THE SONIC BOOMER
We drove to Arkansas for Thanksgiving. Why? Because that’s where the grandchildren were going to be. Not all the grandchildren. We have perfectly wonderful grandchildren in Florida — three of them. But the Northern grandchildren seem to need us more. Or rather, maybe their parents do.
It all started when my daughter, then a teenager, was worried. She said, “Mom, I want to have children but not babies.”
“Adopt,” I said. “Adopt older children.”
“But I want to have my own children.”
I replied, “Have babies then, and don’t worry. I’ll watch them. I love babies.”
“Great!” she said.
(I knew right then I had spoken too soon, but she was a teenager. I mean, come on. She’ll forget, right?)
She moved to Detroit when she got a job with Ford. (“I love my job! I love being an engineer!”)
“That’s nice, honey.”
She moved to Kansas City when she got a job with Hallmark. (“I love my job! I love inventing products!”)
“I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, Mom, and oh, I’m ready to have babies, so come on up.”
Wait. What?
I hired a manager to run my store, sold my house, put all my worldly goods up for sale out on the driveway and moved. That was 12 years ago.
Last year, she took a job with Tyson, in Arkansas. (“Food inventions! I’ve never done that before!”)
(Deep breath.) “I cannot move to Arkansas. I simply cannot keep following you around the country.”
“That’s OK. Come for Thanksgiving. Oh, and mom? Could you bring the turkey? The stuffing? A vegetable or two? And the pies?”
She paused and added, “Is there anything you want me to get?”
(Immediate response.) “Wine. Lots and lots of wine.”
The grandkids are 12 and 10 now. (Oh, yes, she threw in another kid while we were tied up watching the first one.) They don’t need us as much, and soon (like, overnight), we’ll be old as barnacles. Once those kids learn to drive, that’ll be it. We’ll be millstones around their necks.
The 12-year-old, excited: “Grandma! Did you know that in Arkansas you can drive when you’re 15? I’m going to drive when I’m 15!”
“But isn’t that only in the case of hardships? Like if a caregiver can no longer function or something?”
He frowns, thinks about this, then brightens. “I can drive you!”
“I am functioning, in case you didn’t notice!”
“I mean when I’m 15!”
“Three years from now? Thanks a lot for that vote of confidence!”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” he said, slowly realizing he may have hurt my feelings. He comes over and gives me a hug — but there’s none of that baby-adoration in his eyes, only a modicum of hard-earned respect. We both know, deep down in our hearts, that he would be perfectly fine jumping in as my driver if I became severely incapacitated, preferably by 2027.
It’s the end of an era.
