Is It Just Me? — The Bridge
This March, we are taking a break from our regular life. My kids will leave school and I will forgo this column I write for a couple of weeks. My daytime job, that of mother/diplomat/caretaker/insane asylum out-patient, will travel with me down to sunny warm Siesta Key, Florida.
Last February, my husband took the reins for a few days so I could visit my parents in Florida by myself. It was incredibly lovely because I gladly reverted to childhood and allowed my mom and dad to look after me. They fed me, took me shopping and my dad even rescued me one morning when I’d gone running and encountered one of those torrential rainstorms for which the Sunshine state is famous.
Soon, for the first time, my two sons, Charlie, 13, and Harrison, 7, and I will be spending a week living under the same roof as my parents. In the past, my husband, sons and I have always stayed in the same complex as my mom and dad, but in a separate unit. Usually, we spend a lot of time together by the pool or at the beach, barbecuing and going out for dinner in the evenings. There have always been, however, hours in the day when we’ve gone our separate ways. My parents like to play gin rummy and nosh on their porch. My kids like to play their various electronic gadgets, fight over the TV clicker and also nosh. This holiday, all the animals will be on the same farm.
I’m worried. Not give-me-a-valium, call 911 worried, but concerned that my kids might drive my parents crazy and that my parents might drive me to nosh as well, a self-calming mechanism I use when life becomes tense.
Don’t misunderstand. My parents know my sons intimately. Charlie was their first grandchild, the one who could do no wrong. My parents spent hours simply holding him and watching him drool and sleep, mesmerized by his very existence. I think they finally realized he was an actual human being with faults when he was almost seven and his little brother came along. Charlie’s reaction to sharing the spotlight was, well, interesting. He is a kind and perceptive young man, but he often chooses to learn his lessons the hard way , along the road that sometimes leads to the principal’s office. My parents have noted his imperfections and filed them under “Who cares?” in their grandchild assessment files. For them, he will always be lovable.
Charlie calls his grandma, “my secret weapon” because she helps him out when he has parent problems. He looks up to my father, his papa, who is possibly the only person in the world from whom Charlie will take undressed criticism.
Harrison is my parents’ youngest grandchild and they are fully aware of how much effort and faith was put into my pregnancy. Harrison demanded to be born. He commands our attention. He was a hoped for but unexpected gift and his grandma and papa adore him.
But.
Sometimes, okay a lot of times, when my sons are together, I feel as if I’m standing mid-stage at an AC/DC concert with a monster truck rally as the opening act. They are loud. They are unbridled. They squabble like chickens over the last kernel of corn.
I know my boys love one another. They have a secret club. My husband and I don’t even know the password – it’s probably something like penis-breath or diarrhea- rain. When they wrestle, Charlie keeps one hand poised behind Harrison’s head ready to protect him from smashing it on the floor. Charlie isn’t even consciously aware of doing this. It is clear fraternal instinct. But, he also gets a thrill out of revving his brother up into intense crying and shouting extravaganzas. He does it quietly. I call him, “gar” which is a type of needlefish that lurks in the shadows until it quietly spears innocent fish swimming by.
Harrison is only seven, emulates his older brother, and is extremely susceptible to Charlie’s manipulations. When Harrison becomes excited or upset, his voice reminds me of what would happen if Elmo drank a gallon of Red Bull.
I am stressed about this trip because we will be living in close quarters. For my father, this is a working vacation and he will spend half of every day using his computer somewhere in our rented two bedroom condo. I am nervous that my children’s behavior will test even the unconditional, unwavering love of their grandparents. Frankly, I am worried that my alleged holiday will become a referee’s nightmare.
As mother and daughter, I am the bridge between these two generations, afraid my role will be more like that of a customs official, constantly checking the travelers for contraband in the form of moods or misbehavior.
The other day, I shared my concerns with Charlie. He regarded me as if I was missing a link. “Don’t worry, Mom. Harrison and I are so happy to be on this trip and live with Grandma and Papa. We’ll be fine.”
My father reiterated my eldest son’s optimism. “Sweetheart, if the boys get too loud, I will simply ask them to shut up”, he said, a smile in his voice.
I have been “catastrophizing” the future instead of looking forward to it like the other smarter members of my family. How fortunate that my kids and I get to be nurtured by parents and grandparents for a week. We will build on the riverbank of memories already created in our favourite vacation destination. And, my parents are fortunate that they get to spend an extended period of time with their grandsons, at ease with the intimacies performed in any close family.
Maybe, nobody needs me to be a bridge after all because everyone has already arrived. Maybe, all that is required is a pack of playing cards, some suntan lotion and a never-ending supply of iced tea and love.
Stay tuned . . .
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