Another Grandmother Story

It was Monday, and I had agreed on Saturday to participate with my youngest daughter in a 5k run and plunge into the Pacific Ocean for charity. I had not trained, and I had 5 days to get into condition. 

I jumped into my car and headed to the gym. I don’t run I thought. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I ran. I walk fast, but I don’t run. When I arrived at the gym, I pulled up the information about the run on my phone and it stated, ‘a run for the entire family’. Great I thought, there is bound to be a five-year-old participating who walks slowly and looks at the scruffy pigeons on route. I will be faster than the five-year-old. But I was concerned by the fact that the run had a finishing time. The run began at 9:45 and ended at 11:30. The ocean plunge was at noon. An ocean plunge I thought, I must be crazy, agreeing to plunge into the northern Californian ocean at the beginning of May when any month of the year is too cold for me. I began to wonder what would happen if I did not complete the run by 11:30. If I knew I was running out of time, maybe I could disappear down a side street or find a coffee shop and pretend I had nothing to do with the event. I would have to remember to remove the tag from my neck that identified me as part of the run. I can imagine the news headlines:

Lost runner, who does not run, found hiding at the back of Pete’s coffee shop in the Marina district. 

When my daughter asked me to participate in a charity run, I was so excited that she wanted to do something with me that I said yes, regardless of the situation. I wish there was a ‘recovering from wanting to be wanted by adult children support group’ I could join. 

I climbed onto the elliptical machine at the gym and decided I would not stop until I was at 5k. I wanted to know what 5k felt like. I find elliptical machines very boring. To cope with the boredom, I put my ear pods into my ears and listened to Tara Brach’s talk about how to make friends with the world. Sweat dripped down my forehead and chest. I sweat a lot. Very embarrassing in some situations. But in this situation, I felt like a hero. With Tara Brach by my side, I continued for one hour, until finally, the machine stated that I had completed 5k. I can do it; I can do it! I can complete the 5k before the run ends. 

Saturday arrived. I drove to my daughter’s home where we would take one car to San Francisco. Sign up for the race was at 8:30. My phone rang in the car, and it was my daughter. 

“Mum, have you seen the weather report? 100 percent rain at 9 am and wind at 20 miles per hour!”

“I know honey, but there is blue sky right now and the clouds don’t look that bad. Weather reports are not reliable.” We ended the conversation there and I finished the drive. 

I opened their front door and wondered if they ever locked it, but I did not comment as I was adamant not to sound critical. As usual, the two soppy, untrained dogs charged toward me pretending to defend the home. Again, I took great pleasure in keeping my mouth shut and successfully managed not to say, ‘You need to train the dogs not to jump on people.’ As I entered the living room my grandaughter was toddling around moving pieces of size-appropriate furniture. “She will become an architect,” commented my daughter from her bedroom. I successfully said nothing. My daughter appeared.

“Are we really doing this, it’s freezing and it’s going to pour with rain?” 

“You bet we are,” I replied. We said goodbye to my granddaughter and son-in-law and headed into the city. The weather had obviously scared a few people off and it was easy finding a parking place. We registered. As usual, I had not done anything about fundraising. I cannot ask people for money and inevitably I wrote the cheque for the minimum amount required to enter the run/plunge. 

The rain poured down, we were soaked and freezing before the race began. Determination to share this moment with my daughter allowed me to ignore the fact that my hands were turning blue, and my face was slowly freezing. I apologized to the joints in my body and promised them that one day I would live in a warm dry climate.

 “Mum. I can’t do this,” hallelujah, hallelujah, it was not me who said that first I thought to myself. And then she continued. 

“I didn’t want to tell you because we want to make sure everything is okay first. But I’m pregnant.”

I stared at her and the only thought that came to mind was another one. Another grandchild. This will now bring grandchildren to a total of four. And I still have no idea how I’m going to define my role.

“Mum. Are you not going to say anything?” she asked with a disapproving look on her face. I wonder if I taught her that look when she was a child. 

“Yes. Sorry. Congratulations. A sibling for my granddaughter!” I replied.

 Soaked and cold we got back into the car and drove to her house. On route, we told my son-in-law to pick up takeout for lunch. When we arrived at their home I asked if I should set the table. The reply was:

“No. We sit at the small children’s table.”, I looked at the chairs around the table. The chairs were about two feet high and suitable for small children’s bottoms, not 66-year-old bottom spreads.  

“Why?” I asked. Watch out Jill I mumbled to myself I am inviting a lecture and that is what I got. 

“She eats daily with her daycare friends at these types of tables. She won’t eat in her child’s seat at the main table. So, we join her here.,” My mind is now out of control, and I must not allow mind and mouth to connect.

Once my son-in-law appeared with the bag of takeaway food, we took our places around the children’s table. I feared that my bottom was stuck in the chair, but I did not say anything. I wanted to be a good sport. My granddaughter continued her project of moving furniture and the three of us sat at the children’s table in the mini seats eating lunch. I cast a look in the direction of the dining table and larger chairs. My granddaughter never joined us and when I stood up ready to go home, the chair was stuck to my bottom and my daughter had to pull it off. 

As I drove home, I questioned if having a child’s chair stuck to my bottom was an inevitable part of an active grandmother’s life.