a mom.

The words of a character from the movie Marty came to my mind.  One sister, a widow, has been living with her son and his wife.  His wife wants the new little family to have privacy, so she has maneuvered to have her mother-in-law move in with their aunt.  The conversation is between the two older women, one who has one son left at home, Marty.  Catherine says to her sister:

"So I'm an old garbage bag put in the street, huh?... These are the worst years, I tell you. It's going to happen to you. I'm afraid to look in a mirror. I'm afraid I'm gonna see an old lady with white hair, just like the old ladies in the park with little bundles and black shawls waiting for the coffin. I'm fifty-six years old. And what am I gonna do with myself? I've got strength in my hands. I want to clean. I want to cook. I want to make dinner for my children. Am I an old dog to lay near the fire till my eyes close? These are terrible years, Theresa, terrible years... It's gonna happen to you. It's gonna happen to you! What are you gonna do if Marty gets married? Huh? What are you gonna cook? Where's all the children playing in all the rooms? Where's the noise? It's a curse to be a widow, a curse! What are you gonna do if Marty gets married? What are you gonna do?"

Well, that's certainly a lot more downer than I felt, but the vein is a little similar. And it's a couple of generations ago.  The world is constantly changing.

Still, it's odd to come face to face with a life that has been left behind, and not abruptly; rather in bits and pieces like Autumn leaves falling from a tree.  No one notices when the last leaf has dropped.  I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye to that life.  Not really.

Not that it's completely maudlin.  These are new and improved days.  There is a place for people like me.  I'm sort of like frosting.  No one really needs frosting on a cake.  Sure, it makes it a little more fun, but it's not providing any sustenance.  No.  Come on.  You know it doesn't.

But what does this mean for me?  Here I am. What will it mean for my grandchildren?

The Upside:  And, yes, there is one.  I can feel joy in a different way that I did as a mother, maybe not as full but, perhaps with a different kind of depth.  Part of that is because I now know it doesn't last.  So you feel it and keep it close to your heart and rub your face in it while it's before you.  Today while playing on the playground; and yes, I play as I never could as a mother, I can look into a child's eyes and see the beauty, the light, the universe that I was too busy to see when it was my turn carrying the full responsibility.  I can feel the joy of knowing that a child knows that I love them, no strings attached.  Yes, I can love.

After putting these thoughts out there, there is much for which to be grateful.  Thankful to be welcome.  Thankful for health, a necessary trait for a grandma that can play.  Thankful for children who are raising such great kids.  And, really, ultimately thankful for Madison, Peter, Mckinlie, Thomas, Jonathan, Katelynn, Grant, and now Caroline.  Thankful to know them, love them, and be a little sweet frosting in their lives now and then.