So, Beloved and I were driving back from taking Oldest Son to the airport in Cleveland on Monday afternoon, just rambling on as we’re wont to do, when he says, out of nowhere:
“Yup, it’s time one of those kids made us grandparents.”
Now, this is a subject we’ve been sort of circling around for a year or so. Up until I turned 45, I had no desire to be a grandmother; in fact, I have been known to threaten my grown children with, “Anyone who makes me a grandmother before I turn 50 won’t live to see their offspring!” I also used to think that if none of the kids chose to procreate, it wouldn’t bother me a bit.
Somewhere, somehow, in the last year that has changed.
Beloved, of course, has always been a little more open to the idea of grandparenthood than myself, but until recently I believe that has sprung largely from a desire to see the “parent’s curse” in action.
You know the “parent’s curse” – of course you do.
“I hope that when you grow up you have kids who act JUST LIKE YOU!”
At any rate, lately we’ve found ourselves considering how much we’d love a sweet little bundle of joy that we can cuddle and play with and load up with sugar before sending them home to their parents. I mean, really – the more I think about it, the more appealing the whole idea is. So much so that I’ve begun asking TC and his wife when they’re going to make me a quasi-grandmother now that they’ve bought a house (they’ve politely declined so far, the finks).
You can imagine that no one could be more tickled than I when Beloved’s oldest, Jolly, called from California later that evening and announced that she and her fiance are expecting.
Pardon me while I jump up and down.
It is, of course, all Beloved’s doing, what with his prophetic little statement and all. Now I’m off to buy twelve pounds of baby yarn and a pattern book for crocheting baby stuff – afghans, booties, sweaters, caps. For a baby that is due in late August.
Because that’s the way I roll.