Grandsons

I always thought I would be the sweet, cuddly type of grandmother that was adored by her grandchildren.  After all I loved to cook (especially cookies), raised two kids that became delightful adults, and had a bunch of fun doing it.  I had visions of happy children, enjoying quiet games in a house that smelled of homemade goodies, while hubby and I enjoyed the peaceful scene. 


Reality isn't quite the same.


Last week I gleefully made homemade chocolate chip cookies knowing that the boys would be out after school.  They were fresh out of the oven and cooling on the counter when the kitchen erupted with coats, boots, gloves and boys.  The littlest one immediately announced that he didn't like that kind of cookies.  "You haven't even tried them!"  I exclaimed.  The middle one started rooting in the pantry looking for a box of Little Debbies.  "They're fresh out of the oven!  Still warm!  Try one!" I begged.  Looking put upon, they dutifully munched a cookie.  "See, I told you I didn't like them."  The little one announced, digging into the store bought cookies. 


About that time the teen-aged grandson wandered in and finished off the homemade cookies.   Teenagers can be so rewarding--especially when it comes to cleaning up food.


Life just doesn't seem to turn out quite like you dream.


In fact, having three boys and a little girl descend on our house is more an exercise in chaos than tranquility.  I spend most of my time grabbing flying toys, rescuing the dog, settling squabbles, and handing out food.  Instead of soft mummers of love I'm more likely to be shouting commands like a drill sergeant. 


The other day, I had just cleaned up after lunch and the kids were all off playing.  The little girl, who is two, was having a tea party in the sunroom, the teenager was deep into a video game, the middle boy was playing a game on my iPhone and the youngest was playing with a small car in the kitchen.  Suddenly there was the sound of a crash in the kitchen.  I rounded the corner to find him standing, barefoot, in a sea of broken glass from the coffee carafe he had managed to knock to the floor.    "DON'T MOVE!"  I screamed.  For once in his life he actually obeyed a command, probably more from shock than actual obedience.  Leaping across the floor, I yelled for the seven year old to grab the baby and keep her in the den and out of the kitchen.  I grabbed up the little boy and threw him onto the bed in the bedroom and told him not to move. 


I frantically swept up the glass praying none of the others would run into the kitchen and step on a stray splinter of glass.  After sweeping the floor three times I finally decided it was safe and returned to the bedroom to check on the little boy.  I was confronted by a tear streaked, hic-upping bundle of misery.  In all the confusion and shouting he had decided his days were numbered.  "I-I-mm s-sorry." he sobbed. 


I wrapped my arms around him and assured him that I wasn't going to strangle him--this time anyway. 


Sometimes a hug is better than a lecture.