Bum Rap for Grandma

So my last post was about the twelve Opinion Shapers named for the coming year meeting at our community newspaper’s offices. One of the contributors, a lovely woman I recognize from years past, sat down next to me. We hadn’t really spoken previously—these meetings somehow haven’t exactly lent themselves to that. This year, our new editor established an entirely different tone, and most of us were more chatty.


Anyway, in our round-robin of “who-I-am-and-what-I-do”, I learned that this woman is a retired physician—a pediatric cardiologist, in fact. Now she tutors in Latin and French, and writes these columns… Did I mention that she managed to raise seven children? I want to be her when I grow up. Oh wait—I forgot to become a doctor. Or to have more children. Well, I shall just have to bask in her glow, and settle for who I am.

Back to my point, and I DO have a point.

Dr. Wonderful (her newly-minted alias) mentioned that she can always tell which children are being raised by their grandmothers. Without hesitation, I said, “Because they have good manners?” She turned to me, smiling, bemused, and said, “Precisely. Because they have good manners.”

So score some points for the grandmothers, and their willingness to model and teach good manners. Of course, most moms and dads do this, too, but I’m claiming a bit of credit for the grandmothers to offset the bum rap we (as a class) got in the news this week.

In case you missed it, an article by Jeannine Stein of the Los Angeles Times a few days ago was headlined

“Do grandparents make kids fat?”

Stein cites a study in the International Journal of Obesity (I swear, I am not making this up) that found that kids cared for by grandparents full-time had a 34% increase in “risk of being overweight.” The part-timers showed a 15% increase. (So were they actually overweight, because I don’t really get what the ‘risk of’ means, otherwise.)

So maybe grandparents are handing out too many cookies and snacks, or maybe they are reading more with the kids, and doing puzzles and homework and other sedentary activities with them. Speaking for myself, I love to take the little ones to the park, but I’m not out there playing tag, throwing the ball, and generally chasing them around the yard like their moms and dads do. Which side of the equation is causing this, assuming it’s true?

I’m a believer in healthy eating, but all things in moderation. So, Jeannine Stein of the L.A. Times, if the kids raised by their grandmothers turn out to be at high risk for obesity (whatever that means) at least they will say, “Will you please pass the cupcakes?” rather than, “Yo, send them cupcakes over here!”

Making Toast

Wow… I just finished reading “Making Toast” by Roger Rosenblatt. It’s a powerful book.


Did I love it? Not exactly.

At times, and this was only a book of 160 pages, I felt that it was self-indulgent and pointless. I couldn’t imagine why this respected author thought this was a worthy endeavor.

I persevered, though, and am glad I did.

This is the story of Roger and his wife moving into the role of resident (grand)parents to their three young grandchildren when their 38-year old daughter (an accomplished pediatrician) drops dead of an asymptomatic heart defect. [Yes, their father is there, but he can’t do it all alone, and he is a full-time surgeon.]

I normally steer clear of such books, as the inevitable sadness of the layers of loss overwhelms me. But I heard Rosenblatt interviewed on the Diane Rehm Show on NPR, and the story compelled me to read it.

I was mostly interested in the author’s anger with God, and his unwillingness to let that go. I could relate to that, even though my anger with God has abated, and despite the fact that my circumstances were regarding the early death of my father, not, God forbid, a child. The topic fascinates me, because of my own conflicts with God and with religion.

The book is called “Making Toast” because Rosenblatt at first feels helpless to do much for the three bereft children beyond making the breakfast toast. It’s a starting point for him in terms of tasks, but the true foundation of love and trust was already well-established.

I will grant that the lost Amy sounds like a truly extraordinary woman. Not just in the ways that all of us think that our loved ones are amazing. This Amy sounds like someone we all wish we knew, or wish we were. But beyond that, beyond all the small and large observations that her father shares with us, there is this lesson, given by the children’s grief counselor.

“Grief is a life-long process, and not only for the children.” This is a reminder given when the one-year anniversary of Amy’s death has passed, and the author is surprised not to have reached some new plateau of healing. A year is nothing, she tells them. It’s harder now because the permanence is more obvious.

And this, my friends, is a lesson worth learning. This simple lesson made it worth experiencing the pain of the parents, the pain of children, the husband, the siblings, the friends and the colleagues.

These losses are repeated all across America and the rest of the world on a daily basis. Not everyone is an Amy. But you don’t have to be a brilliant doctor to leave a massive hole in the hearts and lives of those you leave behind. Clerks, waitresses, mechanics, engineers, teachers and cops mean every bit as much to their loved ones as Amy did.

So love each other well, and treasure your time together. You may not be rich and famous, but you are the whole world to someone, or more likely, to a lot of someones. Enjoy it, nurture it, and delight in it.