Sometimes grandmothers offer advice that is meant to be helpful but is heard as critical and insensitive, as Anne Roiphe adroitly explains in this powerful excerpt from her essay in Eye of My Heart.
When my daughter’s first baby had colic and woke every twenty minutes, I suggested that she be left to cry a little while before being picked up. My daughter glared at me, a thousand daggers. “You would suggest that,” she said, and burst into tears herself. Was I a monster mother? Was I known round the globe for my callous indifference to crying children? I could see that my daughter was at her wits’ end and could tolerate no suggestions at this tender, early stage of motherhood. She needed me to say, “You’re doing everything right,” which she was, essentially—or would be soon enough. I regretted my remark for the entire hour-long subway ride from her home back to my apartment.
Some days it seemed fine to say, “I think the baby might need an extra blanket,” but every once in a while even such a mild, meant-to-be-helpful comment would cause my daughter to get tears in her eyes. Those tears would make me want to cry, and there we were: two tearful grown women and one slightly chilled infant.
Open lines of communication are fine in theory, and frankness and honesty are virtues most of the time. But if you happen to be a grandparent who hopes to be invited to the school play, the piano recital or the birthday party, you had better seal your lips. Not speaking your mind is the number one commandment for would-be beloved grandparents. Silence on certain issues is not just golden, it’s essential. No one is as sensitive as a young parent or more apt to snap your head off if you criticize, offer help when not asked, or comment ever so gently on anything—from food choices to bedtimes, from discipline to reading habits. I am tempted to break this commandment all the time. I see clearly what is not so obvious to my children. I am calm when they are rattled. I am clear when they change their minds, muddle, weaken, spoil their offspring. Ah, my poor tongue is sore from being bitten.
I’ve managed not to say, “Why is your daughter wearing that dress to her birthday party when I have given her a far more beautiful one?” Or, “It’s time to get that child to give up her really revolting blanket. It smells so bad that I have to open all the windows after each visit.” In time the blanket will go, and it doesn’t matter what dress is worn to the party. I don’t want to risk hurting my children who hear my voice in a special way. A friend or neighbor can say almost anything without raising hackles. I can say almost nothing without causing pain. When I say, “I think the bath is too hot,” I simply mean that the water may be too warm for the baby. But my daughters might hear me say, “You can’t get the bath temperature right, what’s the matter with you?” Their distress is an expression of their fear that they might be doing something wrong when they want so urgently to do everything right. From me, my daughters want support, admiration, encouragement—and that is all they want. They have books, the internet and friends for everything else.
Did I do a perfect job of raising them? No one is in jail. They’re reasonably happy and productive. They are capable of love. Most of the time they’re neither lazy nor wicked. They share my politics. They share my love of books. They like animals, they cook, they clean, they make a living. But every once in a while I hear a whine, a resentment, a deeply felt reproach and, usually, I have to admit, there is justice in the complaint. And though I don’t think this disqualifies me from all child-rearing advice, I see a certain look in my children’s eyes even if I begin a very mild, “You might want to…“ I have learned to change the subject, drop the sentence midway—just as I’ve learned not to jump into a flaming lake or cross against the light if I see an oil truck bearing down.
My own mother died when my first child was barely two. I have no model for how I should be in this wonderful but sometimes strange role. I often think of my mother and how much she would have enjoyed being a grandmother. I resolve to do it right, as best I can, in her memory.
From Grandmothers Should Be Seen and Not Heard by Anne RoipheExcerpted from Eye of My Heart
Oh how true, how true. Love your Blog, love your book, love your thoughts.
Thank you, Jackie!! So nice to hear from you. Just back from visiting your very adorable grandnieces.
Thank you Barbara for writing the chapter on keeping our mouths shut. It made me feel much better. I was taking things my daughter was telling me so hurtful. I have recently learned to keep my mouth shut. I now know that I am not the only grand-mother that goes through this.
Annie
This is a great post. I couldn’t agree any more. In fact I wrote a similar post on my blog called “Communicating With a Teenage Grandchild”. I appreciate your insight into this.