This article is adapted from Rona Maynard's essay in Eye of My Heart: 27 Writers Reveal the Hidden Pleasures and Perils of Being a Grandmother (Harper, 2009), edited by Grandparents.com columnist Barbara Graham.
On my desk sits a photo of a boy with mischief on his mind. My grandson Colsen, age 11. With his goofy grin and cocked head, he seems to be thinking about one of those endearingly dumb jokes that are part of children's secret language. He looks nothing like me or my husband, or even like his father, Ben, my first rascal and only child.
Both babies arrived amid other preoccupations Ben when I was a full-time student and anxious new bride of 22, Colsen early in my tenure as a magazine editor, just after my forty-seventh birthday. Both times I stumbled into an awesomely complex transition years ahead of my friends. I was the first to scour the city for trustworthy day care, the first to be accused of neglecting my child because I held a full-time job, the first to come home from a vacation and find that my teenager had held a drunken bash so rowdy the police had come to our door. I worked it out by trial and error, often fearful that I must be falling short as a mother.
When Ben grew up to be a generous-hearted young man, it seemed that I could finally relax. Then one April evening, he dropped by for pizza. He was 25, just starting out in his career. When I asked about his girlfriend, Ben flashed an odd little smile. He put down his fork and came straight to the point: "She's pregnant."
Becoming a Modern Grandmother
I was about to become a modern grandmother. What would this mean? My friends were still doing carpool duty and laying down the law about curfews. The grandmothers I knew were 10 years my senior and retired, or soon to be. While I worked long hours, they spent the afternoon mini-golfing with the grandkids.
Clearly, I would have to find my own grandmaternal style. Eleven years later, I've more or less done it. But there are times when I still feel out of step with social norms. At my local card shop I check the "contemporary" birthday greetings for grandmas. Here's a promising choice: "Top 10 reasons kids need a grandmother." First reason: "Who else would even think of bragging about you to a stranger?" Next reason: "Moms don't always respond positively to 'Can I have that? Can I? Can I?'" For the record, I'd rather eat a bucketful of Legos than give in to a tantrum in the toy department.
Suppose I could create my own birthday card about the reasons why a kid should love a grandma like me. Instead of Doting Grandma, I'd feature Subversive Grandma: "Nobody else would have the bright idea of buying a Blazing Saddles DVD so you can split your sides at the bean-eating scene." And how about Pilates Grandma: "She's in better shape at 58 than she was at 20, so why worry about getting older?" Closest to my heart is Truth-telling Grandma: "She'll give you the scoop on the outrageously naughty stuff your dad used to do as a kid." Only I can tell the story of how Ben was once caught stealing coins from a wishing well with a magnet.
Mother-and-Daughter Rivals
In the first photo ever taken of Colsen and me, I'm perched on the edge of a sofa, holding the newborn at arm's length as if he were a fragile and unlikely gift an antique soup tureen, say that I'm terrified of crushing. I remember that December afternoon, the parents arriving at our door with their rosy princeling and his carload of paraphernalia. They looked shockingly young. How would they cope?
I'd been listening to Handel's Messiah, as I always do around Christmas. Unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given. Although I'm not a Christian, those lines have always reminded me that parents deserve encouragement from those who know the pitfalls and rewards of the journey. That's what I hoped to provide. My mother would have said pretty much the same thing when Ben was born, another December baby. With the best of intentions, she set out to help me. As I saw it, she usurped me.
 The author, Rona Maynard |
Even though my mother quoted Dr. Spock "You know more than you think you do" her fervor sent a different message:
I'm the expert in this family when it comes to nurturing a child. So she was in the eyes of the world. She wrote articles and books on child care and for a time hosted a Canadian TV show on parenting. Although she had hoped for a full-time job as a professor, she couldn't leap the barriers of her time. So I became the first briefcase-toting mother in our family, and this eventually made us rivals, not simply for the right to fulfill our ambitions but for the less obvious prize of centrality in Ben's life.
From Ben's perspective, my mother was the ultimate grandma. The two of them forged a special bond during weekly overnights at her house, when she would let him have his fill of apple juice and homemade chocolate cookies. Ben once returned from her pleasure dome with such excruciating stomach pains that I had to rush him to the ER. "You overdid it," I told my mother. "Indulgence is my role," she insisted. "Someone has to put Ben first." The old story: By pursuing a career, I was neglecting my child.
Years after he became a man, I couldn't quite shake the feeling that my son had thrived in spite of me. That started to change when I first saw Colsen in his arms. Ben embraced the humblest devotions of parenthood with confident tenderness. Surely I deserved some of the credit. Along with my relief came gratitude that I could tell my son what my mother had never told me: "I'm proud of you. You're a natural father."
"Don't You Miss Him?"
There's a question people always ask when I first mention my grandson. "Does he live nearby?"
| Are you a modern grandmother? |
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Yes, I'm doing this my own way 20.8%
No, I'm old-fashioned to the core 5.8%
I'm a little bit of both 70.3%
Hey, I'm a grandfather! 3.1%
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Not anymore, I explain. He lives with his mother in a small town several hours from our Toronto home. His parents parted several years ago, and Ben is now a long-distance father. There's lots of driving for everyone, but we make it work — a modern family, pulling together for Colsen's sake.
Next question: "How often do you see your grandson?"
He visits every couple of weeks, I say. We take him swimming; we play Monopoly. Sometimes we spend the night in his picture-book village. His maternal grandmother owns a pub on the town square, and Colsen has the run of the place.
One last question: "Isn't it hard for you? Don't you miss him?"
"Missing" is not the right word for the fleeting, irrational spasm of anxiety that sometimes overtakes me in the winter, when drifting snow surrounds Colsen's village and a month might go by between visits. I picture Colsen at the pub, his second home. I envy his other grandmother. I have to remind myself that we are not competing for an Olympic medal in grandmothering. We are simply two women who treasure him in our different styles.
Between visits, I connect with Colsen online. In my latest incarnation, I'm Facebook Grandma. Oh, the discoveries I've made! Who knew there were such things as virtual food fights? Or that Facebook, like Monopoly, has rules, not that anyone has written them down? If somebody's vampire bites you, the polite thing to do is bite back. Above all, don't drag your feet about answering messages. Colsen once chastised me for this: "You forgot to answer my Facebook!" God help me, so I did. But in a way, I'm not sorry that I slipped up once. I like knowing that Colsen had logged onto the computer, looking for the message that only his grandma could send.
Read more about life as a modern grandmother:
Her tongue is sore from biting. Does she really need to be seen and not heard?
She doesn't bake a lot of cookies. Is she still a good grandmother?
The kids don't think she's cool. Do they still love her?
How do you make it work? Share your secrets in our Grandparents Unplugged group.
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