Happy Birthday, B3x

Bex will be (or is already, depending on how long this takes to see the light) 17 and I find it distressing that spending time with me/us has become more a duty than a source of pleasure or enjoyment. A far cry from the 3-year old who introduced me at the pool as, “And this is my best friend, Grandpa.” Or the kid who took my hand as we explored together.

This, despite my obvious charm, wit, love, support, intelligence, all those qualities I’ve tried to mindfully manifest to become the grandpa I (think I) always wanted, not just for myself but for my own daughter. We don’t have a legacy of superior grandfather models in this family (not bad, mind you, just nothing particularly close or enviable).

 

And I channel the Martina McBride song, “At 17 she’s just like me so I don’t blame her.” I didn’t want to be around adults either at that age, and the lack of proximity (living in Belgium) made that an easier task. Also, not really “just like me.” Kids today have much more freedom of self-expression (a good thing, IMO) than we did 60 years ago, plus I was not even within shouting distance of Bex’s expression and sense of self (of which I now realize I had none). #clueless

 

It does help (some) that I know it’s nothing personal. Anecdote: “She was so mad she actually came out of her room!” The cause of that “mad” actually offers me hope because while we rarely converse, Bex, Nicci & I do the daily WORDLE and share our results via text every day we play (which, of course, is every day for me). In addition to that interaction, as limited as it is, I do get the occasional ❤️ reaction to a text I randomly send on topics (I actively curate my offerings) I hope Bex might find interesting, humorous, or entertaining. I even got one today for my “Happy Birthday Eve” text greeting. (Sent in the WORDLE group thread, to be sure she’d see it.)

 

So I’ve become the texting Grandpa and while that is not the fantasy relationship I envisioned and hoped for, it’s (going to have to be) enough for now, while they find their way and their own path to authenticity — another journey where Bex has a huge head start over me. 

 

Even though it may be years (if ever) before you see this, Happy 17th birthday, Bex. Know you are, have been, and will always be loved beyond measure, that I am astounded and proud of the person you’re becoming, that we will always be there for you. May that love, along with your parents’, be the safety net you (we all) need as you traverse the uncharted road ahead that is life.

Best Thanksgiving Ever

Yes, this is late and it’s now closer to Christmas than my favorite holiday, but I may have had my best Thanksgiving, if not ever, at least in a long while. 

What made this one special was a long conversation with my granddaughter, Bex (aka Rebecca, Becca). She’s 12. Not that we used to have long, philosophical talks or anything, but since her Dad now works from home (good for him, the family, just all around good) our (joyful) grandparenting duties have diminished. And she’s 12. She is, as is normal and healthy, establishing her independence and autonomy and doesn’t need us like she used to. That, too, is good, good for her, good for her family, just all around good.

Well, maybe not as good for me because I’ve missed her, I’ve missed the closeness of the relationship we developed in her earlier years. True anecdote: One day, when she was 3 or 4 and we were down in Florida on our annual vacation, I was in the pool with her (tough duty). Another child her age came down the steps and I heard, “Hi, I’m Becca, and this is my best friend, Grandpa.” Best.Day.Ever.

Understand, I am not complaining. She’s growing up like she’s supposed to. She’s a smart, funny, talented, creative, kind young woman, as self-aware and self-confident as you have any right to expect from any 12 year old. I know I can be proud and sort of sad at the same time and it’s all okay. But I’ve missed her.

Our Thanksgiving table was less crowded this year, a smaller group, and I wandered back to my office where she had retreated for some alone time. Alone time is important for almost everyone, but especially in our family. Anyway, I sat down and we talked for at least a half hour. That’s a long time. Did I mention she’s 12? 

I asked her about her Diabetes (T1D). Is it a big deal to her? Apparently not. Her 3-year “Diaversary” is coming up; does she think about it? Not really. It would seem I’ve made more of a deal about the disease than she does. My small acts to raise awareness are seemingly more important to me than her. She doesn’t need me to get a T1D “Hope” Tattoo. Not that she minds, but I need to recognize that occasionally painting my fingernails in T1D’s blue & grey isn’t really about her, at least not her personally. 
For her the disease is just a fact of life, an undesirable one, to be sure, but just one part of her day-to-day existence that she has accepted and incorporated. She doesn’t need a reminder or to have her awareness raised; it’s just her life. I still bought her a t-shirt anyway.

Middle School pretty much sucks, pretty much for everyone. No sane adult would ever repeat adolescence. And hers sucks way less than most; she’s protected and most of her classmates have been together for getting close to 10 years now. I have never seen a group of kids who “play together” better than this crew. They are seldom if ever intentionally mean to anyone and are almost always at least kind and considerate to each other.

Still, as we talked, a few tears were shed. (I’ve always seemed to have the ability to generate tears from adolescent females. It’s a gift.) Unintentional hurts still hurt, even when you know the hurt was unintentional. Even with a group of peers that you know like and respect you, there can be a feeling of loneliness. That’s normal, that’s okay, but it’s still adolescence and it still sucks.

I even started to walk away once when I felt I’d spent as much time as she wanted, but, instead, she re-jumped the conversation and I got bonus time, like reaching a certain score on a video game. (Okay, Boomer, I admit I was going to say, “pinball game.”) I tried to listen more than I talked (not always a great strength for me), but promised her that if she ever needed to talk without me making noise in response, I could do that. She laughed. Still, I shared that I had my own Rules o’ Life on my blog and mentioned one or two to her.

When I got a text the next day asking for the link, while it didn’t match the pool story, it did warm my soul. It will not be easy for me, but I will resist the urge to follow up unless she broaches the subject. Just asking is enough. Just asking Grandma to take her shopping after school is enough. 

I told her she had made this The.Best.Thanksgiving.Ever. She’s 12. We hugged, long and hard, and my heart was full.