The Part-Timer
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Antique store front clock, Winchester (Aug. '12)
I just finished a book called Eye of My Heart, and I am wondering what is wrong with me. This compilation of essays (edited by Barbara Graham) was written by middle-aged women about their respective roles as grandmothers -- and, by extension, with side trips into their experiences as granddaughters, daughters and mothers. It leaves my head spinning with conflicting emotions.
I am 69 years old, was a granddaughter, then a daughter, then the mother of a daughter and a son, and finally the grandmother of three boys and one girl. And yet, at none of these levels can I relate to those tales of relationships, first in childhood with nurturing grandmothers -- which meant nothing to me --, then of raising children in a traditional family -- which was not part of my experience --, and, finally, with close interaction with grandkids -- which is not a joy that was to be my lot in life. Once again, as I did growing up, I feel I don’t fit the mold.
I recognize the circumstances of these stories are not all of the leave-it-to-beaver variety, and also that several resemble my own very closely. But still, overall, I am left with an uncomfortable mixture of sadness, regret, frustration, envy, disappointment, and bitterness. So is there something wrong with me, or was it just how the chips fell, or of making lemonade with lemons?
I was born in France at the beginning of WWII. Three of my four grandparents died by the time I was 13. I hardly remember my father’s parents. All I can picture of them is my paternal grandmother’s petite and frail frame, with dry and cool hugs which were far from what my affectionate nature needed. I never liked my maternal grandmother, who had early on taken a particular dislike of me for reasons I could only surmise even 30 years into adulthood: because I was too much like her, and both strong-willed, perhaps? This dislike resulted in her mercilessly picking on me in verbal attacks which left everlasting emotional scars. I did, however, adore my maternal grandfather -- her husband --, who rejoiced in what I was and did, instead of bemoaning what I wasn’t and didn’t do.
My only experience with the benevolent and adoring grandmother role is limited to an old peasant woman my grandparents had as a cook, who knew of the bias against me and tried her best to compensate for it by shamelessly treating me as her favorite among my generation. I always knew she would listen to me, give me great hugs in her ample bosom, and let me lick the cake batter off the bowl and spoon. So much for by my banal exposure to grandmothers.
I left France when I was 21 to immigrate to the U.S. (MN), where I was happier than in my country of origin. The following year, I met and married an American, thus determining the course of my adult life to be spent in willful exile from my family, culture and language, starting with the first of many moves, this one to NJ. As my parents’ daughter, I saw the end of their presence in my life, and, just as important -- though I didn’t realize it then --, of mine in theirs. Fifty years ago, before e-mail and cheap phone rates -- even before FAX --, staying in touch long-distance meant relying on handwritten letters entrusted to what has become the USPS. My parents kindly never held my self-exile against me. It was a good many years down the line that I realized what it must have really meant to them: they had lost a daughter to a land so vast and so far that they could hardly conceive breaching the gap when needed or desired. Traveling back and forth was a costly venture, which my young family couldn’t afford and my father wasn’t willing to do (he was terrified of flying). My older sister lived in Paris, close to them, so at least they had one of us to keep them company. And so I became a part-time daughter.
I often wondered what it would be like to have a mother to call for a chat or a laugh or a boost, or with a question, or a problem, or an emergency, and what did she think I should do about this, and did she see that great movie we saw last night, and how much I loved -- or not -- the book she recommended, and what could I do for her, as is so common between mothers and daughters who are really part of each other’s lives. I also envied my friends whose mothers could come and help out in case of emergencies or illnesses, babysit so they could take a night off without going broke with a sitter. I soon learned that doing without all this was the fate of part-timers.
It was only after my father died 12 years later that my mother finally started visiting me once a year. Which presented another challenge, both for myself and my mother: she spoke only French, and my children and their father only spoke English. The incredible stress of having to say everything twice -- to be understood by all parties --, and to translate all answers from the one to the other, all this in the middle of running the household, working part-time and raising two children, caused me to resort to Valium for each of her visits. I later understood that my mother also suffered during her visits, since she so often felt left out, and was deprived of the joy of communicating with and learning to know her grandchildren directly. Now that I am a grandmother, I can fully appreciate how frustrating and disappointing it must have been for her. The language barrier in my household-- with me as the pivotal hinge to bridge the chasm splitting it in half -- certainly deprived my children of the experience of having a live grandmother around, to spoil them, listen to them seriously, play with them wholeheartedly, take them places, eat ice cream instead of lunch, and laugh, and giggle, and make believe, and bake cookies. They too became victims of my part-time status.
When my two children, both adopted as infants in different states, were 12 and 9 respectively, their father and I divorced. The chaos and strife that ensued compounded the emotional problems my daughter was already having when she’d hit the pre-teens, suffering from her birth mother’s rejection. She had a difficult and tormented adolescence, which resulted in uncontrollable behavior, various stays in group homes and foster homes, until she became old enough to be on her own. We were estranged for several very difficult years, through which we both endured pain, anger, frustration, rejection, loneliness, disappointment, and bitterness. And endless worry for me. When I moved out of NJ four years later (to end their father’s vicious manipulations to punish me for leaving him), neither child -- each in their teens -- chose to move with me. Since they couldn’t be “forced” by reason of their age, I became a part-time mother. My inner conflict was so profound, I had to develop strong foundations for the protective walls I had to build around my heart. I knew I had to save my skin, but without my babies. A horrible choice to have to make.
As a part-timer, I experienced months, years of sad thoughts popping in and out of my conscious mind, any time I’d see a mother/daughter pair, arm in arm, or laughing, or on a shopping spree, or hugging. I dreamt of what it would be like to be a full-time mother with a full-time daughter, and what we would do, and say to each other. The only side of it I ever got was the teenage anger, rebellion and arrogance.
My daughter proceeded to have her first child while in an abusive relationship with a married man for whom she happened to work. I disappointed her greatly by refusing to go to NJ for her son’s baptism, which the Italian father had arranged with his whole family (including his wife and children, plus all his relatives), as if it were a perfectly normal family event, notwithstanding the fact that my single daughter was his mistress. I was so outraged by this total disregard for decency and respect for both his wife and my daughter, that I found myself morally unable to be present. I felt my presence would condone his actions and make me yet one more silent witness to this parody of a beautiful happening. I was also afraid that if I came face to face with the man who was abusing my baby, the tigress in me would erupt and inflict grievous physical harm to him. My absence was as painful for me as it was for her, and I wonder if she will ever forgive me for not being at her side, not only for his birth, but for his baptism.
She later moved to Oregon where she had located her birth mother. The latter didn’t give my daughter the expected welcome and acceptance, and that caused much more pain to both of our already bruised hearts. My daughter went on to have three more children (one girl and two boys) from one other man, a married Mexican man with kids of his own. I wasn’t present at either of their births, though I did make one of many trips there, for the second one’s birth, her only girl. There again, I know I let her down badly when I chose to stay at her house with her son, instead of being at her side for the birth as she had asked. For one thing, never having given birth myself, I never thought of witnessing the mystery of birth second-hand. For another, I wanted to be the one to take care of my grandson while she was in the hospital. He had become the new love in my life, and I cherished every one of our rare moments together.
My four grandchildren are now 17, 13, almost 12, and 9, and they all still live in Oregon. By the time the first one was born, I had moved several times, started my life over again twice, and finally remarried in Minnesota 20 years ago. Each time she announced she was pregnant, I was racked by a turmoil of anger, outrage, worry for her and her future (she wasn’t working but trying to go to school). I constantly feared for the stability of my freshly built “new life” which might be thrown into yet another emotional spin by each additional upheaval in her own life.
I met my oldest grandson at the Minneapolis airport, at age nine months, where they were connecting on their way from New Jersey to Oregon. It was an earth-shattering experience for me. I hadn’t seen my daughter in several years, and here she comes out in the terminal with this blond and blue-eyed bundle who instantly touched me to the core. This is the only time when I allowed myself to completely disintegrate under the power of a grandchild’s vulnerability and openness. Beyond that, years of pain and frustration mixed with self-defense, mitigated the impact of each new grandchild so I wouldn’t be too hurt by their absence. Despite that, my love for each one of them grew as we started bonding, little by little, with each -- rare -- trip to Oregon.
I made several trips there over the years, in between the various events and moves of my life with my new husband. These short trips were a blessing as well as a source of deep frustration. I saw them about twice a year, sometimes only once, disheartened to see her living conditions, and totally overwhelmed by having to give and receive love from four children at the same time over a three or four-day period. I, who craves one-on-one contact with the people I love, and shuns social gatherings of the cocktail party variety where you have to shine at small talk and “circulate”, felt overwhelmed by four children (plus her living boyfriend’s three) hanging on me, desperately eager to have me hold them, love them, talk to them, give them attention, listen to each one, all at the same time. It drained me emotionally, and, I am sure, equally disappointed my daughter and grandchildren, who must have been frustrated with this part-time grandmother.
As for my son, a life of drug and alcohol abuse since his early teens have kept him estranged from me, his father and his sister for the last 10 years. He also located his birth mother and her siblings, also in NJ, at which time he chose to stay out of all our lives. I haven’t seen him in 11 years, with only two hurtful and abusive phone calls from him during that time.
I want to believe that making my choices, based on the best I could at the time, doesn’t make me a failure as a grandmother, or mother, or daughter -- although I certainly made mistakes as a mother. But more simply, that it so happened that the script of my life didn’t allow for my living in one place all or most of my life, or for my being married to only one man, or for following a more conventional and traditional path and focusing my whole adult life on the raising of my children.
With enough self-confidence and wisdom to honestly be comfortable with myself, I like what I’ve made of the rose of my life despite the many thorns that drew blood from me: as a working woman wearing many hats during a diversified professional life, as a woman, a feminist, a friend, a writer, and a volunteer. Now, as a contented retiree, I am so busy I wonder how I ever had time to work!
Reading Eye in my Heart, however, made it clear to me that, even though I did the best I could under my circumstances, it deprived my mother, my children, and now my grandchildren of a full-time daughter, a full-time mother, and a full-time grandmother.
Maybe in another life, I’ll graduate to being a full-timer at everything.