Like most people, I’m forever fantasizing about the myriad of things I might want to be when I grow up. The possibilities seemed endless; a mother, a writer, a lawyer, an actress, a marriage counselor, a political activist. I’ve even gotten to be some of them, but there is one thing I got to be that I NEVER wanted to be and that’s a grandmother. The thing is, when my children started having children, there seemed to be no way around it. 

It’s not as if I didn’t try. I started right out of the gates with how the babies and I would address one another. And since they couldn’t talk, I felt I had the upper hand. I soon remembered that no one has the upper hand with babies.

When my oldest daughter gave birth to my very first grandchild seven years ago, I introduced him as “My daughter’s baby,” or on occasion simply by his first name, “Luke,” and if anyone ever asked, “Who is Luke?” I circled right back to “My daughter’s baby.”

I just could not bring myself to say the word “grandchild.” It just didn’t tumble nicely off the tongue. Because that, by default, would make me “Grandma” and I just was not having it. At least for now.  

It’s not like grandparenting isn’t a popular concept in our culture. Quite the contrary. It’s actually met with rave reviews. If grandparenting was on Yelp, it would rate five stars. People are obsessed with the whole thing. When I first started telling friends my daughter was pregnant, they were ecstatic, hugging me and congratulating me as if I myself had conceived (post-menopausally!) 

One friend offered to throw me a “Grandma Shower.” Yes, those are a thing. And, no, as much as I love to be the center of attention, that was not happening. No amount of free cake and baby supplies was worth calling unnecessary attention to my circumstances. Imagine the social media hype.

It didn’t help matters that I was baffled by all the contradictory tropes.

“Grandchildren are the very best thing that will ever happen to you in your entire life!” (Seriously? The very best thing? In my entire life?)

“The wonderful thing about grandchildren is you get to give them back when you are done with them!” (Why would I want to “give back” the “very best thing” that ever happened to me “in my entire life?”)

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not as if I wasn’t old enough to be a grandmother. Arguably, I was. In fact, I was actually a full decade older than my own mother was when I made her a grandmother for the first time. So that wasn’t the problem.

My issue with becoming a grandmother was a bit more complicated and nuanced, but I know it probably boils down to three things that happened the year my grandson (yes, I can say it now) was born.

I became an orphan, a widow and an empty nester all in one year.  My mother passed away, my husband was killed in a tragic accident and my youngest child left for college. I associated all of those life events with “getting old” and they all happened when I was still relatively young. 

A few years after all these devastating events, I found myself thrust back out into the “single girl life.” I was far too young to have any widowed friends, but my divorced friends graciously took me under wing. Life under their wing cost thousands of dollars in laser treatments, lululemon, Botox and Pilates.  

Those days were a complicated batch of emotions as I would often spend the day babysitting Luke and then when my daughter picked him up, I’d quickly shimmy into a pair of jeans, fluff out my hair and meet the girls at a popular rooftop bar. The very last evening I ever did that, I was poised in a mixed group holding a Cosmo, working hard to convince myself 55 was the new 40, when one of my son’s fraternity brothers bear-hugged me from behind and in a booming voice said,

“Hi, Mrs. Blanchard. How’s that grandbaby?”

I was mortified. I can’t imagine the look I gave him. So, in hindsight… bless his heart. But also… bless mine. I haven’t been back to a “Singles Bar” since.  

But it hasn’t gotten any easier keeping my finger in the dyke, because, as you might imagine, my kids didn’t stop at that one little boy. He was such a marvel and we all enjoyed him so much, everyone wanted in on the action. Before I knew it, my entire brood was reproducing like gerbils.

Soon there were three more. All girls. Every time those little stinkers called me “Grandma!” I got visibly annoyed and warned them sternly, “If y’all keep calling me, ‘Grandma,’ I’m going to call y’all, ‘Grandma.'” So every time they called me “Grandma,” I’d call them “Grandma” right back and the three little imps would fall all over themselves giggling and squealing in pure delight, shouting at the top of their lungs, “Grandma just called us ‘Grandma!'” 

So that plan backfired. They were so tickled by the entire exercise they took to calling me “Grandma” every chance they got just to hear me call them “Grandma!” Especially in public. At the top of their tiny lungs. It became a whole thing. Each one of these three little girls is the daughter of each of my three daughters and her mother’s doppelgänger in looks and personality. No one mentions that part; about how having grandchildren is like getting each one of your own children back ever so briefly in little snatches and snippets.

A few more years flew by and my oldest added one more boy. Now, I’m not one to complain, but that kid is feral. Think chubby, wild woodland creature. He is two now. At two, his older brother Luke could name the state capitals of all 50 states. This one walks around with so many pacifiers looped around his fingers he looks like Edward Scissorhands and the only word he said to me all day yesterday was “dangerous!” Which is, admittedly, the only word he really needs to know. So I guess I’m saying he’s quite clever.

My daughter asked me to be in the delivery room for his birth. If you’ve only ever been on the pitcher’s mound like me and never gotten to be there on the catcher’s mound … it’s simply spectacular. This kid and I have an unbreakable lifelong bond. When they put him in my arms, I looked right at him without an ounce of hesitation and said, “Hey there, Little Dude, it’s me, Grandma.”

Earlier this year, my second daughter added a beautiful little girl. Later this year, my youngest daughter will add yet another granddaughter. If you’ve lost count, I understand. I think I’m at 7. All I know is there are a lot of them. My children have a lot of children. So, for reasons entirely out of my control, I am “Grandma.” Their Grandma. 

And I have no desire to give them back.