money Column: At school alone
My mom’s mom, Grandma Dora, was in her 70s when we moved in with her, and after having had eight children of her own, my presence as a newborn was probably the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back. She did indulge me periodically by teaching me how to darn my own socks, but as I grew older, we bonded.
Okay, it wasn’t really a deep bond, but let’s say it got a little easier for her to tolerate me. We would sit together in her living room and watch Lawrence Welk, Liberace, and Superman. Yes, Superman. I think she thought he was cute, and what woman could resist the hiked up underwear that he wore on the outside of his tights.
I remember being so caught up in his superpowers that I tried to fly once. I stood on her green plastic hassock, extended my 5-year-old arms, and fell flat on my face. Because she had already predicted that outcome, her response was less than supportive, but she did let me snuggle on the chair with her.
As she grew older, she often made me come into her living room and look at the sunset. Once she even gave me a nickel for an ice cream cone. Yep, that was Grandma Dora.
Let me contrast that experience with my own grandparenting.
Pete stayed over on Friday night. On Saturday morning, we made our usual trip to the airport to see planes taking off and landing, then we went to the Coney Island where we got our regular hot dogs. This time, however, we got their fabulous french fries, too. As we were diving into those homemade fries a nice man and woman sat across from us, and the woman said, “Are you Nick? I get the paper to read your articles.” She went on to say that she was looking forward to seeing what I was going to write about Pete.
Well, Pete had one of those “forget me not” experiences this week that could shape the way a person lives the rest of their lives. You see, someone picks him up a from first grade at least a few days a week. This time, however, there was a glitch in the Pete pick-up system. Did his mom remember to tell us? Did we remember she did? Did his sisters remember to remind us? No one knows, but I wasn’t around, and my wife was taking a nap.
When his mom called to see if we picked him up, I had just pulled into the garage, and when she was told neither of us had gotten him, it was like the mom from “Home Alone.”
I immediately went back to my car to get him off the bus. The bus stopped, the doors opened, and no one exited. The bus driver looked at me and shrugged. I hurriedly headed to the school. It was now an hour past pick-up time.
Of course, we all pictured a little first grader locked outside the building, crying, and feeling like an orphan. As I pulled up to the school, his other grandmother pulled up simultaneously. She saw me, asked if I was picking him up, and when I responded positively, she nodded and drove away.
As I entered the building, I found a happy little guy who had been hanging with the teachers, the principal, and his buddy Frankie. He explained that they were having a great time making the adults laugh, and he was perfectly fine. He just figured we screwed up just like Frankie’s folks. He wasn’t mad, wasn’t sad, wasn’t worried, and had had a fun experience.
So, there you have it. Both his mother and I bought him some hot wheel cars to apologize for making him wait, but it was just another Poppa adventure for Pete.
Next stop? More bird seed and maybe munchies for Pete.
Nick Jacobs of Windber is a Senior Partner with Senior Management Resources and author of the blog healinghospitals.org.
This article originally appeared on The Daily American: Nick Jacobs column about forgetting to pick up grandson from school
