Skip to main content

How I Became a Grandma


2001 – It started with one.
I never pictured myself as a grandmother.  Never.  The transition started off unexpectedly.  A surprise.
My son and his girlfriend told me first before telling her parents that they were pregnant.  And that is how it began.  I remembering thinking; they are still in their teens and I am too young to be a grandma.
2008 – And it grew to six
My son and his wife added a second son in the spring of 2008, and one year later my daughter married a man who was raising his two children on his own.  Within two years, they had two babies, and I was into this grandma gig full time.
2010 – 2015 – It jumped to ten.
My youngest remarried and introduced me to my daughter-in-law’s son.  He made grandchild number seven, and within two years they added two more babies for me to hug and spoil. 
Last summer, my oldest gifted me with grandbaby number 10, a precious little girl, so now with seven boys and three girls to call me Grandma, there was no hiding from that fact.

2016 – Future

I have no idea if God will bless HoneyBunch and me with more grandbabies, but bring them on.  My two stepsons and their wives might one day decide to add to our group.  Maybe one of my three isn’t through hatching babies.
Now that I have gotten the hang of this role, I kind of like it.


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Happy Breastday to Me!

I gave myself a very special birthday present this year – I had surgery. Before you think it was to increase, decrease, or “lift” something, let me tell you it was not cosmetic (though I could probably use a few nips and tucks at my age; the infinite number of creams I buy OTC are not working their promised magic). About four or five months ago, I discovered a hard lump about the size of a large marble in my left armpit.  I had been feeling small pangs of pain in my left chest for several months, but I figured it was just my turn to dance with heart disease.  Everyone in my immediate family is diabetic and suffers from strokes or heart attacks, so I thought – here we go; my turn. I was going to tell my internist about the pangs during my next visit, so imagine my surprise when I discovered the lump. The Drama Queen in me immediately manifested herself – cancer, I thought.  I have cancer. I searched some more and found that the texture on the left side of my left breast felt diffe

Teenagers: Stinky Little Extraterrestrials

Years ago, a skunk sprayed our yard during the night and the next     morning I trekked out to my car to drive to work and unknowingly stepped into the oily residue. I tracked skunk stink into my Jeep and onto the carpet in my office, a room I shared with a kind and forgiving co-worker. It took a week or two and several large cans of Lysol and air freshener to get rid of the smell. Ever since my profound Close Encounter of a Second Kind (I never saw the skunk but it left evidence of its presence), I became a skunk expert. I learned the way of the skunk. My experience imprinted itself into my hippocampus and I acquired a heightened sense of smell.  I can detect a skunk several miles away, outperforming a normal human nose that can only start to do the same at one mile. I have the same uncanny sense about adolescents.  After 30-plus years of teaching teenagers and having raised three of my own, you might say, I have reached the Close Encounter level of a Fifth Kind: I have actually

Dating Challenged

I stink at dating – always have.   I sputter.   I hyperventilate.   I fail miserably every time. I blame a pathetically underdeveloped gene that got little use before I married in my early twenties, then atrophied, gathering dust and rust, until I became single again in my fifties.   I decided to use this defect to my advantage when I needed to do some investigative reporting a few years back.   While on a newspaper writing assignment on Boomer-aged dating, I sacrificed my dignity and my vanity for the sake of the story (and I got several). Thank goodness, HoneyBunch saved me from all this when we married.  (He comes up with the best dates.) I’ve decided I will “show you mine if you show me yours.”   I will swap dating horror stories with you, but you have to promise to play along. The trick here is to tell about your worst date in 25 words or less.   You must keep it clean and you cannot name names. Our little contest will run only this week and before my next blogger posting.   Me