GP's Day
Well, wasn't that terrific fun! Grandparent's Day at school. A development office event, fine for some, but do I have reservations? You bet I do. It is fraught with potential disasters, with deep confidences and fears. The first thought in my mind right now would be my wife's criticism: you worry too much. It is over now, history, but the jury is still out, undecided.
All that being said, first, the invitations were sent directly to the grandparents by the school, not via the parents. That by itself is fraught with potential problems, as in which grandparents get invited in the case of divorced parents and all that. Some kids have recently lost their grandparents, and they have "friends" come instead, but the wound is fresh and they are inexperienced with death. And then there is the next issue: the kids absolutely want no part of it, they are mortified at the prospect of being associate with old people, which is just too bad, as they need to learn to appreciate what they've got and learn to be gracious hosts. Next comes the problem of a grandparent or grandparents navigating the streets of Providence, parking, let alone partaking of the school experience with their grandchild. Between my father and his ladyfriend, they are nearly one driver. He navigates; she steers the wheel. When I called, it turned out that my father had no intention of seeing or talking with me about today; he was organized, coming, independent of me, like it or not. I had been agonizing all week long about the logistics of getting Sophie to school on time, picking them up and delvering them home, four extra legs driving, with a longer drive ahead tonight. The problem was instantly solved; a different sort of worry began.
And so after waiting for half an hour or more for the GPs to show at eight o'clock, I walked home and made a few calls to see if they were still at home, if they had changed their minds about coming afterall, or slept through. There is no way to contacat them as they are going to join the cellular age at this point in their lives. It is just overload for them. I felt the way I did on my first Mother's Day weekend at Kent School in the eighth grade, sitting on the North Dorm wall with the new boys, waiting for my mother's white, Oldsmobile F-85 station wagon with the California licence plates still on it to roll into school. I don't know anymore if she was the last mom to come in, but after and hour or two and a hundred cars or more, she finally appeared and it was all, or mostly forgotten. But that empty, lonesome feeling remains to this day, like when you are waiting for your friend to meet you on the train or at the clock in the center of Grand Central Station, and you miss them. I suspected last night that my cautions were all in vain when I spoke to Dad about leaving earlier than he had planned in order to avoid the rush hour traffic and to find a spece where parking is limited and difficult. He was not actively listening with focus or intent. I might as well have said nothing at all. I only hoped for the best, knowing how terrorized my daughter was about the descent of the grandfather into her school world. When they arrived, an hour or so late, they missed the Headmaster's and the Middle School teacher's, the development office's addresses. Later on, I will hear the story from Sophie's perspective.
I wince for the pains caused by appearance and tardiness. So I err in the opposite direction, presenting my preppy, scrubbed self earlier than most. I like being early; I hate being late. When left to my own devices, I am invariably where I need to be with time to spare. With Sally and Sophie, I am usually barely on time. Some aspects of life are so much harder by threes, but that's an entirely different subject than GPs.
Big picture, it is unimportant that my father looked more like a homeless vagabond than the WASP, prepschooled Princeton professor he once was, in his filty, dandruff-littered sweater, the same pair of courdouroy pants he has been wearing for two weeks straight, or that Mary in her raincoat appeared wild-eyed, looking either crazed or daffy or both, and relatively unkempt, as if she were going out to pick up the early morning newspaper. It is, in the end, unimiportant that they missed the first third or half of the morning's event, leaving the granddaughter perplexed and the son concerned for their whereabout and wellfare. What is important is that they came at all. Think about how challenged they were just to come and get back home? It was a colossal effort on their part.
But these are not things I excuse for myself. I do not allow tardiness or personal hygiene. I am not careless about considering others; I do not wish to be the cause of hurt and pain, unless provoked. The GPs may have come, they may have made some effort, but they still managed to blow it. They were sour with me, but who am I, but the unforgiving, critical son? From my view, I have to wonder why they bothered to come at all? They brought their bitter, spiteful selves; did they show show this facet to the rest of those they met, or would others have picked up on it that fast? After all, I am, in Anne Lamott's words "clinically sensitive" perhaps as the result of exactly this kind of behavior pattern. Did they embarass Sophie for real, for being their true selves? Underneath the normal, chronic dose of embarassmnet of most adolescents, there may be valid reasons to just wish you don't ever have to be associated with these people at all. The balance between pride and blood and family and terminal mortification may be a fine one, and her feeling might be, and I'd have to say it has proven so for me, there is more pain involved in these events than than the whole trip is worth.
All that being said, first, the invitations were sent directly to the grandparents by the school, not via the parents. That by itself is fraught with potential problems, as in which grandparents get invited in the case of divorced parents and all that. Some kids have recently lost their grandparents, and they have "friends" come instead, but the wound is fresh and they are inexperienced with death. And then there is the next issue: the kids absolutely want no part of it, they are mortified at the prospect of being associate with old people, which is just too bad, as they need to learn to appreciate what they've got and learn to be gracious hosts. Next comes the problem of a grandparent or grandparents navigating the streets of Providence, parking, let alone partaking of the school experience with their grandchild. Between my father and his ladyfriend, they are nearly one driver. He navigates; she steers the wheel. When I called, it turned out that my father had no intention of seeing or talking with me about today; he was organized, coming, independent of me, like it or not. I had been agonizing all week long about the logistics of getting Sophie to school on time, picking them up and delvering them home, four extra legs driving, with a longer drive ahead tonight. The problem was instantly solved; a different sort of worry began.
And so after waiting for half an hour or more for the GPs to show at eight o'clock, I walked home and made a few calls to see if they were still at home, if they had changed their minds about coming afterall, or slept through. There is no way to contacat them as they are going to join the cellular age at this point in their lives. It is just overload for them. I felt the way I did on my first Mother's Day weekend at Kent School in the eighth grade, sitting on the North Dorm wall with the new boys, waiting for my mother's white, Oldsmobile F-85 station wagon with the California licence plates still on it to roll into school. I don't know anymore if she was the last mom to come in, but after and hour or two and a hundred cars or more, she finally appeared and it was all, or mostly forgotten. But that empty, lonesome feeling remains to this day, like when you are waiting for your friend to meet you on the train or at the clock in the center of Grand Central Station, and you miss them. I suspected last night that my cautions were all in vain when I spoke to Dad about leaving earlier than he had planned in order to avoid the rush hour traffic and to find a spece where parking is limited and difficult. He was not actively listening with focus or intent. I might as well have said nothing at all. I only hoped for the best, knowing how terrorized my daughter was about the descent of the grandfather into her school world. When they arrived, an hour or so late, they missed the Headmaster's and the Middle School teacher's, the development office's addresses. Later on, I will hear the story from Sophie's perspective.
I wince for the pains caused by appearance and tardiness. So I err in the opposite direction, presenting my preppy, scrubbed self earlier than most. I like being early; I hate being late. When left to my own devices, I am invariably where I need to be with time to spare. With Sally and Sophie, I am usually barely on time. Some aspects of life are so much harder by threes, but that's an entirely different subject than GPs.
Big picture, it is unimportant that my father looked more like a homeless vagabond than the WASP, prepschooled Princeton professor he once was, in his filty, dandruff-littered sweater, the same pair of courdouroy pants he has been wearing for two weeks straight, or that Mary in her raincoat appeared wild-eyed, looking either crazed or daffy or both, and relatively unkempt, as if she were going out to pick up the early morning newspaper. It is, in the end, unimiportant that they missed the first third or half of the morning's event, leaving the granddaughter perplexed and the son concerned for their whereabout and wellfare. What is important is that they came at all. Think about how challenged they were just to come and get back home? It was a colossal effort on their part.
But these are not things I excuse for myself. I do not allow tardiness or personal hygiene. I am not careless about considering others; I do not wish to be the cause of hurt and pain, unless provoked. The GPs may have come, they may have made some effort, but they still managed to blow it. They were sour with me, but who am I, but the unforgiving, critical son? From my view, I have to wonder why they bothered to come at all? They brought their bitter, spiteful selves; did they show show this facet to the rest of those they met, or would others have picked up on it that fast? After all, I am, in Anne Lamott's words "clinically sensitive" perhaps as the result of exactly this kind of behavior pattern. Did they embarass Sophie for real, for being their true selves? Underneath the normal, chronic dose of embarassmnet of most adolescents, there may be valid reasons to just wish you don't ever have to be associated with these people at all. The balance between pride and blood and family and terminal mortification may be a fine one, and her feeling might be, and I'd have to say it has proven so for me, there is more pain involved in these events than than the whole trip is worth.
posted by Stonechuck at 1:34 PM
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