The Modern Grandma
August 23, 2000
I feel as nervous as when I was a new mom trying to figure out which end of the baby to diaper. This is my first babysitting job as a new grandma. There is so much to learn and as Ginger Rogers said – she had to do everything Fred Astaire did and do it backwards. That’s what the role of grandma is. You need to do what the parents want you to do – especially if you were a parent like me whose children barely came out of it alive and actually deserve some sort of survival medal. My daughter-in-law is a lot better parent than me.
Back in the old days, I was the parent of that three-year-old running around the concessions stand at the Art City Drive-In at 11 at night in a messy diaper. Still sucking on a binky. Still not potty-trained. I barely got my kids trained for kindergarten—I still thank heaven for those half days.
I had thumb suckers and tantrum throwers. We ate candy—they got that first sweet taste of Snickers along with mother’s milk. They ate whole corn and fish sticks and scrambled eggs and white bread. And home canned peaches with the sugar syrup dripping down their chins. All before they were out of their cribs—well, actually some of the shorter ones, that was like when they were ten. But before they had teeth, for sure.
We ate baby aspirin for everything. I once gave Mylanta to a kid who had a colic who hadn’t stop crying for days. We ate bologna and hot dogs and nitrates and citrates and caltrates and whatever else we could fin.d Now, of course, I realize I should have probably never been allowed to have children.
When we went someplace in the car, we threw a couple of crib mattresses in the back seat of the old station wagon, laid a couple of quilts on top and threw in some toys. My first safety consideration was that no one crawled up from the back when we were on the highway and cover my eyes and ask, “Guess who, mom?”
There is also the name problem. I want to be called “Mamie.” Why? Because I like it. Never mind that my son says it reminds him of people who are “maimed” so he says they should call me “gimpy.” My daughter says I can’t just take the letter “M” and make up a grandma name. The kids is supposed to make up a cute as a button name like “Winky” or
“Mumsie,” but what are you supposed to do until then?
I think Mamie is cute and perky and it reminds me of President Eisenhower’s wife, Mamie, who came to Denver in a motorcade when I was little because her mother lived up the street. I haven’t spent most of my life wanting to be named after Mamie Eisenhower, but now that I think of it, I wouldn’t change it if it were the stupidest name on earth.
So there I am, an ill named, dangerous, careless former mom who’s now the grandmother of someone who mother is intelligent and well read. Dr. Spock told me to follow instincts and I put down his book and did what I wanted. No use to say, “Well, they all lived.” There are probably mosquito mothers somewhere saying the same thing.
But I loved them so much that it seems like things came out okay. They are at least 11.35% dumber than they would have been if I’d done everything right and I will never know the number of narrow escapes we had as I drove along, mumbling my prayers. I could see that we weren’t operating at full speed and that we didn’t look like the other families with the neat little girls and the sparkling little boys. Not knowing what to do kept those prayers-a-comin’.
It couldn’t have all been just blind luck.
I feel as nervous as when I was a new mom trying to figure out which end of the baby to diaper. This is my first babysitting job as a new grandma. There is so much to learn and as Ginger Rogers said – she had to do everything Fred Astaire did and do it backwards. That’s what the role of grandma is. You need to do what the parents want you to do – especially if you were a parent like me whose children barely came out of it alive and actually deserve some sort of survival medal. My daughter-in-law is a lot better parent than me.
Back in the old days, I was the parent of that three-year-old running around the concessions stand at the Art City Drive-In at 11 at night in a messy diaper. Still sucking on a binky. Still not potty-trained. I barely got my kids trained for kindergarten—I still thank heaven for those half days.
I had thumb suckers and tantrum throwers. We ate candy—they got that first sweet taste of Snickers along with mother’s milk. They ate whole corn and fish sticks and scrambled eggs and white bread. And home canned peaches with the sugar syrup dripping down their chins. All before they were out of their cribs—well, actually some of the shorter ones, that was like when they were ten. But before they had teeth, for sure.
We ate baby aspirin for everything. I once gave Mylanta to a kid who had a colic who hadn’t stop crying for days. We ate bologna and hot dogs and nitrates and citrates and caltrates and whatever else we could fin.d Now, of course, I realize I should have probably never been allowed to have children.
When we went someplace in the car, we threw a couple of crib mattresses in the back seat of the old station wagon, laid a couple of quilts on top and threw in some toys. My first safety consideration was that no one crawled up from the back when we were on the highway and cover my eyes and ask, “Guess who, mom?”
There is also the name problem. I want to be called “Mamie.” Why? Because I like it. Never mind that my son says it reminds him of people who are “maimed” so he says they should call me “gimpy.” My daughter says I can’t just take the letter “M” and make up a grandma name. The kids is supposed to make up a cute as a button name like “Winky” or
“Mumsie,” but what are you supposed to do until then?
I think Mamie is cute and perky and it reminds me of President Eisenhower’s wife, Mamie, who came to Denver in a motorcade when I was little because her mother lived up the street. I haven’t spent most of my life wanting to be named after Mamie Eisenhower, but now that I think of it, I wouldn’t change it if it were the stupidest name on earth.
So there I am, an ill named, dangerous, careless former mom who’s now the grandmother of someone who mother is intelligent and well read. Dr. Spock told me to follow instincts and I put down his book and did what I wanted. No use to say, “Well, they all lived.” There are probably mosquito mothers somewhere saying the same thing.
But I loved them so much that it seems like things came out okay. They are at least 11.35% dumber than they would have been if I’d done everything right and I will never know the number of narrow escapes we had as I drove along, mumbling my prayers. I could see that we weren’t operating at full speed and that we didn’t look like the other families with the neat little girls and the sparkling little boys. Not knowing what to do kept those prayers-a-comin’.
It couldn’t have all been just blind luck.
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