EFFECTIVE GRANDPARENTING

Lie To Your Grandkids and Be Jerks To Keep Them Safe

Traumatized kids become successful, safe adults

I watched a sensational “Your worst nightmare” show because I didn’t want to think. Neither did the people whose stories were reenacted.

Two young sisters accepted a ride from a nice couple who convinced them they were sent by the kids’ parents. When the driver said they needed to stop at the couple’s home to get something, the girls didn’t want to appear rude, so they agreed to go inside. A couple of years later the kidnapped girls forced into sex work were rescued.

This never could have happened to me.

My grandparents loved me enough to keep me safe.

Grandpa’s infractions on June 6, 1966 (6/6/66)¹ at 4:42am

There were lots of times I refused to get into Grandpa’s car.

“Grandpa, close your eyes, tip your head back, and touch your nose with the third finger on your left hand,” I insisted.

“Princess, I haven’t been drinking! Except for a sip of your beer.”

It was tough being a sober 7-year-old around him.

I wrote Grandpa up for ten of Grandma’s infractions —

• lying (he was wasted),
• drinking (really wasted),
• driving with a suspended license (completely hammered),
• not using his turn signal (but he did randomly fire a gun),
• having at least 3 open containers (including one for me),
• felon in possession of a handgun (or four),
• violating parole (and a restraining order),
• calling me “Princess” (‘Patricia’ was too many syllables, and supposedly taller than me when the letters were stacked),
• operating a vehicle unsafely (no headlights at 4:42 AM) and
• keeping me up past my bedtime (it was an all-nighter).

I missed a point by not citing him for violating the morality clause in his Superior Court Judge’s role. One more and I’d have earned the green pony they promised.

Just five words in three seconds. Grandpa’s love was fast.

My grandparents were teaching me about trust because they cared.

Grandma’s magic eyebrow

Everyone has a tell. When my grandma’s eyebrow twitched, it meant somebody was about to get it.

I measured Grandpa’s infractions by how many inches I thought each would make Grandma’s eyebrow rise. A half-inch? The waiter wasn’t getting a decent tip. An inch? Somebody was going to lose 3" of height. If Grandma’s eyebrow sped halfway up her forehead, they’d end up in therapy for at least five years. (I needed 10 — thanks Betty!)

The first time I saw her in the middle of the night without eyebrows I screamed. “They’re penciled on because I’m a natural blond,” she explained. So why were her roots brown at the end of every month?

“Are your lips real?” I looked closely. They hardly existed without her bright lipstick. I examined her eyes and was about to honk her nose when she marched me back to bed.

Grandma’s infractions on 6/66

Grandma’s lessons were more sophisticated. She taught me important things, like government and what it takes to be a girl. She ran a beauty parlor to keep the couple afloat when Grandpa was in jail, frequently.

Grandma worried about my brothers’ influence. Riding in her convertible sports car in the rain with the top down, wet hair whipped my face. She wanted to be accessible to the paparazzi before they were a thing. I hated running errands and swore. “Park!”²

“Patty-girl, you’ve got toxic masculine energy.³ Let’s get your hair fixed.”

First off, calling me “Patty-girl” was a clear insult. I didn’t need reminding. But, baldness might be preferable to face lacerations.

“Might as well get you a training bra too.”

“There’s nothing to train. Do I wear it when I’m playing outside without a shirt on?” Oops.

Grandma’s magic eyebrow twitched and nearly knocked her hat off. But she kept me in suspense to teach delayed gratification.

When we arrived at the beauty shop, everyone greeted her as Betty. I knew better than to call her “Grandma” in public.

“Oh! You brought your little sister!” Betty beaned and her eyebrow finally sank back to normal. I knew it was still cocked and ready to go.

“It’s time for a proper ‘do’ for Patty-girl. I’m thinking a perm, a little less mousy, maybe something like this.” She opened a magazine to Queen Elizabeth with HUGE hair, wearing a crown.

“Grr-Betty, how will I keep the crown on playing football?” I worried.

Everyone laughed as I shrank, hoping to drop into the Ninth Circle of Hell.

“A small tiara will do. With bobby pins. Plus, you’re going to stop rough-housing.” Like hula, I thought.

Patty-girl gets Queened

I was tortured for the next two hours as my hair was pulled, pinned, poofed, sprayed, and perfumed. “I promise I’ll train my bra!” I cried.

Finally, the swivel chair was turned for me to “see the magic.”

The anticipation was heavier than the toxic ozone-killing hairspray in the room. “Don’t cry,” the stylist whispered. We shared a knowing look. She’d been browed before.

I was shocked, then delighted.

“I won’t need a football helmet!”

Both of Betty’s eyebrows danced like when Grandpa was drunk and crashing into furniture.

I’m not sure where the water came from, but suddenly I was drenched as the sticky toxic waste burned my eyes.

“Grandma, why???” I gasped.

“To keep you on your toes. You’ve got to have situational awareness to stay safe — you’re a girl!”

“Grandma, I know I’m a girl! I’ll still be a girl even if you don’t teach me how to be one!” She snatched the tiara out of my lap.

The training bra was supposed to be used for horrible elastic stretching exercises, chanting “We must, we must, we must increase our bust!”⁴

It made an excellent football slingshot.

[1] Mostly all true, but the dates were made up and Grandpa ran a big manufacturing plant.

[2] My brothers taught me to swear and were responsible for at least 2 of those 10 years of therapy.

[3] Toxic masculine energy wasn’t yet defined, but as Grandpa and my brothers proved, it was present.

[4] The stupid exercises to increase bust size were real. My older friend showed them to me and said I should start wearing a bra when my boobs could hold a pencil. They never learned to do that, so I guess I failed.

© Copyright Patricia Jeanne 2024. No AI, just “Aye, Carumba!”

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