gramma

Boy O Boy!

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‘I am ever so excited to be a Grandma!’

Feel free to confide in me–even your deepest, darkest secrets–because if there is anything the last few months proves, it’s that I can keep my lip zipped.

It was in May that The Child called us on a Sunday, as is her wont. But this time, after her usual “hello,” she added, “James is on the line too.” Then: “We have something to tell you.”

A photo from our visit to my Mom that I couldn’t use before now

Of course we were thinking this might be Baby News. But did we say anything? Not on your life. What if the news was that they were getting a dog? I have a couple of friends who were called by their children to announce the getting of a dog. These dogs are now known as (and I am not kidding) their granddogs.

So. All Dude Man and I said was, “Oh my! What is your news?!” And they told us. They were having a baby. A boy. Due October 13.

Three and a half generations a couple of weeks ago

After we were done squealing (me), hugging (both of us) and happy-dancing around the room (me again), we asked the usual questions. Feeling? Fine. Happy? Yes. Names? Perhaps something Greek. (The SIL has Greek forbears.)

At this point I threw in a couple of reassuring points. No, we were not going to suggest any names. “You can call him Poindexter or Mud for all I care,” I said. And I know some people do this, but no, I wasn’t going to be present in the delivery room. “I didn’t want to be there when you were born!”

Celebrating at Laura and Dave’s

Speaking of names, I reminded her that her Grampa Henry referred to her as “Wal-Mart” before she was born. As in, “Has Wal-Mart been doing a lot of kicking?” Or “Do you have a bed for Wal-Mart yet?” And even “Have you finally thought of a name for Wal-Mart? (Other than “Wal-Mart,” that is.) The naming took us forever. Even though we knew she was a girl. See “What’s in a name?” for deets. For one thing, you’ll see that Dude Man wanted to call her “Zeus.” Which I think is a perfectly lovely name — for a dog. (Incidentally, one of her Childness’s friends has a dog named Zeus. This friend also has a baby not named Zeus. Perfect!)

The Child, flanked by Fem Friends, at a party thrown in her (and her hub’s, they do it that way now) honor in SF. The friend on the left has the dog named Zeus. And the baby not named Zeus.

So where does the keeping a secret come in? I was asked not to mention her impending motherhood on social media. At least not until the cat (er, baby) was out of the bag.

Baby Goldfish are in that bag. Thanks, Aunt Laura!

It was really hard, but I did manage to keep her secret safe. Though some blog posts took a bit of crafty editing.

But my secret-holding is nothing compared to hers. Once she told us the news, I did a little math and realized that she had been pregnant back in March when we all went to this fantastic wedding. She was so clever I didn’t even realize she wasn’t drinking — and there was a martini bar!

Child at wedding holding a secret — but no martini

More next week. I feel the need to happy-dance around the room some more.

Amagansett, New York. August 2024

 

The Grammy Awards

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‘And the winner is…’

Last weekend I had the pleasure of greeting a new grandchild. No, this was not my new grandchild (fingers — and toes — are firmly crossed hoping for that Blessed Event) but a very fine grandchild indeed. I mean, just look at this baby.

Even if you are not usually fond of babies, you must admit this one is a dandy

No, the latest winners of the Grandparent Lottery happen to be Dude Man’s cousin and his wife. They had us over last weekend to meet little Elouise. There was eating and drinking and laughing plus funny-face-making, high-pitched cooing and, of course, much cuddling. I swear that baby got passed around more than the wine bottle(s).

The latest winners of the Grandparent Lottery

I say “latest winners” because little Zachs and Esmes and Orens and Sophias and Madeleines and Francescos seem to be popping out everywhere like flowers after the rain. And, since I knit baby sweaters for the progeny of people I am related to and/or like a lot, my fingers have been getting a workout. (Which, of course, makes it harder to keep them wishfully crossed.)

Oh, and Elouise got this little number. It has pockets. You know, for her pacifier. Or car keys

But enough about teensy knitwear. All these new grandchildren got me thinking about my own grandmothers. How wonderful they were, but how different.

A rare occasion when both Grammas were in the same room at the same time: Gramma H on the left (with undyed hair!), Just Plain Gramma to the right, also undyed (as usual)

One was wiry and skinny, wore slacks, worked in a factory and — most fascinating to us kids — dyed her hair. Why was this fascinating? Well, we kids didn’t know from hair dye. We just knew that Gramma Henry’s hair was a different color every time we saw her: sometimes brown, sometimes reddish, sometimes almost black. (We kids also didn’t know about false teeth. There was a scary lady in my home town who used to push her partial plate out at us to keep us out of her yard.)

Gramma Henry (with Laura and Mom) aboard the Sir Launch-A-Lot. Gosh, she has undyed hair — and is wearing a dress

My other gramma — my mom’s mom — was kinda plump, always wore a housedress, worked on a farm and most certainly didn’t dye her hair. She even wore an apron. Pretty much all the time.

Classic Gramma (Peterson) at right. Housedress: check, apron: check

Incidentally, my mom’s mother was known as “Gramma,” while my dad’s mom was called “Gramma Henry.” True, we saw my Peterson gramma more often than the Henry one, and my mom and I even lived with her while my dad was off serving in Korea. But, still, I bet that stung.

Our Korean Conflict family unit: Gramma and Grampa in the middle, Aunt Marilyn on the left, Mom on the right. Oh, and me on the lap. Read about what happened when my Dad returned in “Kissing Daddy Good-night”

(Back then, no grandmothers — at least no grandmothers that I knew — were called anything but “Gramma.” Well, maybe “Grandmother,” but that was only in books. I certainly hadn’t heard any parent of a parent referred to as “Nana” or “Gigi” or “MomMom” or even “G-Ma.” Yes, I wrote a piece about this.

Gramma beating Aunt Shirley, Mom and me at Scrabble

Yes, they were different. One played poker and one played Scrabble. One drank plum wine, and the other something she called “silver tea,” which was a cup of hot water.

But both of them deserve a Grammy Award for being so wonderful. Thanks for jogging some fine memories, Miss Elouise.

It’s exhausting being a baby. And a parent (!)

New York City. May 2023

When mothers turn grand

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‘What to call that lady who happens to be your mom’s mom’

I have several friends who are grandmothers now, and they all pretty much agree that it’s a pretty sweet gig. They get to read stories, sing silly songs, play ‘Sorry’ and ‘Go Fish’ — all with cute little kids that they then get to give back to their parents who just ten minutes ago were little kids themselves.

My Gramma with my Mom — before she turned into a Gramma herself

The one thing they can’t agree on, though, is what to be called. I know a Nonna, a Nanna, a Nanny, a Mimi and a Gigi. And I’ve heard tell of MomMom and G-Ma. (Hmmm, that last one sounds a tad X-rated, if you ask me. But maybe that’s why it’s popular.)

Now, perhaps there were let’s-call-ourselves-something-else trailblazers back then, but when I was a kid, grammas were mostly called “Gramma”. It was actually spelled “Grandma” if it was written down, like when we wrote letters to them. But when we said it, it came out “Gramma.” (Yes, we wrote letters. When my Gramma Peterson died, I got a big envelope in the mail; it was every single letter I’d ever written to her — she had saved them all, including the first when I was about six and a multi-page tome I’d written her from my honeymoon.)

My two Grammas, inhabiting the same space at the same time, flanked by some daughters (my aunts). The Gramma on the right is the one who saved my letters

And, again like most kids, I had two grandmothers — just two. Come to think of it, maybe the reason grandmothers today search for unique Gramma Names is because their grandkids would have a hard time calling them anything what with multiple marriages — and multiple grandmas — being so common and all. I personally know a “Gramma Carol”, who is The Dude’s Older Brother’s Wife’s moniker because the grandkids already have another “Gramma” on his side of the family. Who is his ex-first-wife and the mother of the kid’s dad. Whew! (But at least she’s “Gramma-Plus-First-Name”; I don’t think I could look her in the eye and call her, say, “MeeMaw”.) Continue reading

Who’s yer Santa?

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‘What’s more fun than believing in Santa? Hanging around with a little kid who believes in Santa’

Can you remember when you believed in Santa? I certainly can. We’d be at my Swedish Gramma Peterson’s on Christmas Eve, and we’d hear stomping around upstairs (‘Santa’s sleigh just landed on the roof!’), then here he’d come, ho-ho-hoing his way down the stairs in all his red-suited glory with a big ole pillowcase of presents slung over his shoulder.

It never occurred to me to ask why he carried a pillowcase, nor did I ask to go see the sleigh up on the roof. I never even wondered why one of my uncles was always missing when Santa was in the room. I guess I just wanted to believe in Santa.

Which uncle is missing from this picture? Gramma P, who yes, believed in Santa, eagerly awaits his Big Entrance

Which uncle is missing from this picture? That’s Gramma P, who I like to think still believed in Santa, eagerly awaiting his Big Entrance

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Kissing Daddy Good-Night

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‘Korea. Worlds away from Kirkland, Illinois’

I don’t actually remember any of this, of course. But I grew up hearing about ‘when Daddy was in Korea and we lived at Gramma’s house’.

See, my Dad was a Second Lieutenant in the Air Force. I’m going to check with Mom, but I’m pretty sure he went to college via the ROTC. For you Whippersnappers, that’s the Reserve Officers’ Training Corps. Which means, essentially, that you trade getting some $$ to go to school for serving your country when you get out. Of school, I mean. Here Dad is at his graduation. Everyone in this picture, except me, is a Proud Parent. (Though I did eventually become one, as you know all too well.)

My Dad at his U of I graduation. He is holding me instead of his diploma.

My Dad at his U of I graduation. He is holding me instead of his diploma.

So, I had hardly even met my Dad when off he goes. To Korea. He was originally supposed to go to the Philippines with Mom, and me too. (We both got malaria shots in preparation for this; supposedly, one shot makes you impervious to malaria for a lifetime. I’m not eager to test this theory.)

But it turned out that some important papers Continue reading