Parenting Grown Children: What Dr. Spock Forgot to Tell Us

Visiting Privileges: Traveling abroad with a grown child and his family

Last February, I went to Berlin to visit Alpha daughter and her family who were living there for a year. Berlin was cold, gray and dreary, but the visit was a dazzlingly bright time. There was a special warmth in spending a week with my daughter and her family and feeling their "thank you" for making the trip to see them when they were so far from home.

Last week, I went to Amsterdam to spend time with Uber son and his family, who were visiting that city for five days. This was more complicated than a simple visit to a daughter living abroad. Uber son was there on business and the host company had agreed to bring his wife and three children along. My son would be free two of the four days. I volunteered to hook up with them in Amsterdam, in part to be a pair of helping hands on the two days my son had to work, but also to see the city [never been there], be energized by a mid-winter get-away and spend time with Uber son and family [they live in a U.S. city far from mine]. And, as in Berlin, Amsterdam was gray and winter-dreary in late January but I never felt the cold.  

On this trip, I was--for my Grands and daughter-in-law--the familiar face in a city where the language is different [we may have high school French or Spanish tucked into the recesses of our brains, but not Dutch], the food unfamiliar [though the Dutch penchant for pannekoeken--pancakes--was easy to adopt] and many of the amusements on an adult level [the infamous red light district, Dutch history musems, a 17th century synagogue]. But, when my son went off to his meetings, my daughter-in-law, my three Grands and I explored the zoo, its aquarium and butterfly room. The whole family went off to the Van Gogh Museum where we got audio guides and the older kids [8 and 10] loved hearing about the painter's life story and learning how his art went from the dark of the Potato Eaters to the brilliant golden hues of the Sunflower paintings. We took the canal boat tour and for dinner one night, everyone was game to try rijsttafel--I appointed myself Assistant Chief Taster to make sure the different Indonesian dishes my Grands put on their plates of rice weren't too spicy for them. And I babysat the one evening my son and daughter-in-law went to a business dinner. 

I loved seeing Amsterdam. Even in the winter, it is a walkable and easy to visit city. I got to do some things on my own and many things with my son's family. But most of all, there is a special warmth in being there for your grown child and his family--and to share in the wonder of their family life. You feel it, and so do they.

Grandparenting: We also serve who sit and wait--and watch an endless event.

Ah the joys of grandparenting: small children who love us without question, who will come and cuddle up with us to hear us read a story and who, as they get a little older, will program our iPhone and show us how to download Netflix. They're still interested in hearing about what life was like for their parents when they were little tykes or for us when we were toddlers or teens.

Such wonders come with a price. Friends whose grown child and three grandchildren live nearby are often called on to babysit--something they don't mind doing. They've been to soccer games and volleyball tournaments, clarinet recitals and dance performances. But sometimes the daytime, weekend duties are a little harder to take. To wit, an email from these very same friends that arrived this morning:

"We ended up at [my son's] most of yesterday, covering for him as he had a week-end 2-day exam.  We spent an endless afternoon at a so-called Pine Derby car racing competition for scouts, which my grandson participated in.  There ought to be medals for the attendees!"

Grandparenting: The moments they'll remember us by

When my daughter asked if I would come up and "babysit" her daughter--my Grand--for three days, she had her reasons. She had to travel for her job. Ordinarily, if she had to be away, she and my son-in-law would patch together a series of babysitters and play dates to cover the time away. But it was the first week of school. That can be traumatic any time, but even more so this year. Not only would my Grand be going back to school, she would be returning after a year in Berlin. I understood the request. I made it my business to get there.

It may sound like the easiest, most natural thing for a grandparent to do--grannie as nanny for three days--but it's not necessarily that simple. Work files have to be loaded on jump drives;  bags have to be packed and spouses/grandfathers persuaded (that wasn't too hard) to drive you to the airport.

It may sound like a lark--taking over the care and maintenance of a child in school--but it has its not-so-easy moments. It can be a long day from 2:00, when I pick her up from school, until 6:30, when her dad comes home. And then there's the pressure to get my own work done. 

So there we were, 4:00 on a rainy afternoon. She is banging out some songs on the piano and asking me if I think she's playing from sheet music or it's something she made up. I call out random answers while I have my laptop open and I edit a Q&A story on the mortgage interest deduction. She wanders over, pulls up a chair and asks me what I'm doing. I tell her I have to shorten a story I wrote--it has to lose about 200 words. She wants to help. We start with the introduction and I let her delete the phrases and sentences that can come out. As we move along, we come to a word, "sacrosanct" that I used to describe the deduction's place in the political pantheon. She doesn't know what it means. I tell her it is sort of like "holy." Well, she says, why didn't you say holy? I tell her some of the other subtle meanings sacrosanct has and why it seemed like just the right word to choose. We talk about it some more and then move on to another unusual word choice. She's interested in discussing why I called the deduction "the darling" of homeowning taxpayers. When I have to fact-check the year the mortgage interest deduction became law, she knows exactly how to go to Google, and we find the answer together: 1913.

Since this is a Q&A in which I have interviewed four experts, I have set it up so that each interview has a section of its own. The name and title of the person heads up each section. When we get to the first one, she wants to know if she can change the font for the name. Why not? She fiddles around and soon the name of the first interview--a housing economist--is maroon with a double underline. On we go, she deleting words as I tell her to, she redesigning the look of each name and title.

I can't say how long we worked on my story--an hour maybe--but it turned out to be the highlight of my visit. I was able to share with her a little bit of what I do--what writers and editors do--and she was able to show me how adept and creative she is at the computer. It was fun for both of us. But more than that, it made me realize that memories are made of this. Certainly, it was memorable for me--sitting side by side at the kitchen table, heads bent together, concentrating on what we were doing.

The three days may have had their tedious hours, but the reality is, you can't get to the heights of a memorable moment without trudging in the valley.

What did my editor think of the colorful copy I sent in the next day? He didn't say. But how often does he get copy with the name of the chief economist of Fannie Mae all dressed up in maroon Tahoma type with a double underline. For all I know, it may have been a memorable moment for him as well.

Crossing Boundaries: Tiptoeing thru a grownchild's house

This is a story Pat, who babysits her four grandchildren two days a week, tells me: She is careful--very careful--about housekeeping on the days she spends in her son's and daughter-in-law's house. If she sees dirty dishes in the sink, she'll clear them. If she sees a floor that's particularly dirty--and with four kids aged 5 through 12, floors are bound to get messy--she might clean it up. But not so that it's obvious. And she would never undertake a large, clean-up project, That is how she operates.

And yet, one day, her daughter-in-law came home from work, looked around her kitchen and asked her--in a tone that had an accusatory edge to it--whether she had rearranged her kitchen cupboards. Things had been moved around and re-stacked. But she had not had a hand in it, Pat informed her daughter-in-law. She knew nothing about it.

Turned out, her son had done it. He liked things arranged in an orderly way and upped and reordered the kitchen cupboard.

Phew. Not guilty. And yet: the first one to be blamed. No matter how carefully we tread, it is not easy to be a guest in a grown child's home.

The Anxiety Brigade: When does the parental worrying stop?

They may not live in our houses anymore. They may have families and responsibilities way outside our ken. But we're still their parents. And we're still their children's grandparents.We may not worry about them on a day-to-day, moment-to-moment basis, but there are still times when that old anxiety rises. Since we're usually called on to be the ones who serve by waiting and watching--we're not usually in a position to do anything about what's happening to them--our worry meter can start to run as soon as we smell trouble or a challenge of any kind.  A friend's email spells out the complexity of the worries that can storm up in our role as parents of grown up children:

"Last weekend [my son] Marty went to the emergency room in the a.m. with chest pains. Jaycee [his wife] called me  to come over and watch the kids [9 and 11 years old] as she would be in the ER with him all day while the doctors did loads of tests. I was taking the kids here and there to their activities and had such anxiety I was operating like a robot. Marty's chest pains turned out to be pleurisy--coming after a really bad chest cold which he is prone to get fairly often. The doctors were able to rule out all other possibilities and pleurisy is very treatable with, of all things, Advil. He is feeling much better now, and he and Jaycee and the kids are on their annual RV trip.

"What absolutely amazed me was how vulnerable I was. I carried the remains of that anxiety the rest of the weekend. Thank God for pills. [My husband] Dave was feeding me Elavil like I was an addict.  Apparently the mother-kid thing lasts forever.

"I forgot to mention, that [my granddaughter] Alice tried out to become part of a dance company at a local dance academy where they choose kids to be part of a troupe that enters competitions and does recitals. She loves jazz and ballet and is quite good.  So I took her to the tryout since Jaycee was at the ER room with Mike. She would find out the following Monday if she made it.  Bottom line is, she did get in. But let me tell you, the anxiety over whether she would or not was the same as when I thought poor Marty might be having a heart attack."

Grandparenting: "What I love about babysitting."

It's a given: we love our grandchildren. But some of us love babysitting for them more than others do. A college friend--someone I hadn't heard from since we lived in the same dormitory at school--called to see if I was coming to the class reunion. She had a long list of Simmons graduates she was calling to recruit to come to Boston in June. It was so nice to reconnect, and while we got reacquainted on the phone, she mentioned her four grandchildren and how much she loved babysitting for them at her son's house. She did it once a week despite running her own small business and living a busy life. "It's the highlight of my life," she said. "It's the best thing I do." She mentioned this highlight several times, so of course I had to ask her: what it is about babysitting that turns her on? What she told me was unexpected and touching:

"I hated being a mother, and I like the way I am with my grandchildren. I am all the things I was not as a mother. I am patient. I am kind. I don't yell."

Maybe that's what we love about being with our children's children: the chance to be a kinder, gentler us.

Visiting Privileges: The parental instinct rises

We hear the car pull up just as the 11:00 nightly news draws to a close. Uber son and his family have arrived: they've come home for a long weekend visit. Our voices are hushed as we hustle out to the car. The two-year-old is bundled from car seat to a big bed inside. The "big" kids (they are 7 and 9) are bleary eyed but ready for a snack and a look around. But they too are soon dispatched to bed as are parents and grandparents.

The morning sounds wake us earlier than we're used to: little feet running around the house; hushed yips of excitement as secret passages are revisited and closets explored. Cereal is poured into bowls. Bread is toasted. Attempts to play the piano are curtailed until "everyone" is awake. A house comes alive when there are grandchildren in it.

So does our weekend. Where we usually scramble around looking for something interesting to do and friends to see, Saturday and Sunday are now a mad jumble of museum visits, walks in the woods, football catches on the street--lucky us, we live on a dead end--and greetings by a neighbor's big, friendly dog. And endless trips to the supermarket. It is amazing how quickly we go through a gallon of milk, a loaf of bread, a carton of eggs. And amazing, too, how fast we--Paterfamilias and I--are absorbed into the rhythm of a young family's life: the upcoming piano recital, soccer game, play date, art class, school play. It is as though we lived in close proximity instead of in a city that's a 7-hour drive away, that we always knew in minute detail what was going on with our Grands, and that they were always an up-close and personal part of our day-to-day lives.

Then comes this reminder. It is late afternoon on Sunday. Uber son and his son are down in the street passing the football back and forth, running imaginary screens and plays. PF is too tired by now to join in. One Grand is playing the piano; another asking for a snack when our grandson bangs on the door with a frantic rap. He is yelling and crying: "Dad is hurt. Dad is hurt. Come quick." Out of the house flies my daughter-in-law. PF gets in the car and drives down the hill in case transportation is needed. I stay behind with two of the Grands to keep some semblance of calm and reassurance that all will be well. We can see from the window that their dad--my son--is sitting on a curb, hunched over in pain. Then we see him helped into PF's car and driven back up the hill to our house and helped inside. His face is devoid of color; he is shaken by pain. He needs to lie down. He wants his wife--not his mom, not his dad--to stay by his side. He thinks he may have broken his ankle.

I call an Urgent care clinic: they can see him if he's there within an hour, at which time they close for the day. Everyone wants to go with him. He wants his wife. His son, frantic that he somehow caused the accident, insists on going. It falls to PF and I to do the really hard part: Keep up the spirits and quell the fears of the two children left behind. We talk about where dad is going, why they can't go, too and then we find a box of Shrinky Dinks for the 7-year-old. She is taken up with that. We read a story to the two year old. And then we find a DVD of the Muppet Show. No one is watching exactly but it is a surprising comfort for all of us to hear the familiar chortle of Kermit the Frog and the high pitch of Miss Piggy's complaints.

The phone finally rings. It is Uber son. Sounding strong and less pained. We put him on the speaker phone. He tells us he'll be seen next at the clinic and is hopeful that the ankle is not broken. The pain is subsiding.  Fifteen minutes later the phone rings again: A voice with a very foreign accent asks, "Are you next of kin to....?" In the mini second it takes between the question and our son's laughing prank-voice, a quick-as-blink thought runs through my head: The voice is asking for parental permission for X-Rays to be taken.

How weird and without logic is that? And yet, it is a reminder to me of how deeply go those maternal roots and the role we played in our children's lives,even though those roles have been supplanted--and appropriately so--by others.

The Happiness Quotient: Does happiness theory hold insights for parents of grown children?

Does parenting grown children or grandparenting their offspring bring happiness? Certainly, we do it whether we get special joy out of it or not, but when I looked at some happiness studies--it is a hot research area--I found a lot of potential in there for a resounding, "Yes, it can."

The issue came to mind while I was reading a blog by James Kwak on Baseline Scenario. HIs discussion is about the effect of happiness on economic issues, but the happiness measures he talks about also apply to parents of grown children (and the grandparents). Here are some of the points that offer insightful into our particular human condition:

"...We know some things that make people happy: Short commutes. Predictability. Control over the environment (random noises are bad). Eating, but only until satiation. Sex, but only until satiation. Money—but only to a point; once your basic needs are met and you don’t face constant insecurity, more money no longer buys you more happiness. Participation in social groups. Marriage, usually. (Children, not so much.) Being appreciated by your boss. Generosity toward other people—even if the generosity is not observed by anyone. Work that is challenging but not overwhelmingly so. Physical contact with other people. And finding quarters in pay phones.** "

If I haven't already lost you, the point is that many of the factors that feed into happiness are part of the parenting/grandparenting condition. Being with our grown children and their families certainly brings participation in social groups. We have unending opportunity to be generous to others--small children are so winsome--and to have physical contact with them. And then there's work (i.e. babysitting grandchildren) that is challenging but not overwhelmingly so. As to being appreciated by the boss--well some grown children are better at saying Thank You than others--though spoken or not, there is an assumption of appreciation. Of course, some of the items in the list--control over environment, for one--mitigate the other way.

I can't speak to the quarters in the pay phone. We've all got cell phones now.

[The ** on pay phones refers to a study that found that if people find a quarter in a pay phone, afterward they will report they are happier than people who didn’t find the quarter. This effect persists and also affects people’s reported happiness about unrelated parts of their life, like their family life.]

Grandparenting: Dealing with a rude grandchild

It's true. Our grandchildren are adorable. But they can also be incredible, well, brats. A friend reports that her 7-year-old grandson was "fresh" to her--rude and disrespectful. And it was not a one-time occurence. She was reluctant to take disciplining the child into her own hands--she was a guest in her son's house--but she also felt she had to do something. "I wasn't going to take this behavior from him," she says.

So she talked directly to her son. She asked him what she should do about it if and when it happened again. Her son was direct and clear: He told her to tell her grandson that his behavior was not acceptable and that if it didn't stop, she was going to report it to his father--to give his father a "bad report" about him.

She tried it. It kind of worked. Even if it wasn't perfect, it beat trying to deal with the problem on her own--and risking a breach with her son and daughter-in-law over child rearing and disciplinary practices. Any interference in that realm smacks of criticism--even if it isn't meant that way.

Granny as Nanny: You're fired.

Her daughter-in-law was not as blunt as Donald Trump in Apprentice, but the effect was the same. Gail used to show up at her son's house every morning at 9. He would already be at work, but the two toddlers would be finishing up a morning snack and their mother, as soon as Gail arrived, would walk up to her office in the attic and work there for five hours.

Gail took care of the kids. When they were babies she fed and burped them and rocked them to sleep. As they grew into toddler-dom, she took them outside for games and walks and trips to the playground. Now they are 4 and 3 years old and she is out of a job.

Her daughter-in-law got a new contract that will require her to work longer hours. She is placing the children in an all-day pre-school. She found it disruptive to hear her children crying or being disciplined by the grannie-nannie.

And that, for Gail. is that. She is out of a job without so much as a two-week notice. She's sad about it. She misses the kids.  It's difficult to catch up with the family on weekends.

This is one of the perils of being nanny as a granny. You may be family but you are still "hired" at the will of the parents. And if their needs change, well, so does your job title.

Not that there are any bad feelings between Gail and her daughter-in-law. In fact, Gail hopes to be re-hired. A baby is due this winter.