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A Grandmother’s Life Lessons about Love

Finding new ways to communicate with teenage grandchildren

By Sally Friedman
   IN the beginning, it was so easy. All we had to do was be there, and our grandchildren were delighted. They knew very early, of course, that grandparents are pushovers — that besides our adoration of them, we brought toys, treats and tolerance beyond what their parents would offer or condone.
   We were adoring — and adored. And we thought it would last forever.
   But as bonafide adults, we should have remembered that nothing does, and that childhood moves immutably from one stage to another.
   So while once we could take our little hostages to fortune to The Nutcracker, to Disney shows and, a bit later, to G-rated musicals — while once we got to go to library story hours and, on our more energetic days, to theme parks — the winds of change started blowing as Hannah, the oldest of our crew of seven, got into her early double-digit birthdays.
   I can’t recall the first time Hannah actually turned down an invitation to do something special with us. I do recall how it felt.
   I was astonished that this beloved little person politely but firmly told us that no, she couldn’t go with us to wherever/whatever it was because she had other plans… with friends.
   Yikes! Rejection was not just hard to swallow. It was totally unacceptable.
   I had a lot to learn.
   Hannah is 15 now. In my head, I know all the things to expect because I’ve been through that year with my three daughters, including Hannah’s own mother. Each time it was one of the longest years on record.
   So I understand that this is an age of change for our oldest granddaughter, an age of uncertainty and anxiety. But I’m still a bit lost about how to handle 15 with Hannah. And there are no road maps to guide me through what is increasingly tricky terrain.
   Our granddaughter has shot up what seems like a foot, but is actually only a few inches. Her once untamed mane of blond hair is coaxed, now, into one of those strikingly straight, silky hairstyles that requires some very particular hair products and significant time with a hair-blower.
   Her wardrobe, once almost entirely limited to jeans, shorts and basketball shirts, is now replete with skirts that come in a dizzying variety of cuts and lengths, and jeans that look generally the same to me, but turn out to have major distinctions that I can’t master. The old ones look new, and the new ones look old.
   Hannah is no longer the exuberant little girl who always giggled unabashedly at her grandpa’s corny jokes, who loved to hang out with us and delighted in being taken to shows because we love theater and wanted to share that passion and pleasure with our granddaughter.
   Now there are frequent excuses about why Hannah would love to join us, but can’t. She has… plans. I don’t dare ask what plans.
   I am far more careful these days, too, about what I say to Hannah. I’m cautious to the point of anxiety about teasing her. And I’m painfully aware that the same little girl who used to spill her grade school secrets is now far more guarded. No giggly confessions about crushes at this high school stage.
   This is a time of locked up/keep-out struggles to figure things out. Mostly alone.
   Am I upset? Oh my, yes.
   Do I understand? Indeed.
   Hannah is at that particular stage of early adolescence when life opens up — and shuts down. That it happens all at once is what makes this passage so tricky.
   The opening up is that widening beam of awareness. Hannah is all too knowledgeable about life beyond her front door. She is fully cognizant of the very things we all sheltered her from during her first innocent years of life. In short, the world’s got her now and it won’t let go.
   The shutting down? A private fence around her very soul is now being lowered into place. No stopping that either.
   So my husband and I are again shifting gears, as we did so often with our own three daughters. We are letting our granddaughter lead as we gingerly follow, taking clues and cues from her.
   The loud and clear message: find new ways to communicate.
   The answer, like it or not: the Internet.
   I e-mail this granddaughter a lot. More than I like. I don’t text message, although that would be her clear preference. Grandmothers still have certain inalienable rights, and text messaging is just not for me.
   On rare occasions, I call Hannah on her cell phone. It always feels weird since cell phones are still something of a wonder to me. When I was 15, our phone was a no-nonsense black with a twirl dial — not even push buttons. It served a family of four, and had a permanent place on the dining room buffet.
   Hannah’s cell phone can take pictures, play music and practically tap dance.
   I’ve also learned the names of Hannah’s heroes. Many are music groups with outlandish names. Some, thankfully, are writers and artists. And recently, my granddaughter and I read the same book, a novel by the wonderful Jodi Picoult. Neither of us knew the other was reading it. The discovery was glorious.
   Most of all, I respect Hannah’s new boundaries.
   I yearn to tell her that even an ancient like her grandmother remembers those feelings of uncertainty about everything from shifting alliances to an ever-changing body. But my lips are sealed until Hannah opens the door to such conversations.
   I watch our oldest grandchild wince now at her little brother’s antics when just a blink ago, she was part of them. Now, 11-year-old Zay is an embarrassment, often banished from her inner sanctum, the bedroom that has lately been purged of the “babyish” wallpaper that Hannah once loved. The room is a sophisticated pale yellow with sleek and spare furnishings, and looks nothing like it did when this granddaughter cluttered it with the markers of childhood — toys and games, some stuffed animals and her assorted treasures.
   When we visited recently, Hannah was on the phone, then on the computer, then in her room. It felt vaguely like a rejection, until I realized it was also an assertion: Hannah needs time alone now, and she claims it without apology.
   I think I know what’s coming.
   More distancing. Less connection. Occasional tempests. And lots of time behind a closed bedroom door.
   I survived it all once. I will again. And so will Hannah’s mother.
   But for now, it’s not business as usual. For now, this golden-haired child with the wonderful smile is retreating. In some vague way, the old Hannah is disappearing, and in her place is a taller, more mysterious, very private young woman.
   Nobody knows for sure how long she’ll be off in some place where we can’t follow.
   But when she’s ready to return — when the trials and tempests of 15 have passed — I’ll be there with open arms waiting to welcome her back.
   For now, I bless those e-mails.