then again. i only had two sets of grandparents (well, one and a half as my paternal grandfather died when i was a baby). to be honest, it was nothing special. though i know they loved us, they were preoccupied with their own concerns.
i look to books and movies for inspiration, and come up with the curmudgeonly henry fonda in on golden pond, who forges a deep relationship with a step-grandson through books and fishing. (that feels hopeful, though i’d have to fish.) the grandparents in charlie and the chocolate factory are the opposite extreme — a wrinkled foursome who all slept in the same bed and were too tired to emerge. (best hide all books by roald dahl.)
on the non-fiction front, american broadcaster lesley stahl wrote a 2017 book about being a grandmother, which was too smarmy to be useful. the diversity amongst my contemporaries who are grandparents — some have daughters, a completely different universe — is such that no clear path emerges for me to follow.
so what to do? when i was a young mother, i was obsessed with doing the right thing and there were lots of rules in my home. with the wisdom (and fatigue) that comes with age, i can see the pitfalls of taking that same approach to the current crop of wee ones in my life.