If what I read on Pinterest is true—and how could I possibly not trust it as a reliable source—I have only two weeks until I’m eligible for a big promotion. Two weeks to become worthy of my new position. If, as the site says, “Only the best grandmas get promoted to great-grandma,” I need to do some fast work not to look like a fraud. I’ve tried to be a good grandma, but I didn’t anticipate that the bar would be raised to get to a new level. In fact, I never imagined this new level.
The best grandmas have kitchens that perpetually put forth wafts of home cooking.
A special kid-friendly soup simmers on the stove, an apple pie sits on the counter, Toll House cookies fill a plate, the rest of the batch stored in the cookie jar. They greet their grandchildren clad in a full-body, well worn apron. Thirty years haven’t made me one of these gourmet grandmas. In fact, as my grandson once said after yet another fruitless search of the fridge, “Grandma, you’re food poor.” The only laurels I can rest on are the endless packages of Annie’s mac and cheese I made for the grandchildren. And I could run out and buy an apron—and a cute cookie jar.
The best grandmas are willing babysitters, who protect their charges like the proverbial mother hen.
I was always willing but maybe lacked enough cluck. On one memorable occasion a grandchild twisted her ankle on my watch, vaulting over a stone wall in an attempt to run away from home. And then there was the time the children confessed they had watched an axe murderer movie on TV after I fell asleep while we were all watching a family show. But I was always available for reading books and for playing school, where I got to be the principal.
The best grandmas take the kids shopping and let them buy what they like.
I hate shopping, and the only kind I did with grandkids was for back-to-school supplies. There my willingness to buy whatever was on the school list, and more, led to exploitation. I would take them to Staples in groups of two or three, and I soon learned that they had a competition going as to which of them got grandma to spend the most money. Thank goodness they moved on from elementary school before I went bankrupt. The back-to-school clothes shopping was a bonding experience—until it wasn’t. One year two of the girls insisted on jeans with rips. I embarrassed them by my outrage at such a ridiculous fashion and disappointed myself by paying for them.
The best grandmas are full of the wisdom that comes with age.
I am overqualified in the age requirement but I’m still waiting for the much touted wisdom that’s supposed to accompany it. Will it come in a great aha! moment or might I not even notice it when and if it happens? Regardless, I don’t think I’ll be getting any in the next couple of weeks. And if I do, I think I need to keep it for myself rather than pass it on, though I realize that’s not a very best-grandma attitude.
I’m worried that I don’t meet these qualifications for promotion. But there is one thing the new mom-to-be and I have going for us—practice, which should count for something. For a stretch of time when Kaitlyn was around 5 years old, we had an almost daily routine. She would open the door to my family room and walk toward me, a throw pillow under her shirt.
“Hi neighbor. Did you know I’m pregnit?” (Whisper: “Pretend you didn’t.”)
“Why, no, I didn’t.”
“Well, I am.” (Whisper: “Ask me when it’s due.”)
“And when are you due?”
One day (coincidentally shortly after her baby sister was born) she came in pillowless, cradling her arms.
“Did you know I had the baby? Wanna babysit it?”
Now it’s almost time for Kaitlyn to have her real baby. The family has been calling him Lentil ever since someone remarked, after seeing a very early ultrasound picture, that he looked like a bean. And almost time for me to get the big promotion.
Although I’ve missed the bar in many categories, there is one way in which I feel qualified for this big step, and that’s being up there with the best of the best grandmas in loving my grandchildren—deeply and unconditionally. And having all that practice makes me feel worthy of the imminent promotion to great-grandmother and the privilege of loving Lentil.
Carlene Phillips is a regular feature writer who pauses occasionally to reflect on the humor of everyday life.
