Living long enough means we all are likely to relive situations with our children that our parents experienced with us. The first-ever visit to Athens, Georgia, of one Barrett Callaway Cobb, aged seventeen months and rarin' to go, brought this home to Grandma and Grandpa Bloviator more than once last week. Since Ms. OB and I spent a good chunk of our marriage living quite a ways from our somewhat-older parents who had no other offspring or grand-offspring on whom to dote, we put in our share of twelve- to twenty-hour drives at Christmas and during the summer every year so that our folks could grab a few precious days of exposure to their grandson.
Since our parents lived in opposite corners of Georgia and we obviously couldn't visit one family and not the other, this meant extended periods of living out of suitcases and sooner or later becoming frustrated with life under the unrelenting and sometimes disapproving gaze of our folks. There were also inevitable disputes about appropriate parenting techniques and ineffectual complaints that our parents, in their zeal to shower as much unqualified affection on their pride and joy as possible in the short time allotted them, were going to spoil him rotten and undo our strenuous efforts to ameliorate some of his less appealing habits.
As the close of each visit drew nigh, our parents would begin to bemoan the fact that they had so little time left with us, meaning, of course, with him. This practice always made us feel uncomfortable and not a little guilty, because at that point we would be getting more than a little antsy to get back to our own world where we were the ranking adults and thus under no obligation to explain or defend the way we were raising our child. Ms. OB recalls that when the countdown for departure finally began, "loading the car was always the hardest part" because the symbolism of the open trunk was unmistakable. To their credit, our folks made a gallant attempt to hold back their emotions, but their tear ducts invariably let them down. It was hard for us as twenty- and thirty-somethings to understand why it always had to be this way, why our folks had to act as if this were the very last time that the three of us would ever see them again.
During last week's visit, we made a point to take Barrett to all of his then-toddler dad's old haunts in an attempt to replicate faded photos of his father's antics in those spots. This included a trip to the famous Varsity, where we had traditionally enjoyed a chili dog and some rings for our Christmas lunch, as we bade farewell to the grandparents in Southwest Georgia to make our eagerly awaited arrival in the opposite corner of the state. These new snapshots joyously affirmed the stunning resemblance between Barrett and his dad at that age, but they also took our hearts in another direction as well, for there was simply no comprehending what had possibly happened to the thirty-eight years that had flown by since we had stood at these very same spots and tried to get Barrett's dad to smile and look into the camera. Such contemplations seem irresistible on these occasions even though you know they're as likely to bring tears as a smile as you ask yourself why you didn't recognize at the time how truly priceless those moments were. (If you had, of course, your emotions might have robbed you and everyone else of the pure enjoyment that made the instance so memorable to begin with.) In the end, I suppose, there is at least some solace in having the opportunity to cherish those occasions retrospectively with your children while vowing never to despoil any of the finite number of such chances that lie ahead with quarreling about things that really don't matter.
Sure enough, in true grandparental fashion, as the final hours of last week's visit wound down, Ms. OB and I found ourselves moaning about how awful it would be when they were gone, and the pathetically desperate OB was bribing Barrett to get in his lap by allowing him to have his way with his Blackberry (Sorry if he called you!) and his iPad. If the OB owned a Rolex that would surely have been Barrett's to paw and pound as well. Finally, when the car was loaded and everybody strapped in, the oldsters did their best, almost succeeding in keeping their lips tight and eyes dry, while truly realizing and understanding for the first time how our own folks surely felt all those times when it was Barrett's dad waving from the car seat as we headed down their driveway. At the same time, of course, his proud new papa was getting his first sense of how his own parents had struggled to handle the awkwardness and regret that such departures invariably brought.
A friend of ours suggested that the appropriate term for what grandparents are feeling as the vehicle fades from view might be "the sweet lonesome." This rings true for us, I think, for the combination of emotional closeness and physical separation means that the tenderest moments of togetherness are more likely elicit both joy and sadness in equal and almost inseparable measure. Such partings are really no fun for any of the adult principals (although Barrett had a heckuva time demonstrating his new-found prowess at blowing kisses), but they surely exact the heaviest toll on those who no longer see the future stretching limitless and rich with many such opportunities to reaffirm our affections. Skype is a lot better than nothing, but I'd be willing to bet that most distance-challenged grandparents would gladly trade a month's worth of internet exchanges for one really good hug.
In the meantime, the gaping void between those precious hugs is far better filled by savoring the joys of the present than inviting the inevitable sadness attendant to trying to relive a cherished past that may not be dead but can neither be resurrected or reconstituted. The shrinks of several centuries ago were not that far off when they characterized nostalgia as a seriously debilitating and potentially destructive mental/emotional disorder, offering yet another reason why all grandparents-at-a-distance should be eligible for hazardous-duty pay.
