The other day my son told me that lately when he tells his four-year-old "no," the child responds, "But Cici said I could." Granted I did not say he could, but if he were at my house, and it was just the two of us, and he wanted two cookies before dinner, I probably would let him, and he knows this.
Would I have let the boys when they were that age? Absolutely not!
Grandmas get to change the rules. I even stifle a laugh when the grandsons say and do things Clay would have fussed about with our boys, but now we both just shrug and shake our heads.
It must run in the family. I begged for a tree house my whole life growing up. One day we pulled up at my parent's house, and the boys barreled out, running toward a split-level tree house with a front and back porch built around an oak.
And the worst wooden spoon beating I ever got was the day my mother stepped out the back door to see my brother and me splashing in the forbidden pond. Then one day we pulled up to their house to see they had built a pier that went out into the pond, so the boys could not only swim in the pond but get a running start and dive right into the murky turtle and snake infested waters. Only I saw flashes of hospital bills flashing through my head.
My house is stocked with the best "Grandma Toys" on the planet. I have a tri shelf area with picture books. An Amish basket holding Lego blocks. I have a basket for cars and trucks, one for dinosaurs, and another for farm animals to go with the tractors and barn. I have a container of army tanks, and jeeps, and men. And all the balls and bats their hearts could desire by the front door to play ball with Papa Clay. When Liam is at the house, he refers to them as "his" toys. Daniel does this as well. They also have a room with all the goodies laid out they call "their room."
All of this is just as much for me as it is for them. I love picking up things here and there while I am mulling about. It is just a reminder that they are always in the back of my mind. But, having said that, I know it is not the books, balls, and toys that make Grandma's house so fun. When I look back on my years growing up, a trip to Alabama to see my Grandma Brannan was something I looked forward to all year. We would leave just after Christmas Day so my dad and brother could go hunt with my uncle Pat. And off we would go.
Grandma Brannan did not have a room just for me. She did not have children's books or little girl toys. If anyone remembers me growing up, I brought with me a basket of dolls everywhere I went, so I did have some items in hand. But those are not the memories I held dear causing my heart to jump with excitement when we would enter her smoke-filled living room in her tiny house in Ozark.
Grandma had very different taste than my matchy patchy mom. She had plaid bean bag ash trays, gold plastic designs nailed to her walls and worn mismatched washcloths and towels. Her house had tile floors, chorded rugs, and small double beds. She did not like to cook or bake so a box of vanilla wafers and tea from a mix was the treat. And yet, I squirmed the entire drive across three states to get there to that one house that smelled like no other house on the planet. It was my grandma's house where an enormous hug awaited enveloping me tightly with a smile from ear to ear.
She had a steep hill just outside her back door for rolling down, and a tree with low hanging branches easy to climb. And something from cans was cooking on the stovetop with a roast in the oven. She would laugh that husky laugh telling us about when our dad was a boy, and we would all laugh until it was time to turn in.
In my childhood memories, there was one place like home…it was Grandma's. If we could all can that smell, we would make millions or at least pull it out and take a whiff for a smile on a rainy day.
