Baby
on its way,” trumpeted
the e-mail from my older
son, half a continent
away. It was just after
noon, a day before the
official due date. Until
then I had been in very
low gear about the arrival
of my first grandchild. I
was thrilled about the
prospect of my son and his
wife becoming parents. I
knew he’d be a terrific
father—I’d watched him
many times with children,
knew he truly related to
them as easily and as
originally as to everyone
else—and I was excited
to see him in action.
Mostly
in this scenario I was
cheerleader and proud
begetter of the begetter,
there as parent of the
parent. That didn’t make
me a grandma, did it?
I
can tolerate the generic
description of my role as
“grandmother.” But I
just still can’t swallow
the personal title of
“Grandma.” First of
all, my 93-year-old mother
is the reigning
“Grandma,” a/k/a Gram,
in the clan.
Second
of all, I’m engaged in
activities typical of
people my kids’ ages.
The big one is, I’m
dating (I was widowed a
few years ago). If dating
at any age doesn’t make
you feel like an awkward
teenager, I don’t know
what does! An awkward
teenager with a twist of
sexual sophistication. Not
a very grandmotherly
image.
Also,
I’m working harder than
I’ve ever worked, as
hard as people work at the
beginning of their career.
I’m carrying a larger
load than ever. I spend
way too much time at it,
could use more help, but
essentially I’m doing
things I love and getting
to deploy the knowledge
and perspective I’ve
accumulated. My mind is
sharp and I see no need to
slow down, though plenty
of the guys in dating
range are slowing down or
even—gasp!—retired. I
love the work I do and I
still have goals I want to
achieve; I can’t imagine
giving it up for a rocker.
As
Mom, I always had a good
relationship with my sons.
We have always enjoyed
each other’s company,
shared information and
affection, although I have
always maintained
generational boundaries.
But I haven’t been
full-time Mom in a while.
Several years ago my sons
fired me as Mom, and since
then I’ve been
Consultant Mom, available
as needed. Great work if
you can get it. I still
like that job, great
hours.
I
don’t act like
anyone’s idea of a
grandma, and I am
certainly not my own idea
of a grandma. Both my
grandmothers wore
shapeless, listless,
grandmotherly dresses with
baggy bosoms and they
donned sturdy black
oxford-type shoes. I
assumed there was a
Grandmother Central
wardrobe office somewhere,
somewhere far from my
house. I’ve never
actually seen clothes like
that for sale anywhere. My
own mother has lived her
full career as grandmother
in wash-and-wear gear,
also alien to me, although
she has mustered
fashionable dress on state
occasions.
But
with that “Baby on its
way” email I was
launched into high gear.
Excitement! I was ready to
follow every centimeter of
progress. Immediately, a
tight e-mail network
formed—my other son, my
ex-husband, my sons’
half-sister—so that any
one of us might catch and
share the latest communiqué
from the baby front.
Afternoon became evening.
A message of progress was
left on my home answering
machine. I could think of
nothing else. I was on
pins and needles. And then
the sweet news. A girl.
Seven and a half pounds.
Everyone fine. The daddy
held the mommy’s hand
the whole time. He cut the
cord.
Mine
wasn’t specifically
grandmother excitement. It
was just EXCITEMENT. I was
in touch with the
excitement of my own
moments in the delivery
room. And the incredible
trip it’s been as Mom
raising two sons I respect
and adore.
Soon,
photos and videos began
arriving electronically. I
played them over and over,
played them for everyone
around me. I printed out
photos and put them up
around me.
At
the same time, I was
tapping into the latest
Grandmother research.
Grandmothers, science now
tells us, are not
consigned to the scrap
heap of history just
because their own
reproductive life is over.
They serve a very useful
function—helping their
children have more
children and helping those
children survive into
adulthood. So grandmothers
are getting some respect.
I’m
already the doting grandma
by distance. By the time
you read this I’ll be
packing my bags, on my way
to see Baby Lena
(pronounced lay’-na,
thank you) and her
parents. I can’t wait to
hold her, to sing to her
the songs I sang my boys,
and maybe some new ones.
Just
don’t call me Grandma.
If you can think of
another title, feel free
to let me know.
