Last night at dinner, we were talking about Roan’s Grandmother, who will be getting married this summer. He thinks it’s pretty revolutionary that a new Grandfather will be added to our ranks, and then began considering construction of families. If Grandma marries someone, they become a Grandfather. And since Aunt Kellene’s daughter is going to have a baby soon, then Aunt Kellene becomes OLD Auntie Kellene, because (really no way of working around it) Kellene will be a GRANDMOTHER. Let me just type that again, maybe in italics: Kellene will be a GRANDMOTHER. Love it.
It was all fun and games until Roan decided to make up his own category: “Half-Grandmother”. And then he pinned this title to ME. I actually wasn’t very amused and told him that he was talking crazy talk, but his point was this: when my son (Roan) has a child, I’ll be a grandmother. Since Roan exists, I’m half-way there. And so. I am a “Half-Grandmother”. That actually will not be repeated, in italics or otherwise.
Roan is currently living in time-out.
But back to my mother. How cool is it that right when she is about to re-marry, she will also be turning into a Great-Grandmother? Strange how these titles used to mean things that they don’t really mean anymore. My mom, to look at her, is a beautiful lively pistol with reddish hair and cute freckles. Not really what you’d think of as a Great-Grandmother.
She does have a few wrinkles, ones that I must take credit for. My mother and I had some pretty, hmmmm….how shall I say…..volitile? Tumultuous? Tortured? Let’s just say we had some pretty difficult years. I was an adolescent in the grips of Erikson’s 5th Stage of Development (oh man do I sound smart or what? I DID take a psychology classes in college. This last sentence brought to you courtesy of my unfinished college education.) The bulk of my teenage angst was aimed at my mother, who somehow came out of it still loving me.
Though I am still living in time-out for the following reasons:
- Language unbecoming of a young woman
- Having a party at the house across the street, of which I had been given the responsibility of house-sitting. My understanding of what that meant was a little different from the expectations of my mother, or the actual out-of-town-home-owners. Heh. Ooops.
- Torturing my youngest sister. I would like to now issue an apology not only to her, but to her goldfish who suffered a fate that should have probably landed me in a psych-ward. Let’s not speak of this again.
As Mother’s Day is right around the bend, I think it’s probably time to wipe these transgressions clean, and just leave it here – I love my mother. I love her for pulling me around in a wagon when I was a screaming infant in the hospital. I love her for teaching me to read. I love her for sewing matching dresses for my dolls and me. I love her for taking me to finally get my long locks cut in the 7th grade, though the results were um…unfortunate. I love my mother because I made her cry more times than is fair, and because she still cries when she sees me.
My mother has been many things to me over my life, but the one thing that has never changed about her is that she has always been my no-questions-asked, go-to person when I needed someone to save my day. That is the thing I most aspire to be with my son. For that, I say thanks to my mom, and Happy Mother’s Day to her, and all my mama friends out in the world.