Confessions
of a contented grandmother
When our children left home, the
local charity shop must have cheered. After nearly two decades of nesting,
their bedrooms had become a mayhem of clutter that could fill a departmental
store. Shelves were packed with books and bric-a-brac and their cupboards held
a stash of sporting equipment that would have kept an Olympic team happy. I
understood how Gerald Darrell's mother felt the day he left home with his
menagerie of bottled and caged creatures and pets. My son left us with a
collection of bird and hamster cages along with a few snakes in glass boxes for
good measure.
When our first son was born, we
were lured into buying a set of encyclopaedias, children’s reading books and
educational games. Acutely aware of the importance of the first few formative
years, our son was stimulated at every opportunity with every new Fisher Price
toy that came onto the market. By the time our last child came along, the yard
was a nursery-school of tip-trucks, tricycles and black plastic motor-bikes, a
sand-pit and jungle-gym.
When the children were in primary
school, we started collecting soccer, cricket and tennis gear along with
gymnastic and dancing bits and bobs. In high-school, we collected roller skates,
skate-boards and bicycles, and a drum kit. Our budding band called themselves
the ‘Black-Flies’ and the only time the neighbourhood enjoyed some peace and
quiet was after I fed them all and sent them home.
Week-ends were filled with tennis
tournaments, dancing eisteddfod’s and bicycle rally’s. My son’s first motor-car
was a cherry-red beetle and it wasn’t long before the drive-way became
collection of petrol-guzzlers that would have kept Top Gear filming for weeks.
And then, one by one, the children
left home. An empty place filled my heart. I had to get used to shopping and
cooking for two. The day came to box-up all the left-overs and give them
away. When the job was done I understood why having children is so sacrificial
and extraordinarily expensive. We turned one bedroom into my office, and the
other into a guest bedroom. The Kenwood stood idle in the kitchen.
Until the grandchildren came along
that is. Now, bit by bit the childish clutter returns. Toys for boys and girls in
the spare room and story books are back on the shelf. The demand for pancakes
and chocolate cake, flavoured milk, popcorn and gingerbread men has returned.
The game of cricket on the front lawn has been recalled and it won’t be long
before a rope-ladder and swing-tyre hang from the syringa tree again.
Grand-children.
How can we resist them?
