Somebody's Gandma
On a recent walk, I received a call from my daughter. “Mom,” she said. “Archie and I are on our way to the park,” She knew I often walked within this particular park. “We’re wondering if you’re walking and by chance are your walking the park?”
I was. I told my daughter I’d be waiting by the swing sets for them to arrive. Soon enough, I saw my grandson running towards me with arms wide open. After a big embrace, we set off to discover the treasures as seen through the eyes of a 3-year-old. Bugs on the ground, playing “I SEE YOU” through the safety slats that line the bridges between slides, and the repeated shouts of, “Nona! Watch this!” melded into the inviting, warm, afternoon Spring breeze.
My daughter, Archie and I meandered around the park periphery. He was determined to visit every nook and cranny of discovery. Eventually we found ourselves near the sand pit where huge logs lay flush on the ground, creating obstacle courses to conquer. These logs, once tall stalks of majesty reaching towards the sky, were now part of a welcoming play area for all children in search of adventure. Archie frolicked in step; sometimes walking along the length of the worn wood, sometimes jumping from log to log. I walked with him, just in case he needed a hand for support.
A little girl about the age of Archie approached. I could see her mom present and attentive. As she stepped up onto the log and set her gaze forward I offered my hand. “Do you need some help?” I asked.
As she accepted my offer and reached her little hand into mine, she looked at me and said, “You’re not my grandma.” I smiled even bigger taking no offense. It was obvious this little girl recognized something in me that reminded her of another grandma; probably hers. I took it as a compliment.
“No,” I said, “but I’m somebody’s grandma.” And we let it go at that. I was quite comfortable with the label of generic grandma. I encouraged the little girl towards success waiting at the end of the log where she jumped off and disappeared into the lure of the playground where her mom and more fun awaited. I heard Archie calling my name and returned to his world where there was still so much to share.
Grandparenthood is like one of those once majestic trees that now rests humbly on the ground. Whereas in other phases of life, the desire to stretch ourselves upward and outward towards magnificence and grandeur might be foremost in our desires, becoming a grandparent changes all that. There was a time when black velvet stiletto pumps held the coveted space in my closet, now my favorite pair of shoes is the royal blue New Balance gym shoes with extra foam for comfort. I need to be ready to sprint after a 2-year-old at all times. There are more morning routines without the application of makeup than not these days. Smiles framed by wrinkles are just fine, and the squishiness of my belly just means my lap is that much more comfortable. With 12 grandchildren under the age of 10, I’m full throttle into the season of grandparenthood. Once I strived to attain even the most miniscule level of greatness by accomplishment and achievement. Now, just like the worn log, I’m ok just being somebody’s grandma for whenever any child needs a hand.