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

Sixteen. Sweet.

Happy birthday, Jasmine!

Sixteen years ago, you came into the world
and I was there to greet you, hold your
perfect little crying, squirming self.
Along the way, I've held your hand
while walking through the woods or
given you a boost to get up on the
bed, or the horse's back, or
to a higher branch. You borrow things
(sometimes you even ask!) from
closets, drawers, and make-up bags
and even though I fuss (unless you
asked) I'd like to think one reason,
far below the conscious mind, you
want whatever thing it is, is just
because it's mine, and there's a closeness
that you miss from years before
when you were little and I held
your hand. But I'm still here,
sweet girl. Still here. Sixteen is
an accomplishment, a benchmark,
cause for raucous celebration,
journey to adulthood now begun.
But you will always be the first
to bear the name of "grandchild":
grand child who's almost grown,
but not just yet. And I will always,
always, be your Nana who is
full of love for you, no matter what
the age, no matter what the
circumstances that this life might
bring, no matter what, sweet girl.
Sixteen.
Sweet.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014