Waiting

Nationally syndicated columnist . . . Mother, daughter, sister, friend, wife . . . and Nana!

“Waiting on Nana Call,” column for Jan. 13, 2015

January 13, 2015 by Sharon Randall · 13 Comments

1

Nana duty is not for sissies. It requires you to do things you once did as a mother: Feeding, tending and cleaning up after little people who seem to think they own your soul simply because, for some reason, you love them more than life.

But here’s the big difference. As a mother, you were young. As a nana, you are not.

You can tell yourself you’re still young at heart, but you cannot fool your body. 

Had I known as a mother what it takes to be a nana, I’d have taken better care of my knees.

That said, I will tell you this: Being on nana duty is not nearly as tough as being on nana call.

That’s where I am now, and have been for days, waiting for a call that will launch me into action. I hate waiting. Every inch of me, even my knees, would rather act than wait.

My son and his wife are expecting their third child, who is scheduled to be delivered by cesarean section soon. Even sooner, if my daughter-in-law goes into labor. They live in California. I live in Nevada, 500 long miles away. My job, when summoned, will be to get there as fast as I possibly can to help out with their boys, who are 4 and 2.

Fortunately for them, and for me, they have my daughter-in-law’s family living close by and a wealth of friends who’ve offered to help in all sorts of ways.

That doesn’t mean I’m off the nana hook. I took the bait the day my first grandbabe arrived, and with each new arrival, the hook sank a little deeper.

Once you fall head over heels, hook, line and sinker, you’re done. There is no turning back. I fell long before I was a nana. The day I became a mother, I became a nana in waiting. It’s a package deal, like a credit card that charges no interest for a while, and then one day, look out, it’s time to start paying up.

I could go to California today and wait with them there. But I don’t want them to get sick of me. They’ll need me more after the baby comes, not so much before.

A big rule of nanahood is never outstay your welcome. Remember Kenny Rogers’ old song, “The Gambler,” about knowing when to hold ’em or fold ’em? Being a nana is like that. You’ve got to know when to hold the baby; when to fold the laundry; and when to pack up your nana stuff and go home.

When my babies were born, I had no family nearby. But we had a lot of great friends from church and from the high school where my husband taught. They babysat for my older children; ran errands to get diapers; did laundry and dishes and other chores. One guy even showed up to cut our grass.

Best of all, for a week or so after I came home from the hospital, they took turns bringing us dinner. Usually it was a casserole, something simple, but it always tasted like the best meal I’d ever had.

After my third and last child was born, I was tempted to have a fourth just for the free meals. And yet, those helping hands kept showing up, not just when I had a baby, but whenever we needed them, especially in the years my husband was battling cancer and at times after he died.

We were blessed to belong to a large and caring community. All too often, families live far apart and good friends can be hard to find.

But community begins with just one willing hand reaching out to help another. It’s not hard. Look around. Someone will need a casserole. Or just a helping hand.

I’ll keep waiting for that phone call. I want to be there for my son and his wife and their boys, to be part of their lives, welcome this new baby and help in any way I can. That’s what nanas do.

But I’m not worried. With or without me, they’ll be fine. Lots of people love them and….

Wait. Was that my phone?

http://sharonrandall.com/2015/01/waiting-nana-call-column-jan-13-2015/

Fidgety

Fidgety.

That is what I am.  My daughter's first baby is due in three weeks.  For some time now, I have felt sympathetic everything with her.  I won't go into the details, but if you have been pregnant, well you know.

There isn't a symptom that has escaped me.  Could it be that this is typical of mother and daughter?  That no one dare discuss it lest SOME think it self-absorbed?  I sure do not know the answer to that question.  I just know what I felt.

Dependent upon when my daughter delivers the mode of transportation I will utilize will revolve around that.  Part of me wants to just get closer to her.  Now.  The other part says I have plenty of time.  Should she deliver sooner than I plan to leave, I will fly.  Otherwise, the choice is to drive.  It is a long trip and I am more than ready for it.

Soon.  Very.

2016

This morning began like every other morning.  Gail got up, made coffee and climbed back in bed.  After all, there was no reason to get up any more.  Everyone was gone.


Still in bed she thought about the laundry.  Piles and piles of it.  Being sick the past week did not help.  She was more behind that she ever allowed herself to be.  The kids were grown now.  Out and off with families of their own.  Children.  Her once hectic, scheduled life had come to a halt.  It did not happen overnight.  It happened in the days and hours of growing children up.

Work kept her busy at the hospital.  As the Director, she had one crisis after another from the time she walked into her office.  Often long before anyone else arrived.  Sometimes there would be physicians and nurses, housekeeping staff waiting in line.  They knew her schedule.

Gail loved being a part of serving others.  She did it well and without complaints.  That is not to say there were no headaches; there were plenty of them.  Physicians who said their cell phones were not working only to find out their battery had died.  Nurses who complained about other nurses not enclosing sharps.  Patients who complained about the physicians and nurses.  But all of that was gone now.  Left to capable hands because of choosing to retire very early.  At forty-seven.  There was more to life that earning a paycheck and Gail was about to figure it out.  She always felt life was an adventure.  Now she would be part of another series of adventures.  Retirement.  Her terms.  Finally.

She had given herself time to make some well needed changes in her life.  Complete her marriage, build a new home, create a healthy support system.  Visit her children.  And she did all of that.
We traveled extensively - the Caribbean, central Europe, Alaska, every United State but two.  The island of Newfoundland and all of contiguous Canada.

And then things got quiet.  Gail got quiet.  She promised herself an easy end of year.  She didn't count on being sick again.  Two viruses in a month. She knew she was run down.  But the sun always comes up.  Today it was more glorious than it had been in weeks.  The monsoon was gone, tulips and hyacinths were popping up.  Gail hired a full service lawn and garden company to manage her property.  She was releasing a lot of responsibility.  2016 would be easier, more abundant, more fun.

She would spend winters in a warm climate, summers in a cold one.  Back and forth she would go - whereever her heart would take her.

Service Dog?

It is interesting how far people will go to ensure their beloved dogs are with them.  Always.  We see them in the grocery store, Lowe's and often hotels.  In the latter, they are allowed in non-dog friendly hotels if they fall under the category of "service dog."

A recent stay in a Hampton Inn,  my favorite hotel among the chains, I had such an encounter.  It was a warm Christmas night as I checked in.  After pouring coffee to help the lousy virus I apparently brought with me to New Hampshire, I turned around.  What first struck me was the pitter pattern on the ceramic floor.

A small twenty-five pound dog was tethered to its human.  The owner was well into her eighties, wearing heavy make-up and a Christmas shirt.  I believe the dog was a bulldog.  They are not my favorite dogs but still.  The dog appeared to be in it late teens,  huffing and puffing, barely able to stand, and it wasn't because of the slippery ceramic tile on the foyer floor.  The dog was struggling just to breathe.

"I'd like to check in, " the woman said to the attendant at the front desk.

"It's just me and my service dog."

I could barely contain myself.

A service dog?

No way was this dog providing any kind of 'service' other than to keep his owner warm and happy.

"So this is a service dog?" I inquired as the woman and her pet made their way toward the elevator.

The front desk attendant chuckled.

"Yes, she says it is."

"There is nothing we can do about it.  Happens all the time.  They say 'service dog' and we are bound by Federal law.

The dog had no identifying 'service dog' coat or leash as seen by most 'service dogs.'

'Service dog'? Hardly.  But a very comfortable good night with its human.