I’m a Gigi.  It’s one of my favorite descriptors, and it speaks volumes as far as I’m concerned.  It means I get to be that person that allows my grand rug rats to stay up late, skip naps, eat junk food, and make a mess! 

I embrace this anti-hero role with all the energy and enthusiasm of anyone creating cheerful chaos! After years of being responsible and making sure my kids minded their manners and cleaned up after themselves, of demanding they ate healthy foods or at least took vitamins, and of being the one who felt compelled to say “no” to things moms were supposed to say “no” to, I am now the “yes” person!  Being the “yes” person is so much more fun!  In fact, if I knew it was going to be this much fun, I might have said “yes” more often to my own kids – consequences and social norms be damned. 

My grandkids, by the way, are awesome, but not in the gold-stars-at-preschool, seen-but-not-heard, or child-prodigy-in-the-making sort of way.  In fact, they are awesome in just about the opposite way.  My grandkids are the kind of kids that sitcoms use for fodder to expose the failure and angst of parenting.  My son, Jacob, and his wife, Hali, are well aware of this and acknowledge their failures publicly.  

Hali has several girlfriends who are also the mothers of toddlers.  She and Jake lovingly, if not jealously, refer to them as “granola moms” because they seem to be doing everything right.  Specifically, they make sure to prepare healthy meals for their children on every occasion, whether it is for the preschool lunch kit or Friday night dinner. Hali is exhausted on Friday nights, and after a long week of teaching fifth graders scientific concepts (or rather how to stay in their seats, how not to set the lab on fire or break the equipment, or how to just be quiet long enough to let her explain a single scientific concept), she will settle for whatever fast food that is easiest to pick up. Greasy fries, cokes, and chicken nuggets are a balanced diet as far as she and Jacob are concerned.  (Well, occasionally they do add some pre-packaged apple slices to justify the meal.)

The granola moms in Hali’s circle are the types who make those Facebook posts where once a month they dress their children in impossibly cute outfits and take pictures of them in elaborately staged backgrounds, being sure to include growth measures, milestones, and documentation of their parenting prowess.  In Hali’s defense, she and Jacob do post pictures of the kids on Facebook to document their growth and progress.  It’s just more spontaneous in nature, and the markers might not be considered milestones by all.  

For instance, recently the almost two-year-old turned up missing for fifteen seconds.  After a frantic search, Jake and Hali found her sitting in the middle of the utility room floor beside the cat’s litter box, which she had obviously mistaken for a sandbox and scattered all around her in a three-foot radius.  Further, she was wearing a little of the litter in her hair, undoubtedly a new trend in toddler hygiene. The bewildered cat was standing next to her with an expression that said, “What the hell is she doing to my toilet?”  

Noting the record land-speed time for creating such a huge mess, Jake pulled out his camera for a quick picture and asked her, “Emery, who did this?”  The quick-thinking toddler immediately pointed at the cat and said, “Meow.”  The picture was posted and the milestone noted:  before she was even two years old, Emery had mastered the psychological art of projection and shifted the blame from herself to the cat.  

Emery is not the only one with advanced psychological manipulation skills.  My grandson Jase is five – somedays going on 15; somedays, 50; and somedays, 2 ½.  He came to my house for a visit recently, and nearly upon arrival announced to me that he was now allowed to say the word “jackass.”  The conversation went something like this:

“Gigi, Dad said I could say ‘jackass’ now.”

“He did?” 

“Yes, I can say jackass because a jackass is a donkey, and it’s in the Bible.  However, I cannot say ‘jackass’ at school or at church – even though jackass is in the Bible, and it is a donkey.  And I cannot call someone a ‘jackass’ even if they are acting like a ‘jackass.’  I can only say ‘jackass’ if I mean it to be an animal.  Oh, and I cannot say ‘jackass’ to Mamaw, Mimi, B, or Nana, but I can say ‘jackass’ anytime I want other than that.”

Within minutes of entering my house, my precious and precocious grandson had taken on the persona of a salty sailor and said “jackass” no less than ten times, completely solidifying his right and determination to embrace this word that had been previously off limits.  My grandkids love expanding – and exploiting – their limits.

Granola moms are the ones that cut their kids sandwiches into hearts and put them on decorative plates. They have the nighttime routine down – a lavender bath, a developmentally-appropriate story, and an early bedtime to promote good sleep patterns.  Last time they were visiting, I overheard Hali tell Jase, “Dude, you’re still up at 10:00? Whatever, you’re going to be a grouch in the morning.”  I think that was an awesome way to make him take responsibility for that choice, and my grandson can own being a grouch!

My son and my daughter-in-law both value knowledge and experience.  They more than make up for all of their failures in the areas of routines and social norms by providing the kids with adventures and novel encounters. The kids have had the good fortune of interacting with numerous mammals, reptiles, and fish.  In fact, my granddaughter is of the mindset that she must kiss every fish her dad catches before it is released or kept for consumption.  I have to be honest that I’m more than a little worried about what this might do to her future dating life!

And their adventures are making them fearless.  At the young ages of almost two and five, they’ve gotten to handle alligators, snakes, sharks, stingrays, and a plethora of less dangerous sea creatures and land animals.  They’ve swum in the ocean, hiked in the mountains, and explored the great outdoors. My grandson Jase, is already quite adept at bow hunting, shooting, fishing and other survival skills.  His parents have well equipped him if he one day finds himself cast in, say, Season 27 of “Naked and Afraid.”

The kids are also encouraged to develop their creative sides.  Just ask Jase who presented his pre-K teacher with a slightly violent but highly artistic drawing of his favorite cartoon character – Deadpool. Or listen to him create his own lyrics to songs of just about every genre and style:

Play that funky music, quiet boy… A strug is a bug that can’t get no love from me… Looking like a Batman…

Let me translate:

Play that funky music, white boy…(Wild Cherry, 70’s rock) A scrub is a guy that can’t get no love from me…(TLC, 90’s hip hop) Looking like a bad man…(Matt Maeson, current alternative)

None of us are quite sure what a “strug” is, but we assume it’s a nasty bug because it is getting absolutely no love from Jase who is usually quite fascinated with insects.  

I remember my twenty-something-year-old self turning my nose up at grandmas sporting t-shirts that declared “Foxy Grandma” or “Sexy Granny.”  I was appalled that anyone old enough to have grandkids could possibly have the mindset of being sexual or playful or even interested in stuff like dating at all. Well, you don’t know what you don’t know.  I wish I could have informed my younger, presumptuous, age-discriminating self just how wrong she was, and how fifty-plus is one of the best and most freeing stages of life!  I’m finally old enough to know better – I just had no idea what “better” was!

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