No Skipping Allowed...reflections on grandparenting

I saw it first on a bumper sticker. Then on T shirts worn by old men walking laps in the mall. When my parents became grandparents they said it with the enthusiasm of a brilliant discovery. “If I had known being a Grandparent was this much fun, I would have skipped being a parent.” I smiled, but didn't buy it. I loved being a mom. How could being a grandmother be better? By then I’d be old. How much fun would that be?

Now I am "Ganni" to seven I get what they meant, but will never say it. My “daughter-of-a-scientist" brain kicks in and I refuse to say something so illogical, even if my own father succumbed to this one. You cannot become a grandparent without first being a parent. There is no skipping. No "budging" in line. By definition, one precludes the other.

The mistakes, worries and agonizing in the first round are the price paid for round two. By then your love has grown muscles. You know some things are nothing to worry about. Your child grew out of terrified shrieks when you left the room, eating cat litter and creating mud pies from poop.

There are things you should have worried about and didn’t. You find these things out when they are grown. Conversations begin with “Remember when you and dad took that trip out to Colorado? Pause. Nervous looks. Giggles. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this...” These are the fun "confessions". They survived and are too old to be grounded. You are not shocked because it reminds you of something you did and never told them. They gasp, surprised you really were young once. You both laugh until you cry or snort stuff out of your nose.

And then there are the other talks. The ones that take effort to tell. You want to go back in time. Notice what you didn't see then. Keep her home that night, even if she yells and screams and threatens never to talk to you again. You would take that. If it meant you could have kept her from this.

At some point, after you knew you were going to be a parent, the enormity of that hit. You are going to raise a human being from scratch. You start with the basics...food, clothing, shelter. They cry. You hold, and jiggle, and sing until something works...your first confirmation maybe you can do this. You give up sleep, and loud love-making, and things you thought mattered but didn't. Your gift from them is seeing the world again. This time you know what to look for. But they find things you didn't know were there.

There are days you are not up to the job. You just aren’t. Feeling guilty about that makes it worse. If lucky, a grandparent comes to play with your child that day. You watch. And see this grandparent laugh and listen and hug your child. Your child laughs and hugs back. And in that moment you glimpse the power of love and life and family and continuation. You smile with them and the grandparent says what you need to hear. "You're a good mom.".

In time you understand your children are not yours. They may have your eyes and sound like you, but will not be you. The world doesn't need another you. It needs them. No matter how much you warn them and try to protect them, your children will refuse to be protected. There is no skipping over hurt and pain and mistakes. They cannot grow up without them. And that is the point of it all. Everyone gets to grow up.


I have seven grandchildren. I love them. Not more than I loved their parents. Just more wisely.

How much do I love my grandchildren? So much that when my grandson asked, “Ganni? Why are you an old woman?” I thought it was delightful.



Three of the six grandchildren. They are very loud.

Snap, Cackle, Pop

I celebrated my fifth decade by performing a one-woman show entitled "Mime in Mental Pause." I wasn't there yet. But I was ready. Unrelenting pain, blood clots, and ruined panties were not fun, no matter how I adjusted my attitude. The universe heard (or watched my show) and was kind. Soon after my 50th birthday periods diminished with barely a moan. I think it was the soy.

I do not regret being past child bearing age. I'm content to view it from afar...or close up when my daughter pops the babies out. I thought it would bother me to see her in pain, but it doesn't. I might be slightly sadistic. Or just gloriously happy to have grandchildren. But not once did I wish to trade places.

Strange as it sounds, even to me, there is something I miss about periods. I miss the power of "PMS" (Pre Menstrual Sinfulness) I did not need to announce I had it. My husband watched for it. There were times I cried easy and long and hard. When asked what was wrong my tongue jumped out and slapped him upside the head. Never mind what happened when he didn't ask.

After I declared we’d all be dead in three days because I detected a shift in the earth's orbit, so there was no need to renew the life insurance policy, my husband asked if my period was coming. I chastised his sexist remark and he apologized. Two days later I hid the tampon dispensers at the bottom of the trash. He caught me with a heating pad under the blanket. He’s a good man and never said “I told you so”, but he isn’t perfect. He smiled too much.


A couple years ago my daughter-in-law invited me to a women's gathering. I was the only post menopausal woman there. The topic was our periods. We shared how we learned about it, our first one and embarrassing moments. The stories were funny and sad and what I expected until a young woman said she loved her periods. Really. Just loved them. She felt a oneness with all women. She meditated on this life giving essence and was thankful for her role. She felt creative and spirit filled during this time. She did not mask the pain. She welcomed it. Other women nodded. I laughed. A lot. Then told my stories of fainting and trips to emergency rooms and my gratitude to be done with them. They listened and exchanged glances I recognized from my youth, when I respected elders but knew they didn't understand. And never would.

They were wrong. I do understand. What this woman expressed is the way it once was. Thinking about it makes me want a "do over", but only if I have my own moon lodge.

In Native American tradition there was a special lodge for women when it was their moon time. Other women cared for her children and cooked for her husband. They brought her favorite food, then circled the lodge and prayed for her. She was free from work, could rest, talk with the spirits and create. She returned with new songs and geometric designs and renewed energy. Western observers surmised the women were involuntarily isolated and considered unclean. It was never that. When asked, the medicine men explain women have a "built in" purification system. Men put themselves through sacred ceremonies to attain what women have naturally. Women in their moon cycles do not participate in sacred ceremonies. Their power is too strong. It’s been known to send spirits running and crashing into things.


Without periods my life is balanced and calm. Maybe a little too calm. I miss not knowing what thoughts may scream their way past polite filters. Sometimes the power of that made me feel beautiful. I knew I wasn’t. When pimples erupt on a middle aged, bloated face you don't claim outer beauty. But there were moments I felt like a warrior woman. And she was magnificent. I wish I had honored her more, instead of reaching for the Pamprin®.

But there is still time. My warrior woman didn't die with PMS. She morphed into Big Fat Mama: Post Menopausal Juicy Crone. No one knows what the hell that means, but with a perfectly executed head snap, and a cackle followed by a pop from any number of bodily regions, it’s scary enough to have some fun.