Grandparents: Purpose: The "Grandparents" Series, #1

This which follows is to the 5.7 million grandparents out there who

are raising their grandchildren. There may be more of us, who knows, but  

in this day and time you can be sure of one thing: There is some pencil-pusher

in a windowless office watching us right now. Someone out there is keeping

close tabs, you better bet. The way I see it, we’re Grandparents raising our

Grandkids...you better be watching us, and you better be paying attention,

‘cause you just may get lucky and learn a little something. Maybe.

And don’t kid yourself, we do have a purpose in this life. We have a God-

given purpose. I know, it’s rough, this starting over. You’ve heard it before,

best of the best. We are the best of the best. The world would be in shambles

if not for Papa and Grandma. World is in shambles anyway, but each day we

make young lives just a little bit better, lives a little bit more livable. We are the

chosen, we are the last line of defense, and for you out there doing what  

needs to be done, this family commends you.

And this is to those folks out there caring for an elderly parent, in-

house. We pity you.  

I know, I sound crass and ungrateful, and I am...not really, but how many

of you out there are raising both a grandchild or two, and a parent? I mean,

this once an adult and twice a child business is for real. At the very least, thank

you Lord for correcting my vision through the wonder of eyeglasses...and thank

you Lord also that I can’t see shinola without them. You men dealing with caring

for an elderly mother, or vice versa, a woman caring for an elderly dad...you

know you love them, and you know they cared for you when you could

not, but like I stated, thank goodness we can discard our glasses, thus

rendering ourselves virtually sightless. There is but a few times we as a society

actually don’t want the ability to see...basically, when you have to give your

elderly mother or father a bath or shower...this is one circumstance that comes

to mind. How many other instances in life can you honestly say you don’t

want or need the use of your eyesight? Not many. Sounds crass and semi un-

grateful? Not from my vantage point. Just life. And for you out there who think

it is, well, get ready, ‘cause you nor your parents are going to be young and

healthy and able to care for yourselves forever. Blindfold? Anybody?

To let you in on a little secret, my glasses are off a good thirty minutes before

I have to lead my mom into the bathroom for a shower; safety bars, shower chair,

non-skid surface, adult diaper, deodorant, toothbrush loaded, pajamas, three

towels, three wash cloths, shampoo, crème rinse, all ready to go...yes, it’s

quite a production. And why do I discard the glasses thirty minutes beforehand?

Simple. I don’t want to forget before it’s too late and she’s already

into her birthday suit. Petty grievance? No.

And for you out there who are raising some young ones and caring

for an elderly parent, my family commends you... we honestly do!     

J.I.M.

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How'd We Get Here?

We have three grandkids. Adopted.

My name is J.I.M. Lord. You can call me Jim.

The wife of 36 years is Frances, also known as Fran, Grandma, or Mom.

She is the resident wizard, at times therapist, doctor, nurse, teacher, maid,

cook, arbitrator, hairstylist, WWE ref, and magician. She basically holds down

the fort, keeps a roof over our heads, meets the bills head on, keeps Jesus close,

works a full-time job, and can heal a boo-boo, or stop the sometimes madness of

this household just by clicking her heels and whispering "There's no place like

foam," (as in rubber-padded room) and then, when all is said and done, she 

gets an instant urge to move to Kansas. In other words, she restores order.

Me? I'm backup. Relief. Rolaids in human form. A genuine Elroy   

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Face. Who? Forkball? The original fulltime MLB relief pitcher? Pirates,    

late 50s, early 60s? See, I didn't buy all those baseball cards just for the gum!

Fran is the law. The Enforcer. I'm the Pushover. Pushover, when it comes

to allowing the kids to get their way, whenever and however they want. If you 

have grandkids , whether you are raising them or not, you know all about the

Open 24 Hours neon sign hanging there in your very own kitchen,

or the way-too-lenient groundings, or the nights you tell one of

them let me help you with your homework and you end up doing all of it.

That's me in a nutshell, emphasis on the first syllable. Form your own opinion.

When I’m finished.

We’re here for the duration. Fran works. I receive disability. On-the-job

injury. I help out. Fran lays down the law, then I become usurper. I like that

word. Sounds like something you add to soup to get a little flavor going. That’s

me, I add a little spice to things around here. I give the official o.k. soon after

Fran stamps her official kibosh on circumstances beyond all but God’s control.

It’s a give-and-take fly zone.

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While Fran is at work I maintain my usual routine: Drive two grandkids to

grade school, the other to the bus headed for middle school, and on Monday,

Wednesday, and Friday, taxi our eighteen-year-old daughter to junior college.

Those days are messed up, to say the least. You see, Kate, our youngest, and our

only surviving child, refuses to spend eighty bucks for a school parking permit. 

Wouldn’t be so bad save for the fact she has a class at 8:15, then one at

10:15, another at 11:15, then one at 1:15, and another at 2:15. And what does

she do to pass the time between classes? Old dad picks her up, that’s

what, then I drive her home, then back again...and back and back. And does

she use this in-between class time to do her schoolwork? Occasionally, but most

of her time is spent, as her generation is prone to do, texting her friends and

boyfriend. Texting. Never understood it. Nobody talks these days.

As I told you a minute ago, I maintain a routine. Cab driver, house-

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husband, laundry, cleaning (what I can with these hands I’ve had surgery

on), shopping, accounting, you name it. And can I shop? I know quality,

prices, bargains, where to go for a discount, etc. But no couponing!

Walmart is our home away from home. I’m going to start having

my mail delivered there. Walmart is an every day trip. It’s me and the kids’

mall in the summertime and on weekends. I imagine this town we live

in is the only major college town in America without a mall, but we got W-Mart!

Who knew grandkids could eat like they do? Walmart loves them.

And they love Walmart. You know the donut section there at every

Walmart in America? Well, the bakery section, where they have those

displays the customer can get at and pick out a 58 cent donut? Our

Walmart, the one on the west side of town, gives them to our grandkids

for free. How so? They know I spend a lot of money and my every waking

hour in that place, that’s why...and if you get the right cashier. And one

more aside concerning Walmart. When in the heck are they going to

put in an aisle just for us? By us, I mean the poor. Look, would it not     

make sense to have just one aisle at Walmart stocked with just what

us poor people live on? Like for instance, Kraft macaroni and cheese (and

not that cheaper brand of mac and cheese that is so nasty), or Vienna

Sausages, or those off-brands of pop? Or, for sure, Ramen noodles, hot

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dogs, Great Value products, Kool-Aid, and anything with the Equate brand

slapped on it? Hamburger helper, spam, tuna, eggs, three-day-old bread,

and bananas (only fruit that hasn’t got a big price tag attached to it.)

And one more thought, as long as I’m on the subject, wouldn’t it

be convenient to just move the Lay-Away desk over to the Poor Shopper’s

aisle? Just a thought. And handy, too.

There’s more, but you get the idea. Any suggestions out

there of what could, and should, be on that aisle? Oh, and don’t forget the

ground beef. See, ya got to think ahead...or at least think like the grandkids

do. Buy in bulk!

And like Fran has stated: "If ya can’t outrun ‘em, try to out think ‘em...or at

least try and keep two steps ahead of ‘em." Uh huh, sure.

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Have I mentioned the grandkids? At last count there are three of

them. And there is Kate. She’s going to school to become a nurse. Fran

and I checked it out, when Kate graduates, at 21, then finds a job, there

is no way she won’t be making over double the highest hourly salary

I’ve ever made in my life, and I’m one month from turning 60. The

thought amazes me. Hope Kate graduates, then we’ll move in with her.

There are seven of us living beneath this roof. Doing the math, you   

have perhaps only counted six. The wife, myself, Kate, three grandkids.  There is

one more. All in all, four generations packed in, ranging in age from five years

to age eighty. Add a few more heads to count and it seems we might deserve our

own reality series. Number seven on the countdown is my mother. More on her

later.

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How did we get here?

Fran asks this question on a daily basis, as I ask it of her. Sometimes

we even catch ourselves asking it simultaneously, you know, the old

married couple routine: been together long enough to start thinking

alike, talking, walking, and acting alike? Losing our teeth alike, and hair, and

sense. These we have started to do. At least we haven’t, as a few of our

grandparent acquaintances have accomplished, started to look alike. Not yet.

I can’t brag, seeing how there aren’t any crowds around me. I have aged

accordingly. Fran, well, she stopped aging around the age of 35. Now I

know what you’re thinking, but it’s the truth, and I have proof, Fran’s

co-workers. It took them two years to realize she wasn’t 35ish or so, and they 

only found this out when she slipped and told one of them she only had seven

years til she could collect social security. They thought she was downright lying    

to them. Fran had to pull out her driver’s license and let them see for themselves.

Just how did we get here?

Well, I am about to tell you, and more. But, as God as my witness,

we are the things reality shows are made of. Speaking of, I just got home

from my daily jaunt to Walmart and I am amazed at how much

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merchandise has the Duck Dynasty logo plastered on it. Let me see, kinda

seems like when Sponge Bob broke wide open a few years ago. Remember

that? You couldn’t