Since the birth of our beloved Grant (a physically and intellectually superior being), Erin and I have noticed a distinct change in our own parents. We expected following the birth of the Golden Child that there would be the potential for extra visits to our house or a gift here or there, but what we've discovered is that Grant has actually caused a rather bizarre personality shift in some of these individuals.
Let's start with my mom. (Don't worry Deb, I'm an equal opportunity harraser. You'll get yours next.) My mom is a pretty stoic individual. During the summer following first grade, I tried to perform some Bart Conners style maneuvers on our swing set (which will be subject of a future blog entry, since it featured all metal construction with various protruding screws waiting to pry the flesh or eyes from any child who dared swing from anything other than its losely affixed plastic seat) and in the process, fell squarely on my right arm. When I gathered myself up and took a look at my arm, it was aligned in a rather unnatural fashion such that when I stuck it straight out in front of me, my forearm aimed left. Not good. I proceeded to try to correct the situation by gritting my teeth and rearranging the bones in my arm, which only furthered the damage. I gathered myself up and reentered our house. In my stunned state I said, "Mum, I think I broke my arm." She gave me a glancing look, observed that I wasn't crying (shock will do that to you), and declared, "Wait until your dad gets home, and let him have a look at it. I suspect it's just a bruise." After this she went back to placing leftovers in unidentifiable dishes in our fridge. What mom neglected to tell me as I slinked off to my room was that Dad was in another state and would be returning right around the autunmnal equinox. I waited patiently in my room, trying various experiments with my wounded appendage, all of which led me to the obvious conclusion that my arm was broken. Once my dad returned home, it was determined (with the help of my grandfather who is a pediatrician) that my arm did, in fact, need medical attention. My mom gave me a quick kiss and sent me off to the ER with my dad. Again, there was no question that she loved me, but you couldn't easily coax a tear from her ducts.
After Grant was born, the grandparents made a quick visit to the hospital to have a look at him. My mom held the kid for about 30 seconds, and she was hooked. My dad informed me that in the time between her meeting baby Grant and us exiting the hospital, he found her rather emotional, teary even, while awaiting word that we were, indeed, leaving with Grant. You mean to tell me I could break my arm after living with her for six long years, and I got nary a tear, but this kid gets tears after 30 seconds? It's an injustice.
Erin's mom has also proven herself to be of questionable mind following Grant's birth. Erin's folks live down the street from us, and they have been nothing but wonderful as neighbors. They never show up unnanounced, and they're always very cautious of invading our space. Until the last couple of weeks. Now Erin's mom still calls before coming over, but she frequently has a list of demands regarding how long she'll be able to hold our beloved child upon arrival. They were over for dinner the other night, and I was holding Grant when they arrived. She asked if she could hold him, and I gave pause (actually, I was just messing with her). This lovely woman who I have the utmost respect for damn near bit me in an effort to get to my son. I had to pass Grant to her while holding her at arm's length to prevent her from inflicting an injury on me.
The grandfathers haven't proven themselves beyond reproach either. My dad calls frequently to "see how Grant and you guys are doing" but his intentions are thinly veiled. What he's really asking is a) you're taking appropriate care of our grandson, aren't you and b) can we come over to see Grant? Erin's dad has been more restrained (he's a laid back dude), but I have found it humerous that since it snowed here recently, he has warned us repeatedly about the ice on his driveway and how slippery it is and how sorry he is that he didn't get it shoveled. Now in the time they've lived in their house, it has snowed repeatedly, and their driveway has frequently been icy. But only now does it matter. Erin and I could have shimmied down that drive a thousand times, but only now, with our precious cargo in hand, does it cause him concern.
We're on to you guys. We're more than grateful for the gifts and love you've shown Grant in his early days, but it hasn't gone unnoticed that our position in the family pecking order has been supplanted by a child you've known for days, not years. We see how it is. And don't get me started on next Christmas. With the potential addition of Grace from China, Erin and I fully expect to receive a couple of pairs of socks and some motor oil for ourselves.
Let's start with my mom. (Don't worry Deb, I'm an equal opportunity harraser. You'll get yours next.) My mom is a pretty stoic individual. During the summer following first grade, I tried to perform some Bart Conners style maneuvers on our swing set (which will be subject of a future blog entry, since it featured all metal construction with various protruding screws waiting to pry the flesh or eyes from any child who dared swing from anything other than its losely affixed plastic seat) and in the process, fell squarely on my right arm. When I gathered myself up and took a look at my arm, it was aligned in a rather unnatural fashion such that when I stuck it straight out in front of me, my forearm aimed left. Not good. I proceeded to try to correct the situation by gritting my teeth and rearranging the bones in my arm, which only furthered the damage. I gathered myself up and reentered our house. In my stunned state I said, "Mum, I think I broke my arm." She gave me a glancing look, observed that I wasn't crying (shock will do that to you), and declared, "Wait until your dad gets home, and let him have a look at it. I suspect it's just a bruise." After this she went back to placing leftovers in unidentifiable dishes in our fridge. What mom neglected to tell me as I slinked off to my room was that Dad was in another state and would be returning right around the autunmnal equinox. I waited patiently in my room, trying various experiments with my wounded appendage, all of which led me to the obvious conclusion that my arm was broken. Once my dad returned home, it was determined (with the help of my grandfather who is a pediatrician) that my arm did, in fact, need medical attention. My mom gave me a quick kiss and sent me off to the ER with my dad. Again, there was no question that she loved me, but you couldn't easily coax a tear from her ducts.
After Grant was born, the grandparents made a quick visit to the hospital to have a look at him. My mom held the kid for about 30 seconds, and she was hooked. My dad informed me that in the time between her meeting baby Grant and us exiting the hospital, he found her rather emotional, teary even, while awaiting word that we were, indeed, leaving with Grant. You mean to tell me I could break my arm after living with her for six long years, and I got nary a tear, but this kid gets tears after 30 seconds? It's an injustice.
Erin's mom has also proven herself to be of questionable mind following Grant's birth. Erin's folks live down the street from us, and they have been nothing but wonderful as neighbors. They never show up unnanounced, and they're always very cautious of invading our space. Until the last couple of weeks. Now Erin's mom still calls before coming over, but she frequently has a list of demands regarding how long she'll be able to hold our beloved child upon arrival. They were over for dinner the other night, and I was holding Grant when they arrived. She asked if she could hold him, and I gave pause (actually, I was just messing with her). This lovely woman who I have the utmost respect for damn near bit me in an effort to get to my son. I had to pass Grant to her while holding her at arm's length to prevent her from inflicting an injury on me.
The grandfathers haven't proven themselves beyond reproach either. My dad calls frequently to "see how Grant and you guys are doing" but his intentions are thinly veiled. What he's really asking is a) you're taking appropriate care of our grandson, aren't you and b) can we come over to see Grant? Erin's dad has been more restrained (he's a laid back dude), but I have found it humerous that since it snowed here recently, he has warned us repeatedly about the ice on his driveway and how slippery it is and how sorry he is that he didn't get it shoveled. Now in the time they've lived in their house, it has snowed repeatedly, and their driveway has frequently been icy. But only now does it matter. Erin and I could have shimmied down that drive a thousand times, but only now, with our precious cargo in hand, does it cause him concern.
We're on to you guys. We're more than grateful for the gifts and love you've shown Grant in his early days, but it hasn't gone unnoticed that our position in the family pecking order has been supplanted by a child you've known for days, not years. We see how it is. And don't get me started on next Christmas. With the potential addition of Grace from China, Erin and I fully expect to receive a couple of pairs of socks and some motor oil for ourselves.
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1 comment:
Hey, at least you're his parents! Our parents just dropped us off at the airport then sped away to see Grant! ;)
~rach
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