HUMOR

I’m not Ready for Family Visits

I’d rather Zoom

The Stay-At-Home order lifts and my granddaughter can’t call me fast enough, wanting to come over.

“To my house? Like, for a visit?” I ask, breaking into a cold sweat. I feel my forehead. Do I have the Rona? Please. Please. Please. “If there’s something you need, I can just leave it on the porch.”

“The only thing I need is a big dose of my grandma! Besides, going to your house will be easier than bringing a two-year-old and a three-month-old to a restaurant.”

“That does sound hellish,” I agree, shuddering. “Maybe we should wait until they grow up? There’s always Zoom.”

Courtney laughs. “I’m glad to hear quarantine didn’t affect your sense of humor, Grandma!”

The death grip on my cellphone turns my knuckles white. I want to tell my lovely granddaughter quarantine affected me deeply. I’ve become a germaphobe and the lockdown accentuated my love of solitude.

Translation: I don’t want the filthy little animals climbing on my pristine furniture and wiping their snotty noses on the armrest of my recliner. Furthermore, I’d rather avoid nonsensical conversation when I could be bleaching countertops or flossing my teeth.

“We might as well get this over with,” I mutter, sighing into the receiver.

“Ha ha!” Courtney sings. “We’ll be over in a couple hours.”

I prepare for their visit, not wanting to be accused of being an unthoughtful hostess. A pandemic doesn’t excuse bad manners.

They arrive and Courtney has a kid by the hand and one in her arms.

I wave enthusiastically. “Hello there!” I shout, gesturing to the patio chairs. The wicker table features a bottled water, a sippy cup of juice and a fresh bouquet of flowers. I consider these items signs of a hearty welcome. “Make yourself comfortable!”

Courtney is all smiles. “How pretty everything looks!” It takes her almost ten minutes to get settled.

I struggle not to roll my eyes. These days mothers think they have to pack for a week just to take their kids on an outing. I want to remind her this is going to be a short visit. An hour — tops.

The two-year-old gives me a blank stare as if he doesn’t recognize me from the mandatory “Family Skype Nights” twice a week. I suspect he’s not very bright. He proves it when he pulls off his shoe and starts chewing on the heel. That’s what happens when you take a kid out of daycare and let the parents try to teach them anything. Now he’s a weirdo. Great!

I compliment Courtney’s haircut. Thank God the salons are open. She no longer has a beard longer than her husband.

Courtney glares at me and I sense hair may be a touchy subject. Did I mention her beard out loud? I decide to shut up. Sometimes less is more.

“Are you going to join us, or what?” Courtney whines.

My eyes widen. “I’m right here. It’s so good to get together again!”

“Grandma, come down from the balcony and sit with us!”

Busted! I thought the kids would distract her and she wouldn’t realize I am fifty feet away. Doesn’t distance make the heart grow fonder?

I climb down the steps, taking my sweet time.

Courtney nudges the two-year-old. “Zach, give Nana a hug!”

Oh shit. Here he comes, a running, breathing petri dish now clinging to my pantleg. I pull out a can of Lysol from my hoodie pocket and give him a couple squirts. True to the plan, he lets go of me and reels backwards several yards.

“Hey, you’re going to blind him,” Courtney yells.

“He’s fine,” I say. “What a sweetie pie!”

She holds up the baby. “And this is your youngest great-grandchild! I can’t believe you haven’t met her yet.”

I try not to pull a face. I’ve seen enough of this baby to last a lifetime. Every Family Zoom Night Courtney lets the child monopolize the screen. There are blocks of time I’ve spent staring at the computer waiting for the baby to smile I can never get back. Not to mention Courtney clogs my Facebook feed with so many pictures, I can’t even find the dirty memes my friend Edith posts after her daily fifth of vodka. (She says it’s for medicinal purposes and especially important during these strange times.)

“Here, hold her, Grandma!” Courtney thrusts the child towards me.

I shake my head and give her regretful frown. “My back,” I say, rubbing my lumbar region.

The baby starts to cry.

I wince at the spittle flying through the air. “Shouldn’t she be wearing a mask?”

Courtney giggles. “Grandma, you’re too much!”

“You probably have plenty of things to do rather than hang out with me. We’ll have to do it again … sometime.”

Courtney’s eyebrows shot up. “We just got here! You haven’t even sat down with us!”

“Time flies,” I murmur. “It’s so hard for me to sit these days. Ya know, the sciatica.” I point to my tailbone.

“What about the kids? You’ve hardly interacted with them!” Courtney’s lip quivers.

I look around. The boy’s missing. He’s been quiet since I brandished the disinfectant. I spot him under the table, rubbing his eyes, and give him a little wave.

“They’re precious, just precious,” I say, slinging the diaper bag over my shoulder. “I’ll help you load everything up.” My head sways side to side. “You’re really a walking wonder, Courtney. I’m so proud of you.”

“I wish we could stay longer,” she says, seeming confused.

“Oh, me too!” I say. “I can’t get enough family time!”

At the car, I waggle my finger at the boy. “I’ll see you soon, Whacked. Be good for your mommy!”

“It’s Zach,” Courtney says.

“That’s what I said. Zach.”

“No, you said ‘whacked’.”

I laugh. “You must have heard me wrong.” I lean in and coo to the infant, “So long, Virus.”

Courtney stomps her foot. “It’s Violet.”

Whatever.

If you enjoyed this satire piece, read the prequel here: