via //dailypost.wordpress.com/2018/04/09/rush/”>Daily Prompt: Rush
I am in no rush to become a grandmother… as long as my daughter gets pregnant tonight, and has the gestation period of a pussycat.
I’ve spoken to my son-in-law about this, and he has agreed to poke some holes in their precautionary barriers, as long as I buy him a Triumph motorcycle.
This can be arranged.
I don’t understand my daughter’s recalcitrance.
She is, after all, thirty-two years old. Her vital organs are young, but her eggs are approaching the age of a Chinese delicacy. All she needs to do is to look at me and my siblings, to see what strange chicks are born of stale eggs. My mom was 35 when she had me, and I’ve always been a few buzzes short of bee. My sister, who was even staler, once cried at the sight of a man wearing sunglasses at the wheel of a pickup, riding with a German Shepherd. “Look at the poor blind man driving that truck!”
Damn right I’m in a rush.
And I’m going to be a kick-ass grandmother.
I won’t be conventional, of course, but my grandchildren’s other grandmother will have normalcy covered. God bless her, she’s exactly the kind of grandma any child would want to have. She cans fruit. She sews quilts. She raises her own veggies, and even bakes pies.
Not me. I’ll be the OTHER grandma… the one who teaches the kids naughty songs, and lets them stay up way past their bedtime. I’ll be the one who buys them drums, with cymbals and snares, and shows them how to play “Wipe Out” while their parents are trying to nap. I’ll be the one who introduces them to glitter and feathers, who shows them how to whistle for a cab, who makes sure they learn to dance timesteps even if they practice tapping on their parents’ brand new floors.
I’ll be the one who hides them when they get in trouble, and hugs them when they feel afraid.
I’ll be that grandma… but I have to become that grandma in a hurry, because I am getting older by the minute, and I’m afraid of losing my strength before I can put it to mischievous use.
I’m afraid of passing before my grandchildren are born. My mother, who yearned for a grandchild as fervently as I do now, passed away eight days before my daughter arrived. She never got to sew little outfits for her… introduce her to her first kitten… teach her how to sing in the sweet, soft soprano I still hear whenever I close my eyes.
I don’t want to be the grandma they know from old stories.
I want to be the one who tells them how very much they’re loved.