So I just remembered I have this blog. Ha ha.
I don't think anyone really reads it anyway but I thought it might be a good place to post some of my writings. I am still taking on line classes and I am just finishing my first writing class. I have written a few poems and a personal essay and even a short story.
I wanted to post one today that pretty much describes my last year. I hope if anyone reads this...they will enjoy it.
The Transformation
“Mom? You’re going to be a grandma!” Those words cascaded
through my mind with a waterfall of emotions. Words of congratulations
came easily, but my mind wrestled with them. Scenes of “Fiddler on the
Roof” flashed. “I don’t remember growing older, when did they?” How
did this happen to me? Did I ever think as a child, “When I grow up I
want to be a grandma.”? Yet here I am. I know, I know, Grandma’s are
sweet, kind and loving. It’s the best time of life. I’ve heard it all
before. But do I fit that mold? When I conger up the picture of the
typical grandmother, well, it’s just not me. They are the storybook
figure of a stooped over grey haired woman in a rocking chair knitting.
I crochet! So why is it that I am fighting against the continuous
march of time? Am I afraid of becoming that old gray haired woman in a
rocking chair?
I have waged a war against growing old and becoming the
typical grandmother image. I fight with my personal arsenal of anti
wrinkle cream and teeth whitening kits and my beloved hairdresser. I
never want to have the dreaded denture click or the musty smell old
people get. Bath spray will be added to my equipment list as well. I
strike the gauntlet against ending up sitting in a rocking chair all
day, by working out in the gym. My personal trainer had me on the gym
floor the other day crawling around like a bear. It put a notch in my
belt when he mentioned most people my age couldn’t do this exercise. I
should mention, in all humility, that the next day, I had the painful
realization that I shouldn’t be imitating a bear either.
Why fight this war? Why not succumb to the inevitable? What
is it that is so bad? After all I have fond memories of both
grandma’s. My Grandma Nellie was my mother’s mom. She loved me! My
mother would say she was strict as a Catholic nun, but to me she was the
smell of homemade bread, and the gentle hands that tenderly combed out
my long brown hair and then rolled it in pink sponge curlers as I sat
cross legged on the floor in front of her. She discovered one day, that I
loved her custard pudding more than anyone. And I did! That velvety
smooth sweetness that I would hold in my mouth until the saliva made it
watery, was pure gold as it slipped down my throat! She watched me
savoring each mouthful. I let each bite linger in my mouth, trifling
with each morsel of flavor. The next week she came with a big bowl of
custard pudding for the family and with a twinkle in her eye she
presented me with a special smaller, container filled with pudding just
for me!
Lollieta was my father’s mother. To a stranger she would
appear as a mild sweet woman, about 5 feet tall and hunched over a bit
as if she were carrying something heavy on her shoulders. I learned
later in life the heavy load she did carry but you never would have
known it from her. She made me peanut butter and jam sandwiches that
magically tasted better than my moms. She would smile with a light in
her eyes that told me I was special and loved. Her laugh was ever
present. I was most endeared by the way she could make any situation
funny and okay. Spilled milk became a chance to try out her new paper
towel. Loose chickens in the yard became a game of chase the chicken
back into the pen. It was often followed by a story of my father
cutting off a chickens head for the first time and laughing as it ran
around with it’s head cut off. It wasn’t until she told me that story
that I understood the phrase, “You act like a chicken with it’s head cut
off.”
My mother went through and amazing metamorphosis when she
became a grandmother. Much like the caterpillar becoming a butterfly.
Hugs were not given often to me or my siblings as we grew. It was only
if we fell and scraped a knee, or perhaps if we graduated from
something. To watch her respond to my children in a completely
different manner was a wonderment, cultivated magically at the moment
grandchildren arrived. Arms extended and words flowing out of her mouth
that encouraged a hug and kiss jolting me into a new reality. The
superabundance of love that filled her eyes astounded me. She somehow
transformed, beautifully from a mother to a grandmother with apparent
ease.
Kaye, my older sister brought a new twist to grandma hood.
Watching her as she plays with her grand kids- and I mean down on the
floor, tickling and running about playing with them, emboldened me to an
unfamiliar and redesigned concept of grand mothering. She did not fit
the mold of the white haired older lady sitting in a rocking chair
reading a book to her quiet brood of little grand babies. The squeals
of delight and happiness that emits from the eyes of both grandchild and
grandma caused the start of modification to my thinking.
The actual physical process of becoming a grandmother was and
emotional labor. The waiting room in the hospital was hard and
impersonal. The chairs were stiff and uncomfortable. The light colored
wooden arm rests did not invite rest or comfort. The clock was behind
me and therefore made it too obvious for me to stare at. In my mind I
was staring anyway. Across from me sat my daughters in-laws. They were
talking to one another. I was unable to focus on their conversation.
My daughter was down the hall in an operating room having a c-section
and I felt imprisoned by the stiffness in the room. I wanted to get up
and pace in the hallway but the desire to not bring any attention to
myself kept me in that ridged chair. The energy in the room was
bouncing off the walls, pushing on my very soul, yet I remained
sitting. I pulled a book from my purse and attempted to read. Several
minutes later, I realized that I couldn’t remember anything I had read
so I put the book away. I attempted to join the conversation of those
around me by smiling at them and looking interested in what they were
saying but my mind was in the sterile operating room with my daughter.
My beautiful little girl was risking her life to bring another life into
this world. I couldn’t protect her. I couldn’t hold her, I couldn’t
kiss it all better and see her smile and hug me. I was trapped in that
unfeeling room without anyone who understood my agony. The anxiety and
worry would soon disappear. It would be replaced by the greatest of all
joys and yes, other worries.
So I have a confession. When I held my first grandchild in my
arms that day, and felt that emotional connection, similar to the one
felt at the birth of my own children, I whispered my deepest fear into
the tiny soft folds of her ear. My precious little grand daughter had
been born in a city about 8 hours away from my home. This is where her
mother, my daughter and her husband lived. The relationship with my
daughter had been strained. I loved her with all my heart but something
was changed. We didn’t have a connection with one another and I didn’t
feel she needed or wanted me, or my help. A painful wondering would
enter into my mind off an on throughout her pregnancy. I would not
entertain it long but when it came it caused a searing pain in my
heart. So you wonder, what did I confess to this precious newborn, so
quietly that no one else could hear? “Don’t forget me baby girl.
Please, don’t forget me.”
Now, three years later, I have 4 going on 5 grandchildren.
Eliza, the recipient of my confession, bolts from her mothers arms and
runs from the car to my waiting arms on the front porch. “Grandma
Gayle” she exclaims with all the wonderment of a child, eagerly
traverses the lawn into the world where she believes with all her heart
that she is the most important person on the planet. And at that
moment, she is. I pick her up and swing her around as she gives me a
tight hug. Words I have longed to hear for months, burst from her
little mouth as her eyes dance with excitement and capture my mind
holding me captive as the rush of adoration for this child consumes me.
Yes, this is the best time of my life. Slipping from my arms, she
takes my hand and pulls me to the piano. Hastily I glance at my
daughter as she carries in her bags. She smiles and understands as I
follow Eliza, hand in hand to explore the instrument she loves. My
weekend is filled with, “Grandma Gayle will you blow bubbles?” We play
piano, take trips to the zoo, and yes, crawl on the floor like the
elephant because that was her favorite! My daughter laughs in
wonderment at that transcendent moment, when the mother she knows
reconstructs herself.
Grammies house? Grammies house? Two year old, Cayden is all
boy! He is the son of my oldest daughter Amy. He lights up when he
comes to Grammies house. However, honestly I think it is more because
of Grandpa than Grammy. “Pa?” he asks after he gives me his “big
squeeze”. “Bre?” he continues on naming the entire family. This
little wonder loves family! Cayden’s phone calls catch me in the middle
of a hectic, list driven day, and give me a chance to pause and
reflect. “Grammy, Garbage Truck!” He bursts into the phone. I am
instantly engrossed with him and his fascination of trucks. We jabber
back and forth about garbage trucks and school buses until his mother
retrieves her phone. I find myself dropping everything to be in the
moment with him.
Restraining myself from picking up Rachel until she has warmed
up challenges the very patience of my being. Her eyes captivate me,
transporting me to another time when her mother was just that age. The
likeness is remarkable. Watching me closely, through those thoughtful
pools of blue, she relaxes and smiles as I play dolls with her sister
Eliza on the floor. She cautiously crawls near, wanting to see the
imaginative play. I catch her looking at me in wonderment. It is not
long before she is sitting on my lap happily playing along. Pure joy
wraps itself around me filling every empty hollow ache as she looks up
and smiles.
Owen is only a few weeks old yet the connection is there. I coo
with him and he smiles and coos back. We are in a world all our own
communicating on a level known only to us.
What has amazed me most about being a grandmother is i the
instantaneous surge of adoration that consumes and purifies my soul as a
silversmith purifies silver, releasing the dross from my life with the
warmth of the flames of love. It is with each of these darlings that I
begin a transformation. The battle is still being fought on old age but
the reasons are different. I don’t have the grey hair, I don’t have
the dreaded denture whistle, I still combat deterioration with all my
weapons, but the rationale has changed. I have changed. I am grammy,
or grandma Gayle, or whatever they want to call me. I live in the ‘Yes”
house. It is where, whenever their parents allow, I say yes. Once
those precious little ones step foot in my house, what once concerned
me, such as clean dishes, vacuumed rugs, toys in their places, and an
orderly home, is no longer a priority. Laughter as we discover homemade
play dough, giggles as we dump the blocks on the floor, hugs as we run
from the dinner table leaving the mess for later so that we can jump
together on the trampoline while its still light, peacefully and
patiently singing song number twenty while a little boy lays next to me
in bed not wanting to drift off into a slumber, and a world of wonder
with each of their discoveries all take precedence. They are the reason
for the battle. To enjoy each adventure with these little ones, to
impart any wisdom I have learned from my sojourn here, for this I will
fight until they no longer need me. This is worth the crusade against
the ever-advancing struggle with the aging process. Thus my campaign
will continue as I transcend into the new me, Grandma.
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