Grand I feel and
Radiant, each time an
Arrival occurs of a
New Baby, a type of
Diety, in my eyes, because at the
Moment of each birth I revel in the newness
Of being. And then, as a grand
Mom, I sink into thankfulness.
Happy Mom’s Day, from my family to yours.
grandmother
Turning Into An Age
Blowing away age myths.
My mom just turned ______.
Well, I’m not going to fill in the blank. Let’s just say she turned yesterday.
When we celebrate a birthday, why do we exclaim that we’ve “turned”? Like, “Joe just turned 60 and he’s so grumpy.” Or Jilly turned 13 last week and is now a true teenager.”What happens to us, when we “turn” into a new age? Do the wrinkles around our eyes suddenly crease deeper? Do our muscles turn stiffer, or weaker, on our birth date?
Or is it more ethereal than that. Do we suddenly turn into a “new” person, a different person,because the calendar says we’re now one year older?
All I know is that if I filled in the blank in the first sentence of this post , my mom would never talk to me again. Or worse, she’d talk to me, but believe me, her words would not be loving or kind.
And I understand that – now.
Cute as a button, at any age.
When I was a child, I never knew my mom’s age. She never revealed it to my brother and me. Of course, at 5, or 10, or even 15, who cares how old our parents are? They’re ancient and we’ll never be that old.
But I do remember the time, when I was in my 20s, when my mom turned a certain number, let’s guess 53, and she told everyone at the birthday party that she’d just “turned” 43. I did the math, and wondered if she really gave birth to me when she was only a teenager. Because all along, I’d been told she didn’t have her first child until she was almost 30.
I approached my dad with the sensitive subject. He kind of smiled nervously, shrugged his shoulders, and suggested I ask my mom. From the nervous tic in his shoulders, I figured that was a bad idea.
For years after, I noticed that my mom gave a different number to her age anytime my bro or I asked her. One month she was 51, another time 48, three months later, maybe 52. And we were in our late 30s by then!
By the time I was 40 and lying about my age as competently as my mom, I snuck up to my dad and begged him to tell me how old mom was. He shook his head at me in disappointment. As sagely as the good witch telling Dorothy that all along, all she had to do was click her red heels to go home, my father said, “All you’ve had to do is check out her driver’s license.” After a pause he added, “but don’t ever tell her I gave you that advice!”
Sharing her wish with great-grandson, not her age.
So, I’m ashamed to admit right here, to my readers across the world, that I did just that. Me, a parent, an upstanding citizen with no arrest record (and just one speeding ticket…or two), flew across the country to supposedly “visit” my mother. Then I sent her off for an errand, and like a thief lusting for a hidden diamond ring, I peeked into her purse and found her driver’s license.
There it was – in black and white and I felt sorry all over.
Teaching her grandson that attitude is everything.
What did it matter how old she was? Age is only a number. Attitude is everything. She looks at least 20 years younger than her “licensed” age, she acts 30 years younger (I’ve been known to whisper to friends who ask: “my mom is 80 going on 18”). She’s beautiful and trim, laughs a lot, surrounds herself with delightful friends, yells at me if I try to carry her suitcase when she visits (“I’m perfectly capable, thank you!”), and reads voraciously.Honestly, I can’t keep up with my mom – her energy is friskier than a puppy’s, yet her wisdom hits the mark whenever I need a mother’s words to get me through life’s kinks.
“People have perceptions of what 60 is supposed to be, and 70, and 80 and beyond. I don’t want to be categorized,” she insists.
Mom, I salute you.
And I’m so glad you didn’t “turn” into anything other than your most wonderful self on this birthday.
Mother and Daughter – Ageless
Under the Princess Canopy
To my 4-year-old granddaughter, the most exciting part of my visit is that I get to sleep with her in her queen-sized bed.
At 9:30 p.m., Sophie’s constant energy is barely contained, even with the lights out and flannel sheets up to our chins. The bed is crowded with just the two of us, since half a dozen “my little ponies” have joined us on the counterpane, jumping in high spirits at my presence.
The chatter between Sophie and her tiny plastic friends finally turns to whispers, and then soft little snores. I start to fade out myself until I’m poked on one hip by a pony fairy wing, and I feel a plastic tail wiggle in my ear. Quietly, I place all the fantastical toys in the bin on the floor, and sink back into comfortable oblivion.
Until my eyes pop open. Two little-girl feet are propped on my face. I raise my neck a few inches and notice the sleeping child’s head down at the foot of the bed.
Not wanting to wake her (I really do believe in letting sleeping ponies, and little girls, lie) I slowly twist away and gently move the child’s knees off my chest.
An hour later (or is it only minutes?) an arm whaps me on the neck, and then a precious child, now right side up, cuddles into my stomach, finding my body a useful pillow.
I stare at the wispy white princess canopy over my head and demand my brain to stop laughing and GO BACK TO SLEEP.
Which I do, until an errant dolly finds my lower back, and brilliant little Sophie begins talking in her sleep.
Geometric solutions? 
Poetry?
An arcane language?
Oh. She’s mumbling about “glimmer winged” pony Rainbow Dash chasing Fluttershy in the magical night air.
5 a.m. and I just lay on the soft bed with my sweet grandchild, pretending that winged ponies are flying in and out of the canopy, dusting us with glitters of grandmotherly love.
Calm DOWN!
I haven’t seen my East Coat grandchildren in three months. Maybe, at the ages of 2 and 3, they won’t remember me.
So, like any self-respecting, upright, honest and upstanding woman, on this visit I bring 2 singing stuffed animals, 2 books, 2 lollipops, and a bag of my famous chocolate chip oatmeal bars.
They may not remember me, but by God, they will like me!
I arrive at their 1-week vacation cottage, a place where they’ve never seen me, so they could be even more confused about who I am and how I fit into the scheme of things. But as soon as I enter the front door, I’m greeted with “Madre! Come see my room!” “Madre, look at my car!” “Madre, can I have my pop now?” “Madre, let’s play outside!”
I breathe a sigh of relief as they cuddle with me, sit on my lap while I read stories, play with my sparkling earrings, and stroke my face like a blind person making sure my lips, eyes, nose have remained in place.
But.
Still.
I want to be the good Madre, because after this week, I won’t see them again for at least three more months.
So when they jump on the couch, I bite my lip.
When they eat their lollipops and touch the doorknobs with their sticky fingers, I only let an ‘ugh’ escape.
When Sophie brushes my hair and pulls too hard on a curl, I just laugh.
Until bed time.
The three of us are sharing the room – Sophie and I are in the double, Clark in his own little futon. The clock is pushing 10 and I’m exhausted, but Clark is yet again sneaking out of the room like a little munchkin looking for Oz.
“Clark!” I yell, scaring the poor kid into scampering back to his bed like a bird into his cage.
“That’s enough!” I continue. “Bed! Time!”
Sophie jumps out of her side of the bed and stands in front of me, chest puffed, hands held above her head.
“Madre, Madre!” she exclaims dramatically, moving her arms from the up position to below her waist. “C a l m D O W N! Just C A L M d o w n.”
“But…!” I begin to protest. But then I realize, what the hell, she’s right!
And I laugh.
And continue to be the good Madre the rest of the week.
Calming Down
Mother-in-Law
He begged me to help, so I crawled out of my warm suburban bed at 6 a.m. to drive the 45-minute trip to the other side of the universe – Boston.
“The baby’s sick,” my son-in-law explained to me during the early morning call with a voice as desperate as a new father’s can be. “Neither of us can miss another day of work, and I have an 8 a.m. court case. Please, Madre, can you help?”
Since the birth of my granddaughter, I had changed from “Pam,” to “Madre,” and I was still coping with my new image. But I hopped into my car and joined the commuters in the bumper-to-bumper early morning traffic.
“I am grandmother, hear me roar,” I exclaimed to myself as I walked the five frigid blocks from the car through the narrow city streets to the tiny townhome. My empathy and desire to help was unlimited until I knocked on the locked door three times with no response.
With frozen fingers I pushed buttons on my cell phone and called my daughter, who was already half way to her teaching job.
“Your husband is not answering the doorbell!” I shouted in a sweet grandmotherly voice.
“Oh,” she replied, honking simultaneously at some crazy Boston driver. “He probably fell back asleep. Pound on the door, or try his cell phone.”
“WHAT?” I screamed. She hung up, so I pounded to no avail. Then I blew on my fingers so I could press the cell phone buttons to call him.
Twice.
No answer.
My Madre-ness was receding into pure unadulterated bitch. I checked my watch. 7:15. What happened to the important court case?
I hit the doorbell with my now numb digit and didn’t release. Finally, the dog barked, and son-in-law opened the door, bleary-eyed and yawning, wearing beat-up shorts he had obviously just pulled on.
“Oh!” he said.
The baby began to cry from her crib.
“Thank god you’re here!”
I smiled like a saint. I decided I’d just guaranteed no bad mother-in-law jokes from him, ever.
(Note: My son-in-law is on my list of top favorite people. He’s a great husband and a fantastic father of two now. Also, he never reads my blog! :+)
roughwighting 