|
Sunny Side Up with Kathleen Gibson Not That Kind of Grandmother It�s blazing hot, and I�m watering�my garden, myself, my grandson. Flicking my water wand at anything that looks like a candidate for raisin-hood under the midsummer sun. �On face!� tiny Benjamin Bean squeals, sticking his hand into the flow and tentatively splashing his cheeks�ripe peaches below a set of blueberry eyes. Well, why not? �On Granana�s face too! On hair! On neck! On leg! On dress!� Liquid prisms absorb the sun and steal its heat before lighting on me, cool as a glacial stream. Lord, that feels good. Benjamin watches, looks down at his blue shorts, already streaked with garden dirt from his excavation efforts. Nevertheless, �Take shorts off, Nana!� he pleads. I help remove them, then �On knees!� he announces thrusting his chubby leg into the flow. Some of my acquaintances, when they became grandmothers, stepped up their beauty routine. Botoxed. Took out a membership in the gym. Changed their makeup to the age-defying line. Mustered whatever aesthetic troops they could gather to help them combat the label they felt heralded dotage. Increased their professional activities as extra assurance against weathering. They seem to manage all that and grandmothering too. But I�m not that kind of grandmother. I want to be a fat grandma who bakes cookies, I�ve always said. I never had a grandmother, but in my dreams she baked and wore love handles under voluminous aprons. I haven�t gotten around to baking cookies lately�but the grandbeans don�t mind the �flower� ones the Preacher buys�thin ginger snaps we all love. And I�ve modified my opinion about love handles. They obstruct a good time, so I�m staying slim. Ish. But I�ve given up on makeup almost entirely, as well as on trying to maintain a constantly stylish coiffure. There�ll be plenty of that at the other end of these early years, I�m sure. For now, I�m not that kind of grandmother. I�d rather my grandbabies look into eyes that don�t become black smudges when I splash water on them on a blazing summer afternoon. And touch hair that smells slightly like Italian garlic soup and doesn�t crackle like a hay bale when their fingers paw through it. I�m fortunate that my writing jobs allow flexibility. Almost any day I�d rather be blowing a silly tune on a grandchild�s toes than playing Scrabble for money. So today, while working at home, I put words aside to play in the sprinkler with a chubby-cheeked child. I may do it again soon. I haven�t missed a deadline yet. Another deadline motivates me most: a compelling urge that has shuffled my priorities like so many cards�the realization that God has offered me a second opportunity to help sculpt the life and values of a few infinitely precious human beans. A narrow slice of time that evaporates like water-beads in the sun, but casts long shadows into eternity. I�m taking it. Because, I am, after all, that kind of grandmother. Benjamin Bean July 23, 2008 �2008, Kathleen Gibson Respond Home |
 |
 |