The Grandmother Thing

She's cheerleader and proud begetter of the begetter. But just don't call her Grandma.

By Hara Estroff Marano, published on June 07, 2004 - last reviewed on May 09, 2009

"Baby on its way," trumpeted the e-mail from my older son, half a continent away. It was just after noon, a day before the official due date. Until then I had been in very low gear about the arrival of my first grandchild. I was thrilled about the prospect of my son and his wife becoming parents. I knew he'd be a terrific father—I'd watched him many times with children, knew he truly related to them as easily and as originally as to everyone else—and I was excited to see him in action.

Mostly in this scenario I was cheerleader and proud begetter of the begetter, there as parent of the parent. That didn't make me a grandma, did it?

I can tolerate the generic description of my role as "grandmother." But I just still can't swallow the personal title of "Grandma." First of all, my 93-year-old mother is the reigning "Grandma," a/k/a Gram, in the clan.

Second of all, I'm engaged in activities typical of people my kids' ages. The big one is, I'm dating (I was widowed a few years ago). If dating at any age doesn't make you feel like an awkward teenager, I don't know what does! An awkward teenager with a twist of sexual sophistication. Not a very grandmotherly image.

Also, I'm working harder than I've ever worked, as hard as people work at the beginning of their career. I'm carrying a larger load than ever. I spend way too much time at it, could use more help, but essentially I'm doing things I love and getting to deploy the knowledge and perspective I've accumulated. My mind is sharp and I see no need to slow down, though plenty of the guys in dating range are slowing down or even—gasp!—retired. I love the work I do and I still have goals I want to achieve; I can't imagine giving it up for a rocker.

As Mom, I always had a good relationship with my sons. We have always enjoyed each other's company, shared information and affection, although I have always maintained generational boundaries. But I haven't been full-time Mom in a while. Several years ago my sons fired me as Mom, and since then I've been Consultant Mom, available as needed. Great work if you can get it. I still like that job, great hours.

I don't act like anyone's idea of a grandma, and I am certainly not my own idea of a grandma. Both my grandmothers wore shapeless, listless, grandmotherly dresses with baggy bosoms and they donned sturdy black oxford-type shoes. I assumed there was a Grandmother Central wardrobe office somewhere, somewhere far from my house. I've never actually seen clothes like that for sale anywhere. My own mother has lived her full career as grandmother in wash-and-wear gear, also alien to me, although she has mustered fashionable dress on state occasions.

But with that "Baby on its way" email I was launched into high gear. Excitement! I was ready to follow every centimeter of progress. Immediately, a tight e-mail network formed—my other son, my ex-husband, my sons' half-sister—so that any one of us might catch and share the latest communique from the baby front. Afternoon became evening. A message of progress was left on my home answering machine. I could think of nothing else. I was on pins and needles. And then the sweet news. A girl. Seven and a half pounds. Everyone fine. The daddy held the mommy's hand the whole time. He cut the cord.

Mine wasn't specifically grandmother excitement. It was just EXCITEMENT. I was in touch with the excitement of my own moments in the delivery room. And the incredible trip it's been as Mom raising two sons I respect and adore.

Soon, photos and videos began arriving electronically. I played them over and over, played them for everyone around me. I printed out photos and put them up around me.

At the same time, I was tapping into the latest Grandmother research. Grandmothers, science now tells us, are not consigned to the scrap heap of history just because their own reproductive life is over. They serve a very useful function—helping their children have more children and helping those children survive into adulthood. So grandmothers are getting some respect.

I'm already the doting grandma by distance. By the time you read this I'll be packing my bags, on my way to see Baby Lena (pronounced lay'-na, thank you) and her parents. I can't wait to hold her, to sing to her the songs I sang my boys, and maybe some new ones.

Just don't call me Grandma. If you can think of another title, feel free to let me know.