Two days a week I am Granny Nanny for my two year older granddaughter. She is quite happily enjoying the terrible twos at the moment. A very bright, verbal child, she can argue her point quite well, but it always comes back to the throwing on the ground and quite definite strings of NO! to any request to get dressed, put on your shoes, clean teeth, eat anything at all.
I know why we have children when we are young – we have neither the energy, nor, dare I say, the patience to parent children in our mature years. Of course, when we were young parents it was still permissible to smack. Not saying that it was right, as viewed with 21st century values, but it did happen and it was accepted. Now it cannot be contemplated, and I in no way disagree with that. But dear, they can be exasperating!
More often than not, I find myself trying to explain to her that if she would just get dressed, put on your shoes, clean teeth, eat anything at all, there and then, she could resume whatever game, or activity she was pursuing in faster time than it takes to throw herself down on the floor, or cross her arms and jut her chin out at me in defiance.
“Look, we have a job to do here, neither of us wants to do it, but let’s just get it over with and continue with the rest of our lives.”
The foot gets stamped to emphasis her point, just in case I missed the fact that she had no intention of getting dressed, putting on her shoes, clean teeth, or eat anything at all, this side of her twenty-first birthday.
I tell her to use her words to talk to Grandma, instead of squeals and yells. I bribe that she can play on Grandma’s iPad if she will just get dressed, put on your shoes, clean teeth, eat anything at all. Sometimes that wins some break in her defenses. However, this week I struck Granny Gold.
I found that all I have to do is to pucker up, and make the fartiest raspberries that a Granny ever produced in the history of desperate Grannies. The louder and ruder the sound production; the louder the giggles, belly laughs and gales of laughter in return. She is putty, of should I say, playdough, in my hands.
I am just dreading the day that I have to resort to my bag of farty raspberries in public though. I know the day will come, all too soon, but what is a Granny to do if you want them to get dressed, put on your shoes, clean teeth, eat anything at all?
I am up to it though. A Granny has to do, what a Granny has to do. And just think of the memories I will leave her!