Naturally, everyone is focused on the graduates. There will be ceremonies, speeches, photographs, hugs, and enough cake to feed a small country — assuming, of course, you made the guest list.
(A topic for another essay: graduation tickets are apparently rationed like milk during the war. Three tickets, five tickets, never quite enough to go around. And somehow it’s always the grandparents who quietly volunteer to sit this one out. Which is fair, really. We had our turn. We sat through our own children’s graduations, performances, and several questionable haircuts in between. Let the siblings have the seats. Let them be the ones who get to stare at their brother or sister crossing that stage and think, that’s going to be me someday. We’ll be home, holding down the fort and the apple chips, perfectly content.)
I’M GRADUATING TOO
But I feel like I’m graduating too.
The high schoolers are deep in conversations about careers, national service, learning — all very serious, very adult, very forward-looking. They are gazing into the future.
I, meanwhile, am gazing into the past. Not sadly. Just with a sort of stunned “wait, when did this happen?” squint.
Apparently, I am no longer the center of the social universe. I would like to formally note that I was not consulted about this decision. I assume there was a meeting.
The elementary school graduates are not much better. They’ve entered that mysterious in-between age - practicing for high school the way understudies practice for a part they haven’t been cast in yet.
Suddenly they are very busy. Very cool. Very above it all.
Rummikub with Savta now loses to hanging out with friends. A kiss in public has become a diplomatic incident requiring advance written notice. And being “shmooshed” - once a privilege, like a royal title - has been quietly revoked, no explanation given.
The children are graduating from childhood. And I am graduating from being the grandmother of little children.
BECOMING SOMEONE NEW
At first this made me sad. Then I realized something: every stage of grandparenting requires us to become somebody new. (Nobody warns you about this. There should be a pamphlet.)
First we are grandparents of babies. Then of toddlers. Then come the playgrounds, the storybooks, the sleepovers, the game nights, and the truly heroic quantities of nosh.
And then, before we’re quite ready, the job changes.
Perhaps it means fewer board games and more coffee dates. Fewer bedtime stories and more real conversations. Fewer hugs in public, more texts that simply say, “Hi.”
(In their language, that’s a big deal. It means they paused, mid-conversation, while sitting on the steps with friends laughing at who knows what, to think of me for one second. That one second means more than they could possibly know.)
Well, I’m still figuring it out. But then again, so are they. Which is a comforting thought.
GROWING UP AT EVERY AGE
Maybe growing up isn’t something that only happens to children. Maybe grandparents have to keep growing too - finding new ways to love people who no longer fit in our laps, but who will always fit in our hearts.
I’ve simply been promoted to the next stage - a stage I didn’t apply for, but am apparently very qualified for, having already survived several stages with their parents.
Because really, what greater blessing is there than watching the children you love become exactly who they were always meant to be?
I may miss the little hands, the bedtime stories, the days when visiting Savta was a special occasion. But I would not trade the joy of watching them grow - not even for one more uninterrupted hour of “Ticket to Ride”, and not even for a graduation ticket.
So mazal tov, my dear graduates. You are beginning a new chapter. And it seems Savta is too. We’ll learn this one together.
No comments:
Post a Comment