call me Ishmael

My planets are aligned in such a way that I don't really have to do much parenting in front of my parents.

Mom lives four hundred some miles northwest of me.  Dad four hundred some to the south.  When we are all together, it is more of a baby exchange than a family reunion.

Here's the boy.
Here's his bag.
See you next week.
Kisses all around.

Not because we don't love each other.
Of course not.
It's because they don't have much use for me.

Or they just want some time with the number one grandson.
Or something.
Anyway.

I loved to be left alone with my grandparents, so I extend the courtesy to Jake.
And to my mom and dad.

My dad was over the other day and Jake was being a total asshole.
In all fairness, Jake had been on a Whirlwind Tour of America's Southland with Grandma and Grandpa at the Hull for almost a full week and it all came to a grinding halt once he walked through the front door Sunday morning.  Dad flew him back first thing, so he (they) had been up since 4.30 or so.
I don't do well on travel days either.

So I was trying to give Jacob the benefit of the doubt and let him have a bit of leeway with the lip and the noise and the general disgust of being in his own home.  But that ran out quickly.  Just about the time that I took a workbook he wasn't respecting away from him so he decided to look me dead in the eye, ask me what he was supposed to write on, and grind his fat brown Crayola marker into my carpet.

"Ohmygod", I said.  Not because  he marked up the carpet.  The carpet was bought specifically for instances of fat brown Crayola markers being ground into it.  I said Ohmygod (a term I don't really ever use, especially with the boy because it's a swear and he isn't allowed to say it) because I had just had enough.  One week away from the child and he had made up for all the time gone in fifteen minutes.  Tears came.  His, not mine.  "I can't beeeelieeeeeve you don't want me to do my art any mooooooooooore.  Is it because you don't liiiiiiiiike it?".

We had some words.  I hold him very close and talk very quietly and rub his back when we "talk".  It helps both of us calm down.
Every time Jake looked away from me, I looked at my dad.  I wanted to make sure he was getting all this.  I wanted to make sure the man who told me, not twenty minutes prior, that "you know, he was just perfect.  Perfect.  Absolutely perfect.  Not one problem.  Just, wow.  Amazing.  You have a great kid.  I can't believe it".

Jake in the corner.
Dad tells me "he sure does act different when he is with us".
Jake's out of the corner and starting to crap out in front of Tom and Jerry, completely exhausted.

A couple hours later, as I was driving my dad back to the airport, I ask him, "is it weird?  To see your kid parent?"

"There is a lot of satisfaction in it"

And by satisfaction do you think he meant:
A) pride
B) joy
C) nostalgia
D) justice
E) retribution
F) all of the above

I felt it wise not to ask.
So I just laughed.
And he did too.

Parenting in front of your parents is satisfying too.  There is a lot of the F) all of the above type of satisfaction.

It's because:
A) there are things I do much differently than my parents did.  Not because they were terrible monsters, but because there are different/better ways to do things and I try really hard to be different/better.
B) there are things I do much the same as my parents did.  Not because they were wonderful tactics by any stretch of the imagination, but because they are ingrained inside of me just as much as the color of my eyes.
C) there are things that I do because my parents did them because they were absolutely wonderful tactics that absolutely worked when we absolutely were terrible monsters.
D) all of the above.

Exactly.