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I thought I was over my ex. We split up nearly 20 years ago, and I felt I had buried all those bitter resentments. Time heals that kind of thing. I wished him luck, well (sort of, when I was in a really munificent mood). I patted myself on the back for how successfully I had moved on, setting an example for my three adult children about how parents can rebound after a contentious divorce, bury the hatchet, and have meaningful, happy second chapters.
But then my eldest daughter had two children, a girl and a boy. Or more to the point, I had two grandchildren. Who knew I would embark on a third chapter, falling in love all over again?
I am completely besotted by these two babies. One is two years old; the other is four months old. They live in London; I live in New York. I became “Ellie," my grandmother name. I told my second husband Stretch that for the foreseeable future any trips we took would be to London. Forget about seeing the world in our silver years; we’ll be seeing the playgrounds and zoos of England.
When little Ava or baby Jack smiles at me, I’m in bliss. I don’t need to see the Taj Mahal when I can see them laugh hysterically at my vegetable jokes or coo at me like a dove. Ava jumps with joy when she sees me, literally. Not even my dog jumps for joy when she sees me.
On a trip to London in June, I noticed several boxes of pasta and Italian pastry in my daughter’s front hallway.
“What are those?” I asked.
“Oh, Daddy dropped them off. He keeps just dropping food off for us. You know how generous he can be."
An arrow to the heart. The unspoken rival. I realized then he’d been lying low for years, and when I wasn’t paying attention, he had mounted a ground pasta invasion. My ex lives half a mile from my grandchildren, whereas I live 3,454 miles away. Talk about an unfair advantage. Plus, I had no idea how long this subtle subterfuge had been going on.
Did I mention that I am a little competitive?
This past summer, I treated my kids to a week-long vacation in Greece. I had a glorious time with those grandbabies. I couldn’t get enough of them. Then I returned to the United States, and my daughter took her babies to see their grandfather at his vacation home, a home that was ours during the marriage. It has a pool, a huge lawn and is near the beach. In short, it's a kiddie trap.
My ex got the house when we divorced. At the time, I didn’t mind him getting that house. It held too many memories for me. Now I see it was all part of his long-term, win-the-grandchildren-over plan.
“Daddy has bought enough diapers and toys to supply a nursery school,’ my daughter laughed on the phone. “He’s such a shopper."
“Yes, he always was a compulsive shopper, a bit like gambling, an addiction really,” I reply. When I fly to London to visit my grandchildren, I give my time going to the park, pushing that swing, jumping on the trampoline, teetering on the seesaw. My ex may be buying the diapers, but I’m the one changing them.
When my ex left the family home, I didn’t worry much about who the children loved more. He had a string of unsuitable girlfriends. My kids say their father is best when he’s single, which he is right now. I can’t wait for him to find another unsuitable girlfriend to distract him again and level the playing field.
I have two other adult children who will hopefully one day bear me more grandbabies. I have nightmares now picturing them all having a blast at my ex’s vacation house, building family memories without me in the picture.
When I tell my therapist that World War III has begun for me, she suggests that it’s possible the grandbabies have enough love for both of us.
“Are you kidding? You didn’t grow up how I did,” I said. “My mother was always competing with my in-laws for my family’s time. Luckily, my in-laws weren’t that demanding.”
“But you’re not your mother, Elena.”
I used to vow that I would never be like my possessive, selfish mother who insisted that we fly the 11-hour flight every summer from London, where we lived, to San Francisco, where she lived. I still have PTSD from the jet lag. Not my jet lag, but my children’s, who insisted at 3 a.m. that it was time for Fruit Loops.
But now I see that maybe what I called selfish and demanding on my mother’s part was a form of love. The startling thing is, the older I get, the more I become like my mother, and the more I can see her point. Only it’s not my in-laws who are the enemy, it’s my ex-husband.
One day, I asked my daughter outright, “Do you think Ava and Jack will end up loving Daddy more?”
Not good parenting, I know.
“They love their Ellie,” she reminded me.
I am relieved. I know this is my problem to resolve, that I am the baby here. Our grandchildren only benefit from having lots of love in their lives from Ellie, Poppa, Nini and Grandpa. Still, it’s hard not to be jealous that my ex lives a short walk away from our grandchildren and that he has that tempting vacation home to offer. If only those babies weren’t so darn cute.
When I was a child, both sets of grandparents lived locally to us. Every Wednesday, my sisters and I would walk to my father’s parents, Bowesie and Pops, for tea and dominoes. I still remember the Sara Lee brownies and the feel of Bowesie’s cool, veiny hand on top of my little one as we sat on the sofa and chatted. Pops would teach me easy ways to calculate and score points with the domino cubes.
I vow to do what I can with an ocean between me and my beloved grandchildren. We video chat every week, even if the call only lasts five minutes before Ava and Jack wander off to find more exciting, tangible distractions. And, I reassure myself there’s only one Ellie and that Ava and Jack are the ultimate winners in this competition for their love. The main thing is they’re happy.
Do you ever feel like you're competing for your grandchild's affection? Let us know in the comments below.
Pete Gamlen
Follow Article Topics: Relationships
