Lessons from my Grandmother

Many years ago, when I was a young mother, I watched my three year old niece put her hands on her hips and proclaim to her great-grandmother in defiant cheekiness, “you are not the boss of me!” I couldn’t believe it! Had she been my three year old she would have found herself in serious trouble – but she wasn’t my three year old.  Her defiance didn’t spark what I felt was an appropriate response either. My grandmother paused for a moment, stared intently into the fierce face of her great-grand daughter, and laughed.

By this stage of my grandmother’s life she had many years of experience under her belt – she had grandmothered the hell out of my siblings, cousins and I (24 of us in all) and was now taking on a new generation. She knew the ropes. She was a pro.

Only now that I’m a grandmother myself do I appreciate the ease in which she diffused that three year old tantrum. She actually hadn’t let that little devil away with anything – she had made the outburst ineffectual.

Being a grandmother definitely has its perks. I am not charged with bringing up my grandchildren – I simply have to enjoy them. I am also painfully aware of how fleeting childhood is. I am compelled to watch these little girls carefully, lest I miss a moment of their magic. I have neither the desire nor the time to be angry or curt with them. I leave discipline and rulemaking to their parents. I want their Gramma to be a soft spot to land.

My Gramma was definitely a soft spot to land, only once did she raise her voice to me. I was a rotten teenager at the time – defiant in the ways only a teenager can be. I was in Winnipeg on a summer vacation without my parents – Gramma caught me smoking in her bathroom (who in their right mind thinks they can get away with smoking anywhere without being caught? Too smart – too late.). Gramma knocked on the bathroom door. I fanned the air in the small room toward the open window with a bath towel.

I opened the door to all 5 feet 2 inches of angry grandmother. “Really Elva,” she said, “did you think you could get away with this?” I don’t remember answering but I’m certain my indignance spoke volumes. “Do you want me to yell?” She asked.

“Yes, Gramma. Yell.”

I don’t know who was more surprised by my cheek — Gramma or me. She squared her shoulders, cleared her throat and yelled. “OH! Halifax!!” Yup – that’s the best she could come up with, short notice and all.

I don’t think she told my parents about the smoke filled bathroom – they never mentioned it if she did. She was my soft spot to land.

I’m not certain what I’m going to do if I find one of my little girls smoking in the bathroom – I probably have a few years to figure that out. I hope I can think as quickly on my feet as my grandmother did – and I also hope “oh Halifax” is the worst thing I have to say.