A Toast to Harried Grandmothers

More than 2.5 million grandparents
are raising grandchildren in the U.S.,
and I'd bet that the majority of them
are very grateful for their ability 
to do so. But the fact remains 
that they aren't mom and dad, 
and never will be mom and dad, 
and there is stress that isn't in 
"normal" homes, not only
for them, but for the kids.
A toast to them all!

There's no remote control for what is wrong
around her, in her, thrust upon her, nothing like
a button that would make the volume suddenly
go down, or up, if that's what gets them off, whatever
irks, annoys Right Now. There's not a plan, no
grand collusion to intrude on Nana's sanity,
it only seems to work that way on days like this,
a tag team effort in which she is Public Enemy,
the bear, the bad guy who's despised for Being Here,
when (oh, the irony) her Being Here is just the
opposite of where she'd like to be, of what she'd
choose if it were left to her. Why would she not?
No woman (of right mind) would volunteer to take this
crap. She gives them time to settle down, more grace
than they give her, and pours a glass of something
stronger than she'll give to them with dinner.
And then she breathes, and prays, and sips
until her memory returns to tell her that she's there
for only one good reason:
that she wants to be,
and needs to be,
so there.
A pause, the knowledge settling back between the
creases on her face. She smiles, or almost, and she
breathes again before she's off to fold the laundry,
tidy up the kitchen, share her love in countless ways
that few will notice, save the One who sent her there,
who gives her strength (but sometimes only just) for
one more day.
Did I say "day"?
For one more hour.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015