My granddaughter, Charlotte (aka Charlee), just turned 3. She lives in a distant suburb, surrounded by cornfields, so I do a lot driving between grandkids these days.
Charlee has owned herself right from the start. After 12 years of grandparenting twin boys, the exclusive focus on a singular child took some getting used to. She knows her mind and isn’t shy about sharing her opinions on how things should be done.
She takes me on detailed tours of the house and her treasures. She loves her pretend makeup kit and insists on painting my fingernails after she finishes her digits. She also loves monster trucks. She is a devoted “mom” to her three “babies” and insists on tucking them in before being tucked in herself at bedtime.
And she is gifted at making funny faces.
She loves Bluey, Paw Patrol, Spidey and his Amazing Friends, and her unicorn phone, which does many things, but thankfully doesn’t make phone calls. Whenever I get dinged by a text on my phone, however, she looks up and says, in a sweetly admonishing way, “Another question?”
One day when I didn’t take what she was saying seriously enough, she looked at me in earnest and said, “You laugh too much.”
She is mostly a funny delight, but she has a shriek that would make a banshee tremble. One day, as she writhed in mid-meltdown, I said, “You cry too much.” It caught her by surprise, as if wondering, “Is turnabout fair play?”
But she stopped crying.
We’re just beginning our long journey together — the same one I’ve been on with the boys, who just turned 12.
But I need to stop calling them “the boys,” as if they were some corporate entity. They’re twins, but they aren’t joined at the hip. They are distinct individuals.
Now they’re teetering on the brink of adolescence, and frankly, there are times when they … have … had it with one another. Having a sidekick has lost its allure, and that leads to more squabbling, more physical retaliation, more blaming the other for anything that goes wrong, and more doing unto each other what they very definitely do not want done unto them.
And too much meanness. Mean is where I step in: Let me introduce you to your brother. He’s going to be around, we hope, most of your life. He should be your ally, not your adversary. In life you need allies you can count on. Your brother is not your enemy. Your worst enemy is usually yourself. Now you go upstairs and you go downstairs until you cool off! I love you individually, but I’m starting not to like you together.
Individually … hmmm … there’s an idea.
Grandpa Jim decides to take Tyler to a Notre Dame football game because Tyler has expressed interest in going there for college (six years from now!). He’s interested mostly because their mascot is a leprechaun, and this redhead is really … into … leprechauns. Bryce, on the other hand, has narrowed down his college preferences to Stanford or Harvard. He’s smart enough. They both are. We’ll see how it goes.
Anyway, I spy my chance and seize it. While Tyler is in South Bend, I take Bryce out for the day — all … by … himself.
First, we go out to breakfast, and a remarkable thing happens. A more developed person than I have yet experienced shows up. No one else is there to finish his sentences or talk over him halfway through his stories or for him to aim wisecracks like heat-seeking missiles. No mirror image at whom he repeatedly shouts “STOP!!!”
I look at him in wonder. Where has this person been? He’s delightful, thoughtful, good company. He fixes the latch that keeps coming loose on the compartment between the front seats in my car. “I like figuring things out,” he says with quiet confidence. He hands me a God’s eye he weaved around two crossed sticks using yarn from his crochet kit. Yes, he crochets! They both do.
We go to an old-fashioned game arcade, where I can’t help noticing that Bryce uses some of his points to get a wizard figure for Tyler (who is a fan of Gandalf from Lord of the Rings). Then we play mini-golf at PuttShack in the Oakbrook Mall, where Bryce isn’t obsessed with beating his brother, so we have a terrific time.
The following week, Jim takes Bryce for the day and I get acquainted with the fuller version of Tyler. He’s equally remarkable, yet different, because they … are … individuals — whenever their individuality is allowed to emerge, that is.
So I have one granddaughter and two grandsons, each a distinct person. I like all three very much. Maybe someday they will get to meet each other’s fuller version.
The thing about growing up is that life gets more complicated and they get more complex.
And there’s so much to be said for that.