Battle of the Last Pew

For a grandparent, caring for a grandchild is often like riding a bicycle. It might have been ten, twenty, or even thirty years since you burped a baby or changed a diaper, but you still remember how, even if your skills are a wee bit wobbly at first. There might be twenty different diaper sizes now and wipes today are organic (weren’t washcloths always organic?), but in the end, you still wipe a stinky bottom and fasten a clean diaper over two smooth little butt cheeks.

That is, most things are a lot like riding a bicycle. Some are not. Corralling Jimbo, my adorable, energetic, preschool grandson during Sunday Services on Easter morning while his parents sing in the choir is most definitely not one of those things.

Instinctively I knew. I came that morning prepared for battle. I raided Jimbo’s Easter basket before he had even seen it. I stuffed crayons, paper, stickers, finger puppets, and, yes, even fruit snacks, in my purse. But my preparations were woefully inadequate. It was as though I had brought a musket to battle drones and smart bombs.

Tactically I was at a disadvantage. I was unfamiliar with the terrain: we were in Jimbo’s congregation, not my own. Timing was also not in my favor: he had already been at the church an hour while his parents attended choir practice. I was concerned my stamina was not equal to that of the Energizer Bunny hyped up on chocolate Easter eggs, who I was facing without reinforcements--my husband had prior commitments. And then there was the pressure of Jimbo’s parents watching (or should I say snickering) from the vantage of the choir seats.

Strategically I chose a seat on the back pew, closest to the exit. At 09:00, I spread out my paper and crayons on the bench, establishing what I thought was a secure foothold. It was not. I quickly switched to the stickers, handing him sticker after sticker, rapid-fire. He put the first sticker down on the paper, then quickly layered each subsequent sticker on top of the last. We did not rise with the congregation and the choir for the opening hymn. We just kept stickering away until the invocation.

At my urging, Jim managed to close one eye and draw one arm across his chest for a mercifully succinct prayer. But as soon as he vociferously voiced his “Amen,” I knew the stickers had outlived their usefulness. I glanced at the clock. Only the first five minutes of the service had elapsed. I pulled out the finger puppets. They held sway for two minutes. Then I dove into my purse for the fruit snacks. Silently, intently, Jim watched as I tore open the bag. I apportioned the pieces one by one, all the while cursing the strength of my supply line. Concerned for his sugar intake and certain he must breakfasted on chocolate Easter eggs that morning, I had brought only one bag. How naive. Only 09:10.  

Then a proud papa stood before the congregation holding his daughter up following her infant blessing for all to see. The sweetness of the moment distracted me. Exploiting my lack of focus, Jim slipped under the pew, crawled to the other side, jumped up and ran out the chapel door. I pursued. Quickly I captured him in the foyer and marched him back into the chapel.

No sooner had we settled ourselves once again into the back pew than he dove under it again. But this time I was quicker. I grabbed him by the ankle and gently pulled him back from under the pew. Then slowly I lifted him until I held him suspended upside down over the carpet, his arms dangling down. We looked at each other, shocked--he that I had been nimble enough to catch him and I that I had been able to lift 35 pounds of solid boy off the ground with the strength of one arm. (Was it those three miles a week I swim or the superhuman adrenaline rush that allows distraught mothers to pull cars from their pinned child?)

And for a brief moment, I had the upper hand.

Looking much like a hunter hefting his quarry aloft, I held Jim poised mid-air. As he began wriggling slightly and giggling softly, my arm began quivering. And I realized that we were at an impasse. From my position sitting askew on the pew, I knew that I did not have the strength to fully pull him up to the pew. (Did I need to up my swimming days from three to five?)  Yet loosening my grip meant losing my control.

The congregation began the third verse of the sacrament hymn. I glanced quickly at the young couple in pew in front of me, their child sitting quietly between them, reading a book, then across the aisle at the middle-aged couple devoutly singing, and finally at the row of three pretty little girls with ribbons and bows sitting neatly between their mother and their proud papa cradling his beautiful infant daughter. Each of these supplicants, young and old, would be collateral damage should I seize the offensive. So I slowly, carefully lowered Jim to the floor and loosened my grip. Immediately he was scuttling under the pew, then scampering out the door.

I followed, retreating to the hallway. I shut the chapel doors behind me as the congregation concluded the hymn. 09:20.

I established a new position in the center of the small foyer. From that vantage point, I could see down either of the halls that led to the foyer. Jim quickly ran down the hall to the right to the drinking fountain, pushed a small stool up, and took a long drink. When he had finished, he ran half the distance back towards me, then stopped. He looked at me expectantly. It was clear he hoped to draw me into pursuit. His smile exuded cherubic innocence. And yet his eyes seemed tinged with a strong helping of mischievous taunting. (Is it even possible for an almost-three-year-old to taunt?)

But I stood my ground. So he turned, ran further down the hall past the drinking fountain, stopped, turned and looked back at me again. When I did not move, he once more ran back half the distance toward me, then stopped, waiting for me to take just one step in his direction. He continued this coming back and forth, enlarging the circumference of the circle with each round, until suddenly he did not. He was gone. Lulled by the predictability of his forays, I had briefly turned my attention to the sermon, straining to catch the bits and pieces of its message. And now I had lost Jim.

I reconnoitered down the hall. I turned down another short hall and looked into a classroom. The door was open. The light was on. A chair was pushed against the wall next to the light switch. All clear evidence of Jim. But the classroom, which had been repurposed for storing buckets, trowels, and rug remnants, was empty.

Why is this room not locked, I wondered. What is preventing some errant child (Jim) from going into this back room and wreaking havoc?

“Jim?” I loudly whispered, desperate, exasperated, and edging toward panic.

No answer. I turned to leave. And then I heard a giggle. And the four-foot high stiff remnant of industrial carpet standing on end in the corner wiggled.

“Jim!” I sternly scolded.

Jim emerged from the coil of carpet.  A wide streak of some unidentifiable white substance running up the leg of his neat, new, navy Easter Sunday pants.

Now my questions were no longer self-righteous, but self-critical. What kind of grandmother am I? How is it possible that I cannot keep watch over my grandson for even half an hour? And what, pray tell, is this white substance all over his pants? Can I brush it off? Do you suppose Justine will notice? 09:30.

I grabbed Jim by the hand, shut the door, and marched him down the hall. He insisted on yet another drink when we passed the drinking fountain. I made a tactical error when I released his hand so that he could press the bar for the water. Before I knew it, he had once more given me the slip. He ran down to the end of the other hall to the large gathering room. This time I gave chase.

“Look, Granma! A library,” he said as he pointed to the hymn books stacked neatly in the corner of the room.

“Yes, I see,” I said. I grabbed for his hand, a little too slowly, my reflexes slowed by my pride basking in the knowledge that my grandson knew what a library was in today's digital world. He deftly skirted me me and ran back down the hall to the foyer. By the time I reached him, he had stopped for another drink, pressed the elevator button several times (Thank heavens, he did not have sufficient finger strength to engage the call button), and was running up the stairs.

I quickly stationed myself at the bottom of the stairs. Jim ran up and down the stairs, frequently stopping and doubling back, once again trying to draw me into pursuit. But I smugly stood my ground. I finally had him pinned. He could not get past me at the bottom of the stairs. Nor could he open the heavy fire door at the top of the stairs.

Smugness does not become a grandmother. Especially when her grandson is Jim. When he finally reached the fire door, he tugged and pulled on it until he opened it and disappeared. By the time I finally reached the door, I saw only a silent, empty hallway. Luckily, I quickly found him alone in the nursery room, which would not be staffed until the adults and older children were attending Sunday School. I entered and sat down, defeated, in a chair far too tiny for a big person.

I surrendered unconditionally at 09:40.

I watched Jim entertain himself as I contemplated my failings as a grandparent. He set up a train set, cooked me several meals, and pushed cars around on the floor. To my credit, he was happy and unharmed. Dirty, hyped on sugar, triumphant, but unharmed.

Then, before I knew it, I was relieved of my duty. A responsible adult came into the nursery to take charge before the rest of the children arrived, and Jim quickly pushed me out the door. He knew it was time for nursery. I was irrelevant.

Shell shocked, I retreated downstairs to find Nathan and Justine.

“So how did you like the choir music, Mom?” Nathan asked when I found him.

“Music?” I said. “There was music?”

Nathan laughed. At least he and Justine had enjoyed the service.

That glorious, bright Easter morning, I was not prepared for the Battle of the Last Pew and the Hallways of the Short Hills Ward. I was vanquished by an endearing, dimpled, almost-three-year-old. And in the process I quite lost the sanctity of the day.

Now, as I consider the morning, I am at a loss. Despite more than a decade of experiences in the trenches as a parent battling my own three cherubs each Sunday at church, I was unable to entertain Jim just this one Sunday morning during Easter services. Today, grandparenting was not at all like riding a bicycle. I search my memories from years long past for days when I was more spry and determined and when I must have engaged in meetinghouse battles each Sunday. How did I do it? I can recall no great tactics. Nor any great moments of triumph, for that matter. And frankly I confess that should I be called to do battle with Jim in the future, I will more than likely surrender much more quickly.

Yet today, there is a new hope. A small, quiet, personal hope hidden in the turmoil and the grandeur of this Easter morning. As I look at Nathan, a strong, handsome, capable, loving father who knowingly laughs at my travails today because he is a father who now does battle every Sunday, I realize that while I might not have won today’s battle, I have, in fact, won the war.