Gramarazzi, yes that is me. If you see my facebook page then you know what I mean. Picture after picture after picture of my Rosebud, AKA my grandaughter. Rosebud? Well, that’s in my first blog entry how she came to be know by that little nickname. For today I wanted to share a personal narrative essay I wrote for a class in July. I had to write it so I might as well let someone read it. . . It will also give you a little insight into me…
I am a grandmother. How did this happen? Well, if I don’t know that then we are all in trouble since I also have three children and they all pretty much come about in the same fashion. But me, a grandmother? I am not done growing up myself.
Grandmothers are old, silvery or blue-headed women, not young, red-headed, freckle-faced girls that refuse to grow up. They are older women who have reached menopause and wear frumpy grandmotherly clothes. When I described these grandmotherly types to my daughter she looked at me and said, in all seriousness, “You mean those aren’t frumpy clothes?”
Oh, the pain.
Don’t get me wrong, being a grandmother is the most wonderful thing in the world and something I have wanted since my own children had the audacity to grow up and get their own lives. As long as I don’t have to grow up to do it.
It all started about six years ago. My daughter, white teeth gleaming and straight, braces just removed that very day, had a volleyball game to play that night. And one of the other volleyball players that evening? The father of my future grandchild. Volleyball is definitely my favorite sport.
Two short years later, the future grandfather received a phone call asking permission to marry our daughter. I discovered over the next year that things can get expensive on the way to becoming a grandmother. It’s all worth it, though. I soon found out the expenses grow after being morphed into a grandmother. A wedding is a one-time expense. Grandchildren? Well let’s just say grandpa (affectionately know as Lord Don) won’t be retiring for years to come as there are years and years of spoiling ahead.
Two more years passed while I worked and played, oblivious to the changes on my horizon, spending much of my spare time on Facebook. Honestly, would grandmothers be on Facebook? Do they even know how to operate computers? Surely I am not old enough to be a grandmother.
I enjoy my life. A lot of time spent walking, a bit of yoga, working out at the Y (not as much as I should—yikes), reading, trying to write, etc. Well, when not giving my fingers and keyboard a workout on Facebook that is. You have got to take good care of yourself if you want to be able to enjoy those grandchildren you will one day have. The squats you do today will pay off in spades tomorrow; I have certainly learned this to be true! If you think it is easy to spend time on the floor, getting down then getting up again and doing it with a baby in your arms, well then you must be something of an Olympic-style athlete. Congratulations on your outstanding muscles! It has taken a LOT of practice to be in shape to hold and feed a baby in one hand while operating your iPhone in the other.
On Mother’s Day, one year ago, I received a most special gift. I watched as my daughter handed me her gift and I had no idea my life was about to change. For the better. I slowly tore the paper off the beautifully wrapped package, wadding it up in a loose ball and tossing it aside. I recognized in an instant it was another of the angel figurines that I collect.
What had me speechless was this particular angel. I looked through tears at the picture on the box. It was a picture of a woman sitting and holding a baby out at arm’s length, the two of them gazing lovingly at each other. The caption underneath: Grandmother.
I turned to look at my daughter who had tears streaming down her face along with a tremulous smile. I was the first to know–well after the father of course. There were hugs all around and I was admonished not to tell another soul as she hadn’t told the other grandparents-to-be yet and didn’t want it generally known until after that first doctor’s appointment. I spent the next three weeks avoiding talking to my own mother for fear of what would come out of my mouth.
The next seven months passed quickly as I watched my daughter glow with the life growing inside her. Two days after Christmas, a perfectly lovely, tiny girl was born. I gave my notice at work and would not return after the holidays. My new job: Full-time Grammy. Pay and benefits: Incalculable.
All these months later, I’m still the grandmother that refuses to grow up. My days are spent on the floor playing, reading and singing. Doing my squats getting up and down. Chest presses with a giggling and slobbering twenty pound wiggling weight. I update my Facebook status constantly. Don’t all grandmothers? Days filled with posting pictures of my little Rosebud as I affectionately call her. I have been dubbed by my daughter as Gramarazzi.
I am of the mind that age is just a number after all. And, when my body decides to go ahead and do that age thing and menopause hits me the same time teething begins for the baby, well what a fun pair we will make! An adventure for all.
I am a grandmother, and I love it.
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