DOTING

I’m just back from watching one of my “grands” play for a national championship. He was playing in Boulder, Colorado. We did it in lieu of attending his graduation from Carleton which is in Minnesota. Another “grand” graduates from the University of Oregon the same day. That means we’ll be driving from here (our Puget Sound place) to Eugene in mid-June for that special day.

While still remembering the Boulder trip and planning ahead for the Eugene trip, I find myself regretting a band concert I will miss. Our youngest “grand” (age 15) plays a hot trumpet. We’ve rarely missed one of his concerts.

In fact, we attend all sorts of these kinds of events if at all possible.

It’s a part of what grandparents do. I call it “doting.”

Grandparents aren’t the only “doters,” but they’re the ones I know most about.

The dictionary offers two definitions for “dote.” One is “to be feeble-minded from old age.” I prefer to move on to the second definition: “to show excessive or foolish affection or fondness.”

That better describes our going here and there to be present for the activities and achievements of our grands whenever and wherever we can.

I happen to think that “doting” is a good thing.

I can remember being “doted,” especially by grandparents. I don’t think any ever watched me play baseball or football or basketball. It wasn’t done that much in those days. Besides, none of my grandparents ever drove. But that didn’t keep them from “doting.”

Our one grandmother who was alive in my lifetime was legally blind. Yet she was a “doting grandma.” I knew it from the way she would bend down to peer into our faces that told us we were special. The cake and milk was proof.

Our granddad was a quiet “doter.” He made us welcome at his island retreat where he had an orchard and access to the lake. He was a carpenter who made us tool-boxes and toys. He gave us books to cherish a life-time. There was no question that he thought we were very special people. That he walked several miles to baby-sit for us while our parents had a rare night out, is an example. I write from the property that he and my grandma Anna purchased a century ago.

Speaking of Grandma Anna, I was raised hearing my mother tell of how the grandma that died before we were born would be so proud of us. I felt “doted” by the grandma I never knew.

“Doting” is a sort of unconditional gift. Grandparents aren’t put off by the daily traumas and tribulations in their grandchildren’s lives. They are thankful not to know of frustrations and failures. All they care about is that this descendant transcends a whole generation and will live into a future beyond us. We can see potential and possibilities that even parents cannot see. What we can’t see we can imagine and dream. If love is blind, grandparents are the blindest. That’s why they dote.

In Lake Woebegone all grandchildren are above average. It’s not just in Lake Woebegone, it’s everywhere.

I think that every child needs to be “doted.” It may be the closest to unconditional love that a kid ever gets. The presence sitting in the stands during a sports event or concert, or in the audience at graduations from high school and college says more than words. Unexpected gifts or even a buck or two for no reason at all sends a message that says “you’re OK.

I hate to spoil this by referring to Jesus, but since I’m in the business, let me suggest that Jesus was the “great doter.” His life is full of the times when he gave unexpected and undeserved gifts and care for people. They never forgot. It is a wonderful thing to have been “doted.” And I think it’s also a great privilege to be a “doter.” ─ Art Morgan, May 2008