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Five years ago, my grandchildren, Kristen, now eight, and Marissa, six, moved into our farm home with their dad (our eldest son, Geoff) in the wake of a marriage that didn't make it past its fourth anniversary. While I dearly love my son and granddaughters, this living arrangement wasn't how I envisioned spending my "autumn" years with my husband, Campbell.
To be honest, when our four kids left the nest to get married, I looked forward to my life as an empty-nester. I redecorated our house, exchanging all those durable, kid-friendly earthtones for serene shades of pale blue, peach, and off-white. Since I'd postponed pursuing a career until my family was raised, I enrolled in graduate school to complete a doctorate in seventeenth- century prose.
But a month after I graduated, I found I had to put professional notions on hold to cope with a grieving three year old and a baby still in diapers. That summer—and every summer since—Campbell and I have been surrogate parents for our granddaughters, since our son's summer job as a pilot has him flying water bombers in northern Canada's fire-prone forests. Geoff restores aircraft the rest of the year, so he's able to assume more responsibility—but it's been hard to make up the deficit left by a mother's departure. And it's been hard for us to adjust to parenting the second time around.
Calling All GrandparentsMore and more children are being raised by grandparents—a growing trend for which neither the children nor their grandparents volunteer. I've identified three main reasons why many of us are being summoned to an unplanned "round two" of mothering: Unmarried mothers (with the support of their parents) often choose to keep their babies rather than put them up for adoption; unemployed or underemployed young adults move back into parents' homes or rely on their moms for unpaid childcare; and, as in my son's case, divorces often create the need for grandparents' assistance.
Of course it's not all diapers and drudgery. There's great joy in life with little children; they quickly find room in our hearts and lives. And there's a richness in intergenerational families that's largely been lost in America today.
But I'm not dewy-eyed about the situation. It's not easy to play the Waltons. Caring for children is time-consuming: Meals are more demanding; there's more laundry and housework; and everything must be done with inquisitive little ones at your side. Furthermore, I don't have the energy I had twenty years ago; sometimes, the clutter and chatter seem more than I can bear. By the time the two little girls are storied, sung to, prayed with, hugged, and snugly tucked in bed, most evenings I'm too tired even to read. My friendships suffer. My free-lance writing must be done in grab-and-snatch sessions in the midst of constant interruptions. And the few quiet moments Campbell and I find to be alone make me yearn for more.
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