The unruffled Grandma

You may have witnessed a two-year-old throwing a good old-fashioned tantrum at Braelinn Kroger a couple of weeks ago? The boy with spun-gold hair? Right in the check-out lane? Face red and tears soaking his shirt?

Surely you didn’t think it was my baby Samuel. I’m a certified grandmother now, and I’d never allow such misbehavior in public.

This little boy’s problem was that he loves the grocery carts that have been outfitted to look like real cars, complete with steering wheel and windshield. He is fixated on wheels, and when he was taken out of the “car,” he got on the floor to check out the wheels and discovered that they were painted on.

Then his mom and grandma needed to move the cart, now blocking the check-out lane, and all hell broke loose when we had to drag him bodily out from under the “car.”

I mean, THEY had to drag him. We would never have allowed such a meltdown in OUR family. Nosiree, Bob.

His mother had her hands full with a 2-month-old baby, so the grandma of the outraged toddler took it upon herself to try looking casual and unperturbed as she bent to lift the child.
Poor soul. I hope the tot did not behave like this at her house....

Who am I kidding? You know who Samuel is. And you can guess who was playing the unruffled grandma.

Boy, do things ever change when the generations ratchet up a cog or two, and 40 years separate ancestor and descendent. I always thought a good wallop on the seat was the best cure for kids’ hysterics.

I remember my tidy philosophy: When a young child has done something praiseworthy or constructive, you give him physical praise, a hug or a kiss. When he misbehaves, and is too young for explanations or lectures, you give him a physical reminder: a whack on the bottom or on the back of the hands. Little guys understand physical.

But now I look at this beautiful boy and, even when he’s in full tantrum, I want to clasp him to myself and soothe him until he’s comforted (as if he’d allow it – do kids come knowing grandmas can’t pick them up when they go limp on the floor?).
Samuel’s mother says sternly, “Samuel, get control of yourself,” and I try to keep a straight face. The kid is only two, for Pete’s sake.

Well, as Samuel’s daddy has reminded me several times, his first three children were disciplined this way, and they’ve turned out pretty well. The proof is in the pudding, I guess, whatever that means.

So. The best week of my life – yes, really – came to a close, and Jean has packed the duffel bags and diapers and baby contraptions and we’re on our way to the airport for their 9:10 p.m. flight to Washington-Dulles.

Halfway to Atlanta, Dave said he left his cell phone home. I looked for mine and couldn’t find it. Dumb.

On their way to Atlanta a week earlier, Jean said TSA opened a little gate for Samuel and his stroller, did the wand-search, and sent them on their way. Not this time. This time everything had to be broken down, x-rayed or wanded, and Samuel was tired. Jean has done this often enough to be very efficient at it, but the hour was late, and Sam targeted the “leash” we put on him to keep him safely tethered.

I got a gate pass to help them through security and out to the gate. He was on the edge of serious grumbling, despite the train ride, and was whimpering as we traversed the half-mile of concourse from the elevator to Gate 6.

It was about 8:30, and I waited with them, expecting it would be only a few minutes before they were pre-boarded.

That’s when Jean noticed the sign said her flight would not be leaving until later. Much later. There was a delay somewhere – in Chicago? Weather? – and her flight would not leave for Dulles until about midnight.

By now Samuel was beyond tired, so I didn’t get all the details about the flight. I had my hands full with a little boy who flung himself against restraint. Because there weren’t a lot of people there, there was room to let him run loose.

What a picture we must have made, the tot running blindly around and around with his grandma in full pursuit, trying to look unruffled. Every time we ran past seated passengers on other flights, I’d call out, “Don’t worry, he won’t be on your flight,” and actually got some of them to smile.

A kindly airport employee – a grandmother too, I’ll bet – invited us to ride in her golf cart. First Sam solemnly checked out the wheel-wheels, and away we went for a quick spin..

Jean took advantage of my minding Samuel to nurse Baby-U and change his diaper. He went back to sleep in the carrier on Jean’s chest. It dawned on us that the same thing would be good for Samuel. She gave him an emergency back-up bottle and voila! A quiet child lying in his grandma’s arms, sweating and exhausted, but relaxed.

Unable to reach Dave to tell him what was happening, I was torn between staying with them or returning to the terminal. Jean assured me she was OK, so I bade them all goodbye and started the long hike back to where Dave was waiting.

It’s a wonder I ever got there, my eyes so full of tears.