I have noted that as I attend meetings at the Benicia Friendship Group, my knitting group and my book group, among other groups, that I get to feeling left out. I am left out of the conversation titled, “I have the best relationship with my grandchildren.”
I am forlorn, upset and in pain, at the very least, disgruntled. I have three grandsons, ages 21, 18, and 16. I was present at each of their births, and they all live within driving distance. Not only was I present at their births, I was there at significant times in their lives.
Do you remember, Benjamin, when you got your finger sliced in the car window when the driver inadvertently closed it with your index finger leaning on the rim? It was I who took you to the emergency room while your mother was freaking out at home at the sight of the tip of your displaced finger?
Do the three of you remember the funny stories we shared about our trip to Washington, D.C. when grandma, me, was driving and instead of heading south on the New Jersey turnpike I ended us up in Ohio? Oh how we laughed about that for years.
Then there was the time we were returning from seeing “Peter Pan” in San Francisco, and Ben threw up in the car. I refused to open the windows because it would cause such a horrible noise-like an airplane taking off. How you all loved to tell everyone how mean a grandma I was. Oh did we laugh about the mean grandma.
Now, I am the person kicked to the side of the road. Not that you are ever rude to me or that you occasionally whisper “I love you” when I say “I love you.” Not that you don’t allow me to kiss you on the head or give you a hug while you roll your eyes. It isn’t that I don’t think you think badly of your old grandma, but you do see me as old and irrelevant, even though I spent many years with youth and consider myself to understand the teens/young adults of today.
The truth is that I am no longer a real part of your lives. When I called you, Cole, at your college, I would have liked to know how you are doing. Really, I would like to discuss your courses, teachers, new girlfriend, etc. When I ask you Ben about Molly, you admit you like her. End of story. When I invite you to visit in Benicia, Max, you assent and then never show up.
I am a disgruntled grandma.
I think my fabulous grandma who called me Elsawishes and believed in me even when my mother was angry at my bratty behavior was disgruntled when I hardly visited with her anymore. I loved her very much. But when she was hospitalized, I had tickets to the ice capades at 17 and didn’t make it there in time.
Are there any other grandmas who are disgruntled? We need to stand up and be counted because this is often the natural order of things. What is important to me is that they can still whisper those magic words, “I love you, grandma.” Then I tell myself I am so grateful that they share their personal lives with the people who deserve it – their parents. But there are still the times when I can admit I am disgruntled.  I decided yesterday to take my disgruntled state and do something proactive. Cole is home from college for winter break. I texted him to tell him I was so proud of him and the man he was becoming. He wrote back and said, “Thanks grandma means a lot.” I am sure I will continue to want more than I get and remain somewhat disgruntled. But not today.

Ellen Blaufarb is a marriage family therapist

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