Grandparents | Diary of an Adventurous Retiree

NABLOPOMO

Why are Boys so different to Girls? Don’t answer that – It’s not exactly a rhetorical question because I’m sure there are many answers that people could give me. And having studied psychology and done lots of research on male and female brains, I actually should know the answer. Nevertheless, when in emotional mode, I don’t try to work out the answers, I just despair! I absolutely adore my male grandchildren – they make me laugh, they make me feel loved and appreciated, they are attentive and helpful but boy – are they hard work!

Raising three girls – two of whom were step – was a breeze compared to helping our oldest daughter raise her two boys. They’re 14 months apart and have lived with us since they were 4 months and 18 months old. I won’t go into the reasons why they turned up on our doorstep almost 17 years ago but believe me Life hasn’t been the same since! Hubby and I had just reached the stage when we were thinking – Life begins when the kids leave home and the Dog dies. And we had one 19 year-old kid and an aging dog and we were counting the days! Smother that thought – Boom – Back came the oldest with two tinies in tow!

I clearly remember saying to dear Hubby – I’m happy to have them – But I’m not doing night duty! I work and I’ve been there and done that and got the wrinkles! Ha! Famous last words. How do you sleep when a stressed out young mother with two non-sleeping babies is simply not coping? Flip me – you get up and help! “I’ll deal with Baby – you sort out Firstborn.” And that’s how we coped. On the very first night Firstborn roared until 11 pm. Within a week we got bedtime to 7. The only one who could get Baby down for the night was Gramps and Yes – we let him! Anything for peace and desperately needed rest! It was a matter of whatever worked we will do! But – wow – when they were awake it was action – all – the – time. They didn’t stop! My girls were never like that!

As they grew they tested every rule, pushed every boundary and argued every point. My girls were never like that! My girls were sweet and compliant and very obedient. Or rather that’s how I remember it. Maybe there was a little passive resistance. And I do remember complaining about them not getting their act together and telling me at the very last minute that they needed this or that for school. Well yes – there were a few issues – BUT IT WAS NOTHING LIKE RAISING STRONG WILLED HIGHLY ACTIVE BOYS!

I only potty-trained one of the girls – the baby as the other two I acquired when they were 10 and 12 years old. And it was a cinch – On her second birthday I told my baby what needed to be done and within a week there were no more nappies – day or night. “Don’t start too early,” I told our eldest with great authority on the subject. “Wait until they have enough language to understand and physical development to have control.” Ha! First of all their language skills were nil till 3 and secondly they did not care! We started at two and a half and it took till four to get rid of the night nappies!

And the noise – and the action – and the devastation. We still had the girls’ toys – a wicker doll’s pram being a prized possession. It was still in pristine condition after being gently being pushed by sweet little girls. But when the boys discovered it – Oh Boy – Teddy was placed inside and taken for the ride of his life doing wheelies and skidding and out of control spins up and down the passage into the garden until he was unceremoniously spilled out at great speed! Okay – that’s fine when it’s teddy – but when Big Brother thinks it will be fun to put Baby into the pram I thought there’d be broken bones and stitches and but instead there were squeals of excitement and hysterical laughter.

But there were the disasters too – and we had our fair share of visits to the Emergency Room which NEVER happened with the girls!

Now that they’re in their teens it’s not quite as noisy but I still have to yell – “Take it outside when they chase each other down the passage and round the house. When they were little we had to physically pull them apart when they fought but they calmed down and we seldom have them actually attack each other. On one occasion though there was a fist fight with blood all over the place which I was fortunately not home to witness – Gramps handled it extremely well. Firstborn lost it with Second born – and punched him on the nose – Result – BLOOD – Grandpa said to the younger – “go and bleed outside” and to the older – “get a mop and clean this up!”

Then he spoke to them calmly and said – This is not the way to solve disputes – Doing this can lead to prosecution for assault – how would you feel then. (the younger had also tried to whack his brother with a hockey stick)

When I arrived home they were both very subdued. I asked each how he felt – the younger said – I hate my brother. The older said – I feel bad but please don’t lecture me – Grandpa’s already done that! I told them this can’t happen again. By the evening they were friends again.

I am relieved to report that they have never had another serious fight since. But I dread to think what might happen if they both fall in love with the same girl!

It has been an amazing privilege to be so involved with the raising of our grandsons. We have been away from them now for just a few months. They are in Grade 11 and 12 and studying for exams. They younger takes it a tad more seriously than the older who is seriously dyslexic and ADHD – but still – they need to be coaxed into doing the work! My girls would be in stress mode for exams – not so these two – “Stop fussing Gran – it’s so easy – I’ll ace these tests!” Oh really? Then why don’t I see you at the books, Boys! If you can pass with so little work – imagine what you can do with a bit of effort!

I guess that I should be grateful that we’re not going through what some families go through during exam time – nerves and tears and fussing and dramas – Not my boys – their confidence, I suppose is to be admired!

It is National Blog Post Month and I have decided to take the challenge. This means I have to do a blog post every day of the month of November. NABLOPOMO So join me or not as I waffle about whatever comes into my head each day this month.

Perhaps this is a sign of old age but I have found myself dreaming of the good old days and I mean the really old days of my distant childhood! It’s fortunately the good memories that have resurfaced and the love I feel for those who have gone before me have come flooding back.

There is a place I like to return to in my memory. A place that if I think about it played a huge part in shaping who I am today. My grandparents had a home on an acre plot in Ophir Road, Plumstead, Cape Town. It was called Quintella – I never thought to ask why it was called this but I always loved the name. Today I googled it and found that it a girls’ name meaning First Rose. This is what else I found about the name. “Quintella are lively, imaginative, enthusiastic and optimistic. Quintella are expressive and inspire others wherever they go. Quintella possess great verbal skills which make them good comedian, artist or writer.” And that is a perfect description of the home I remember so well! It was indeed a lively place with plenty of opportunity to use your imagination. There was plenty of optimism and enthusiasm and inspiration coming from both of our grandparents,our parents and our aunts and uncles. There was lots of talking, lots of laughing and lots and lots of creating.

The house was a simple one made in parts of brick, tin and clapboard. Well the internal walls were of clapboard and you could knock on them which when we were kids was so much fun.

A long unpaved driveway led all the way to the shed at the end of the property but there was a clearing under the pine trees near the gate where visitors parked their vehicles and then walked to the kitchen door which was where everyone entered. There was no front door as such. The door from the dining room led to the front garden. The property boasted the most beautiful and enormous pine trees – we called them Denneball trees as the Afrikaans word for pine is denne. The ‘denneballs’ would fall to the ground and the nuts from them scatter on the drive way. I grew up on those nuts; sitting on the back step smashing them open with a rock was the best way to enjoy them. We even fed them to the fox terrier, Atom who just gobbled them as eagerly as we did.

Now Atom – he brings back some good memories. There was Sparky his wire-haired mother too – She produced litter after litter of pups much to our delight as there is nothing like a warm puppy to love. But how sad we were when they were sent off to new homes at six weeks of age. Atom was a lively, smooth haired black and white bundle of energy. He romped with us and we never tired of throwing a ball for him while Sparky was gentler and quieter and guarded us with her life. When my baby brother was still in a pram she never left its side and growled at whatever stranger wanted to peep in at him.

The kitchen was large a the hub of the home. Granny presided and there was a big wooden table in the middle. Everything happened at that table – it was the work surface, the breakfast nook, the place where the horse meat was cut up into chunks for the pets who knew exactly what time to come and catch the pieces as they were thrown to the kitchen floor.

Granny was a proper granny. They broke the mould after she was born. She had white hair and wore glasses. She was plump and soft and warm and cuddly. She had a wide lap and loving arms. She never got cross and had endless patience and a million stories. Granny recited the most delightful poems and sang the sweetest songs. She smelt powdery and flowery and she was beautiful. We all adored her and wanted to spend every spare minute with her. We loved our grandpa too. He was bald and bony and jovial and fun. When he sneezed we all jumped out of our skin it was so loud. His hands were like sandpaper and he could scratch your back without using his nails! “These are working hands,” he boasted. “Not the hands of a nancy boy!” O how we loved those hands! Grandpa could do anything. He could make anything. He always had a plan. “I could have become an engineer,” he told us. “But I was poor and my mother couldn’t afford high school let alone university.” Because grandpa was a very clever man – an inventor – he always had bright ideas for doing something better. Gramps was never still – he was always hammering, fixing, making creating – gadgets for the home – (the toilet roll was a musical box) go carts for us to ride and kites for us to fly. He was a real hands of grandpa! When he was sitting still, it was at his workbench in the clock room – he would sit with magnifying monocle squeezed on one eye mending an endless number of watches and clocks. It was his hobby and a way of making extra cash. The clock room was where we as children slept when we stayed over. The walls were lined with a variety of different loudly ticking clocks, waiting to be returned to their owners and these cuckooed and chimed through the night as well. But these friendly, comforting noises did not disturb us at all. Nor did Grandpa’s own Grandfather’s clock in the dining room. How I loved watching him winding and setting it. It kept perfect time and I loved that old clock chiming the quarter hour and gonging out the hours.

There are many more memories which I think I’d better save for future posts. My grandparents set a very high grandparenting standard. And so did my parents – what hope have I with such an example to follow!

I have been a granny for 18 years now and I realise that I’m a 21st century model. They don’t make them like they used to!