Midwest Gypsy

Grandparents. Besides our own parents, they are the people who love us more than anything else in this whole world. Their love is unconditional, they’re always glad to see us, and even when they’re gone, we have fond memories to recall and reflect upon.

But a recent conversation with a newly-retired neighbor revealed something rather disturbing. She hasn’t had the time to decide whether or not she liked being retired because she has been taking care of her grandchildren–maybe too much. Apparently, her children assume that now she has all the time in the world to watch their children, and although she did not come right out and say that she felt being taken advantage of, her demeanor did. Was this an isolated incident, or are many grandparents feeling this way?

A quick internet search revealed that, indeed, this trend this is a very common situation. In addition to eight million American children living in the same home as their grandparents–a 78% increase since data was compiled in the 1970’s–an analysis of 10,0000 grandparents compiled by CBS for the segment, “When Granny Becomes the Nanny,” revealed that 61% of them take care of their grandchildren on a regular basis. This goes above and beyond the casual overnights, the sharing of special venues, and the occasional visits. It is a lifestyle where the grandparents are responsible for the day-to-day care of their grandchildren.

It goes without saying that grandchildren benefit immensely when being cared for by grandparents who love and nurture them. Most grandparents (92%) responding to the survey indicated that they happily watch their grandchildren and do not expect monetary compensation for their time, or for food or gas. They indicated that simply spending time with their grandchildren is sheer pleasure. Having raised their own children, these grandparents want nothing more than to enjoy the fruits of their labor. They just want to be “grandparents.”

The problem happens when the grandparent is expected to watch the children several days a week and on weekends, and instead of simply doting on them, disciplining gets thrown into the mix. The much anticipated golden years lose their luster. And adding insult to injury is that the expectation is not rewarded with appreciation. In fact, only 13% of the grandparents surveyed felt appreciated.

My own grandchildren live in Virginia and Texas, so I’m not in a situation where their parents could take advantage of me. But a survey of my own friends, grandparents themselves, confirmed the results. One said that, although she is grateful that she was able to be available for her children and grandchildren, she felt that sometimes her children did not realize, or perhaps care, that she had her own life. Another commented that his children had the impression that he and his wife would drop everything at a moment’s notice whenever their services were needed…and their children lived more than an hour away! Still another friend, who is not yet retired, remarked that her retired friends’ phones ring a lot more often to help out with the children than does hers. More than one remarked feeling unappreciated.

Most grandparents–those in the survey and well as personal friends–agreed that being given plenty of advance notice when asked to watch the grandchildren would be extremely helpful. These grandparents also indicated that they would prefer not to be expected to watch their grandchildren all the time. However–unlike one friend who actually did tell both her daughter and daughter-in-law that, when and if they ever had babies, she would, first and foremost, be a loving grandmother, and that she did not want her relationship to be that of a Tuesday/Thursday babysitter–most of the grandparents felt as though they could not have such an open and honest conversation with their own children.

With luck, when my son-in-law completes his coursework in Quantico next spring, he will be assigned to Fort Campbell, and my daughter and her family will return to Kentucky. If and when that happens, I’ll have to remember this article so that I don’t fall into the same trap that some grandparents find themselves. My days of being a disciplinarian are over; I just want to enjoy being a Mimi.

I should have continued my graduate work in counseling; it would have been helpful to me as a writing tutor. Today I worked with a student whose paper was returned by her instructor because it did not fulfill the assignment requirement, which was to write a reflective essay. What the student turned in was a narrative about the experience of partnering with some acquaintances of her husband’s in a business that nearly bankrupted them. But her assignment was to write an essay that was reflective.

The difference between a narrative and a reflection is that the former tells about a particular experience and the latter discusses what was learned from it. Though the unfortunate partnership happened years ago, the student clearly had not gotten over the pain and bitterness, and writing a narrative was easy. She remembered all the details vividly, so much so that she exceeded the required number of pages by two.

My student asked hopefully if any part of her narrative could be salvaged and integrated into her reflection. Determining whether or not any student’s work is salvagable is critical because the decision not only affects that student’s attitude towards the assignment, but subsequently how my suggestions are received. Rapport between a tutor and a student is vital, and I try very hard to understand the student’s point of view and quell any anxiety they might have. After re-reading it, I explained to her as gently as possible that most of the first paragraph could be kept, but that the rest would have to be re-worked. Somehow, that sounds better than “redone.”

Upon hearing that, the student’s body language told me that she already felt defeated, and this is where some counseling expertise would have been handy. I don’t know why, but I suddenly remembered someone I met at a conference recently who said that she often felt that being a writing tutor was like being a bartender, only without the alcohol. And so, channeling my dad who actually was a bartender, I approached the re-write from “behind the bar,” so to speak.

I asked my student what had become different about her since the debacle. It was difficult for her to think of anything at first, but when I told her about my own personal experience of having to rebuild my life after losing everything in Hurricane Katrina, something clicked for her. She began thinking of the positive changes she had made; she noted that she had become capable, stronger, and more independent. She realized that her marriage needed to be an equal partnership, not a relationship in which one partner makes all the decisions and the other simply follows. She now valued friendships more than material possessions. She had made the decision to go back to school in spite of the fact that she was in her fifties; though it was scary at first, she is discovering the joy of learning new things, which in turn have peeled back years and layers of self-loathing, fear and doubt. Like a butterfly, she was slowly emerging from her chrysalis.

By the time our session ended, my student had a decent rough draft to submit, one that she was proud of. I would like to think she felt better about herself, too. I think we both realized that life is just one lesson after another, some fun and some not. With any luck, we just might learn a thing or two.

My car broke down, and so here I sit, stranded in a grocery store parking lot, waiting for the tow truck that will be my savior. I’ve already been here two hours, and the truck driver’s ETA isn’t for another forty-five minutes. My head is pounding from a headache, a sensation that I rarely experience. It’s dreary, dank and chilly on this Saturday afternoon. Thankfully, I caught myself before diving head-first into a full-blown woe-is-me, and so I write this blog. Things can always be worse.

In spite of the circumstances, I am grateful.

I’m grateful for the train that changed the direction I originally planned to travel. Instead of taking a shortcut through a rough part of town, I was on the main thoroughfare when my car’s engine and coolant temperature gauges went off simultaneously, just before the car began to shutter and I lost power altogether.

I’m grateful for remembering to take my cell phone out of the charger before I left the house.

I’m grateful my husband wasn’t bothered by my call for help, and that he didn’t mind calling roadside assistance on my behalf, even though he was in the middle of something at work. And I’m grateful he didn’t give me a hard time for not having my Good Sam membership card.

I’m grateful that I’m safe and secure in a grocery store parking lot while I wait for the tow truck.

I’m grateful for the store’s clean restroom I used.

I’m grateful for the nice man who asked if I needed any help. Turns out he was as avid of a St. Louis Cardinals fan as I am, so we talked about tonight’s World Series game.

I’m grateful I didn’t have any special plans this afternoon.

I’m grateful this happened today, instead of two weeks from now when I plan to be on the interstate on my way to St. Louis.

I’m grateful I had not gone grocery shopping yet. A package of Klondike bars was on the list, and I don’t know if I could have eaten all six of them before they melted. Or I got sick.

I’m grateful the tow truck got my car to the repair shop two minutes before it was to close for the weekend.

I’m grateful for the ice cream shoppe right across the street from the repair shop. I got a double-dip cone to eat while I walked home.

I’m grateful the trees are ablaze in reds, oranges, and golds. They gave me something to marvel at instead of thinking about what might be wrong with the car.

I’m grateful to be home now.

It’s been “one of those days,” but it could have been so much worse. I think I’ll lie down and take a nap now…

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Like naming a baby, when it came time to give this website a name, I gave it thoughtful consideration. I settled on Midwest Gypsy because of my roots (St. Louis) and because of the seemingly nomadic existence I’ve had since leaving my hometown thirty-five years ago. The English poet William Cowper coined the phrase, “Variety is the very spice of life, that gives it all its flavor,” and I believe that with all my heart. A boring and ordinary existence should be no one’s lot. Indeed, everything we’ve ever wanted is just one step beyond our comfort zone.

​As daunting as the unknown might be, complete immersion is the one true way to discovery. So many people are in situations that they despise and would prefer not be in—whether it is a relationship that’s not working, a job that is going nowhere, a lifestyle that is unaffordable, and the list goes on. But, because the thought of changing the situation is so uncomfortable, the choice is often made to just stay put. That is “being stuck.”

​Imagine a swimming pool. The perception that the water is too cold makes many people just want to dip in a toe or two, and from that trivial experience, the decision to go swimming–or not–is made. Or, a person might get into the pool at the shallow end and, ever so tentatively, venture in little by little, shivering the whole time and being miserable. But a child doesn’t do that. A child is not usually all that concerned about the temperature of the water…all he knows is the FUN that will be had once he gets in, and he jumps or dives in unabashedly. Even if the water seems freezing, the shock is over in an instant and, just as quickly, the real fun begins!

​I remember getting my first tattoo. It was completely out of character for me; at least, it was in 1979. I was twenty-five years old and lived on a sailboat in Key West, a lifestyle completely different from the middle-class, Catholic background in which I’d been raised. Like the main character of the novella, Jonathan Livingston Seagull, I’d become bored with meaningless materialism and conformity to the way life was ‘supposed to be.’ The tattoo (a seagull, of course) symbolized my rebellion, and when I exposed it for the first time to my stunned mother, I felt truly liberated from both the real and imagined ties that bound me. I was not only surviving an unconventional lifestyle; I was thriving in it!

​Fear of the unknown stops many people from experiencing what Life has to offer, which is a real tragedy. When the economy went south a few years ago, negatively affecting the nest egg which my newly-retired husband and I depended on, we had to reassess our retirement. Neither of us had the willingness to be shackled to a corporation again with those golden handcuffs, but generating income was a necessity. Independence, gleaned from years of living on a boat and then in an RV, was the main component we looked for in a job. So we decided to get our commercial driver licenses (CDL).

​I stand about five feet tall and weigh roughly one hundred pounds, so the image of me driving an 18-wheeler is rather hilarious. But I’ve proved that I can do it, nonetheless, AND parallel-park one if I absolutely had to. Was learning to drive this behemoth of a machine scary and intimidating? Very much so! Was I afraid of grinding and stripping all ten gears as I shifted? You bet. Did I gain confidence as a result? Absolutely. The thrill of passing the CDL driving test was one of the most exhilarating feelings I’ve ever had, and I’ve never considered going to truck driving school a waste of time or money. In fact, the experience has given me so much fodder to write about, not to mention the fact that my vocabulary, particularly of four-letter words, has grown exponentially.

Having a “c’est la vie” attitude has inspired me to try just about anything once–and sometimes twice! Most recently: oil pulling, an age-old Ayurveda process, in an effort to live more healthfully. We only have one chance to live Our Life, so think about taking a step outside your comfort zone. Believe me. You won’t regret it.

“You have the freedom to be yourself, your true self, here and now, and nothing can stand in your way”.”
― Richard Bach, Jonathan Livingston Seagull

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He was born to a father who was just thirteen. Though she was terrified, she ran away from home in the middle of the night when she was only five years old because her mother and father fought a lot and she felt as though she was to blame. His mother beat him so severely he bled because his chores were not done to her satisfaction. Her brother was murdered in Evansville, Indiana just one day after returning from Hopkinsville, where he had come back  for a family visit. Her mother chose drugs over her children and she went to live with her dad when she was eight. These are just a few of the reasons I love my job.

If that doesn’t make sense, allow me to explain. I am a writing tutor, and these are just a few of the topics my students choose to write about. Of course, an assignment was given in their English class that prompted them to recall these particular instances, but nevertheless, the life experiences of these students–spilled out on paper in vivid, and sometimes graphic, detail–are what I have to work with. In fact, these topics are a just a few of many that crossed my desk only yesterday.

According to motivational speaker extraordinaire Anthony Robbins, there are six human needs: stability; variety; a sense of belonging; individuality; growth; and contribution. When all six of these are present in any one situation–one’s relationship with a family member, friend, or significant other, one’s job, one’s hobby, and anything, really–Robbins’ calls it a “Class A experience.” I call it “happiness.”

This is why I love what I do. My position is stable, insofar as any job is these days. There is a tremendous amount of variety in the subject matter which comes my way. The community college family is extremely supportive of its members, whether it be a balloon bouquet on a hiring anniversary or a mass e-mail “atta boy” extolling someone’s accomplishment. My tutoring style is unique because I refer to the students  as “writers” which somehow instills a great deal of confidence in them which had been absent beforehand. I  grow, sometimes reluctantly, mainly because of the technology (software) involved. And I certainly feel that I contribute.

That my students trust me enough to read the details of their life humbles me. I know how difficult it is to write, particularly when the subject matter is sorrowful. And because it our writing center’s protocol to read a student’s work aloud while tutoring (oftentimes the writer will notice his or her own edits when hearing their words), I know that a great amount of trust needs to be in place.

It can be difficult to separate my heart from my brain and concentrate on syntax and grammar when the topic is heartbreaking. But it is my job to help a writer get his ideas across logically and tell his story, no matter the subject. So my student and I plod through the essay, sentence by sentence, paragraph by paragraph, page by page, until the story is told clearly and all of the requirements of the assignment have been fulfilled.

By the time we are through, the writer/student is relieved that the assignment is finished and confident that at least a satisfactory grade will be received. I, on the other hand, am emotionally spent. I laugh when I recall another college writing tutor I recently met who described the job as being like that of a bartender without the alcohol. It’s all in a day’s work. That’s my job. That’s what I do.