Those of us whose kids have had kids agree: grandparenting is the bomb diggity.
It’s the world’s greatest alibi for doing things you thought you’d never do again– like swinging, sitting in a sandbox or riding on those little helicopters at the Great Frederick Fair.
It’s an excuse to buy fun little outfits and jazzy cool shoes you deemed too expensive or impractical for their parents all those years ago.
But most importantly? Grandparenting is this great, cosmic do-over where you get to wake up, like Scrooge on Christmas morning, and find that no, you haven’t missed it. It’s still Christmas, and it’s not to late to love every moment.
It makes me sad to say this, but I was so busy trying to build character, teach manners and instill values the first time I was left alone with kids (my own) that I often failed to fully enjoy them.
Today, I’m here to testify: it’s totally different the second time around. With my children’s children, it’s not my job to assure they turn into civilized human beings who are gainfully employed some day. It’s not up to me to make sure they clean their rooms. Or write thank you notes. Or know their times tables or their sight words. That’s all you, M & D. And you’re doing a fine job, I might add.
Me? My job is to hang out, play their favorite tunes just a little too loud and always count slowly enough for them find great hiding places when we play Hide & Seek. Stuff like that.
Grandparenting. You’ll know you’re doing it right when you hear one of your kids say “Who is that woman, and what have you done with MY mother?!”
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