Grandma Had to Delete the App

It started innocently enough.
Which is how most of my questionable life choices begin.

We were sitting on a bench at the hockey rink, waiting for my granddaughter’s game to start. There was the usual hockey-rink atmosphere: cold metal benches, the smell of popcorn, kids dragging hockey bags bigger than their bodies, and parents trying to look like they understood the schedule.

And because, apparently, I am a modern woman who cannot be left alone with her own thoughts for more than 12 seconds, I pulled out my phone and started playing a quick game of solitaire.

Quick. That was the original word.

My 9-year-old grandson looked over and asked what I was doing. “Playing solitaire,” I said, like a responsible adult making a perfectly normal use of time. He studied my screen for a second and then said, “I have something better.”

That should have been my first clue.

Honestly, when a 9-year-old says he has something better, you should immediately check your wallet, your phone settings, and your remaining dignity.

But I trusted him. Because I am a grandma. And grandmas are built on love, snacks, and poor boundaries when it comes to grandchildren.

So he showed me a game called Solitaire Associations Journey.

And that is where the trouble began.
At first, it seemed harmless.
Actually, it seemed delightful.

There were words. There were little categories. There were levels. There was just enough thinking involved to make me feel like I was exercising my brain, but not so much thinking that I had to confront my actual to-do list.

It was the perfect combination of “I am relaxing” and “I am basically doing mental fitness.”

Which is how I justified it.
For about one week.

Then I noticed I was playing it everywhere.
Waiting in the car.
Waiting for coffee.
Waiting for someone to answer a text.
Waiting for the dogs to come inside.
Waiting for my life to become less busy, which, apparently, I believed could be accomplished by playing one more level.

I would sit down for “just a minute,” and then somehow come to consciousness 47 levels later with a stiff neck and no memory of what I had planned to do.

I had important things to do.
Emails to answer.
Client content to create.
Words to write.
A home to manage.
A life to live.

And yet there I was, trying to decide if “apple,” “banana,” and “grape” belonged under “fruit” as though national security depended on it.

Then my app Opal, which monitors my phone usage, decided to tell me the truth.

I played the game for 6 hours in a single day.

Six. Hours.
In one day.

I would love to tell you there was a typo. I would love to say Opal was confused. I would love to blame daylight saving time, Wi-Fi interference, or perhaps a small clerical error in the cloud.

But no.
It was me.
Grandma.

A grown woman with responsibilities, a calendar, and vitamins organized by day of the week.

I had somehow become a full-time solitaire associate. And to make matters worse, I had reached level 125 in one week.

Level 125.

That is not “casual user” behavior. That is “we may need to gather as a family and discuss Grandma’s choices” behavior.

So, being the mature adult that I am, I did what had to be done. I deleted the app. Not because I am strong. Because I am not.

This is an important distinction.

Some people can have a fun little game on their phone and play it occasionally like balanced, emotionally regulated adults.

I am not those people.

I am the people who need boundaries, accountability, and occasionally a complete removal of temptation.

Recently, that same grandson stayed overnight, and I decided to tell him what had happened. I said, “Thanks a lot for sharing that game with me. Do you know I got to level 125 in one week?”

He looked at me. I continued.

“And Opal told me I played it for six hours one day.” He stared at me.

“So I had to delete it.” And then he said, “Really?”

Not with concern.
Not with compassion.
Not with the gentle understanding one might hope for from a beloved grandchild.

No.

He said it with the kind of delighted disbelief only a 9-year-old can deliver when he realizes Grandma is not nearly as wise and stable as he once believed.

Then he laughed.
Hard.
So hard, I honestly thought we might have a situation.

And then, because apparently this news was too good to keep to himself, he snuck downstairs to the room where his sister was and, through giggles, told on me.

Grandma got sucked into a video game.
Grandma had to delete the app.
Grandma needed screen time limits.

I wish I could say I was embarrassed.

But mostly, I laughed too.
Because it was funny.
And also because it was true.

Sometimes our grandkids need to see that we are human. They need to see that adults make less-than-perfect choices too. They need to know we get distracted. We overdo things. We make an oops. We sometimes have to admit, “Well, that got out of hand.”

But they also need to see what comes next.

We notice.
We correct.
We delete the app.
We move forward.
We don’t have to spiral into shame over every silly mistake. We don’t have to pretend we are perfect. We don’t have to hide every oops from the people who love us.

There is something good and holy about being able to laugh, learn, and keep going.

God already knows we are human.

He is not shocked by our lack of self-control, our ridiculous little habits, or the fact that Grandma reached level 125 in one week.
He loves us anyway.

And maybe that is one of the sweetest lessons we can pass down.

Not perfection.
Not pretending.
Not “Grandma always has it all together.”

But this:

We make mistakes.
We tell the truth.
We fix what needs fixing.
We laugh when we can.
And then we keep walking forward.

Even if we have to delete an app to do it.