I never felt like I was born to be a caretaker. The whole baby doll, play house, girlie girl stuff didn't come natural to me. I'm a haphazard housekeeper, a mediocre cook (with a few good dishes, but no gourmet fare) and only batted about .750 on childrearing (they both survived and one has been successful).
My grandmother -- now she was apparently a born caretaker. Despite losing her own mother when she was only an adolescent and being booted from the house by an evil stepmother (no, it's not just in fairytales), she was the ultimate in nurturing. She spent her teen years tending house and raising other people's babies. As long as she was able she had a monster garden that filled the pantry and the freezer, her house was immaculate, there was always a meal to be had and any child needing a sitter had one. She was what I imagine the perfect grandmother should be.
With her as a role model, I feel a miserable failure. So it sometimes makes me pause to see the direction my life has taken in the last two years.
I'm virtually a full-time caregiver.
When I stumble into that bit of reality, I wonder if I had some misconception of what I was good at. Or if I'm just bumbling through what I'm doing now and that at some point I'll be found out as a fraud.
For 25 years I had a career and made good money. I knew the movers and shakers. I wrote the headlines, the editorials and the columns that helped people understand what was happening in the communities where I lived. I was, like it or not, somebody that people knew. I never left the house without being prepared for some event or at least the possibility of running into someone who knew me. Most of the things I liked to do took second, or often third, place to work, which consumed my evenings and often my weekends.
Then unemployment struck like a lightning bolt one fine January morning.
When the smoke cleared from the shattered illusions of what I expected out of life for the next 10 years or so, I was left with an altered landscape in which to live and I was, for a while, lost. As I began to find myself, it wasn't the things that I'd done for years that I wanted to pick up. It was the things I'd left undone.
I'd started boarding dogs as a sideline a year or so earlier because I saw a need and really enjoy the company of dogs. As I walked my few guests and my own pack in the mornings, I mourned for my loss of direction, and prayed for guidance. Either the job I was seeking would come through, or if I'm meant to stay here, more dogs would be good. Dogs showed up. I picked up odd jobs to supplement unemployment and the bills were getting paid. I was taking care of dogs and, while some had eccentric needs and desires, and the hours were lousy (would you rather get up at 6:30 a.m. or clean the kennels because bladders can't wait?) and seven days a week, I was happy.
Then there was the question of my eldest - the so-far successful offspring. She was expecting my first grandchild. Would I be willing to babysit? This was where the real shocker came in. Me, babysit? I had hardly spent 8 hours a day with my own children - other than holidays and weekends. And babyhood was never my favorite part of the process anyway. But at the same time in made economic sense. Why should she have to pay someone hundreds a month when I was home anyway? And where would I rather my grandchild be?
So I went for it. Nearly 18 months into this experiment (I still consider it an experiment), I occasionally chafe at the inability to leave the property during the sacred hours of nap time, but my days have become structured around a toddler's needs. And, to be quite honest, while I enjoy a "free" day now and then, I miss her big blue eyes and birdlike babble when she's not here. For the next six weeks, I'll have many of those days as she's home with her mom who has just added to the nest, and then the experiment will enter phase II. While Mom is wondering about handling two under 2, as a still befuddled grandmother, I'm doing the same.
When babysitting duties resume in late March, there'll be two granddaughters requiring my care and I'll be finding out exactly what I am made of. Will I snap under the pressure, requiring professional assistance to care for the children, if not to recover my sanity? Or will I adapt to this latest change with the same flexibility that has allowed me to get this far? Since this is not a role I'd have envisioned a few short years ago, I'm at a loss to give a good answer. Past performance, however, indicates I may manage to adjust.
What I do know is that each of these changes has enabled me to find out new things about myself, or at the very least rediscover things I'd forgotten. Perhaps the "dog whisperer" in me means I can also work with small children without losing my sanity as I keep drawing comparisons (socialization, training, etc. LOL) much to my daughter's chagrin. Once I accept that I'm going nowhere, there's something essentially rewarding and peaceful about spending the afternoon doing yard work or yarn work, depending on the season.
And the rewards, if not financial, are ample.
The dogs greet me each morning with wagging tails and excited barks as I drag my coffee-wakened self through the chilly air for "out." Cold noses and warm tongues proclaim their undying devotion, until their humans return. A brisk walk in the morning sun gives my heart the workout it needs, and sends them back to the kennel ready for rest.
The toddler greets me with a happy dance and searches for a word to call me. We're shooting for Mimi, but whatever label she pins on me I'm sure I'll accept. Cuddles and kisses share germs, but warm my heart in ways I still find surprising.
No, I'm afraid I'll never turn into my grandmother. I'll never measure up to that standard, even if I do manage to learn a thing or two from it. And I think most important thing I've learned may have come from my own perspective -- dogs or kids alike can tell when you fake it.
Love them and the caretaking comes easy.
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