:”What is it about women becoming grandmothers?” he queried. “She’s more ga-ga over this pending grandkid than she is about her own children. I mean, she’s just beside herself with excitement.”
Well, I reckon we could go into a lot of psychological motivations and theories here, but I think with a grandmother a woman finally has the freedom to indulge a kid in a manner she couldn’t with her immediate offspring. There is no ‘test’ involved in the case of grandchildren, so they can be spoiled rotten.
I come into this topic with a huge bias. I loved my maternal grandmother arguably more than I ever loved anybody. Certainly more than I loved her daughter – my own mother. As I have mentioned before, she died in an accident when I was 14 and I still miss her.
So yeah, Grandmas are mightily special in the life of a child. When I lived in England in 1980-81 there was a huge musical hit in an item called Grandma We Love You, by the munchkins in the choir of St. Winifred’s School. A silly little throwaway but, in the land of Clapton, the Stones and David Bowie this dumb thing sat on the charts for weeks. Why? Because callous would be the person who didn’t love their grandma.
Who is that wonderfully benevolent cartoon figure other than Grannie, who looks out for the well-being of Tweety Bird? Grannies do that.
Of course, I cannot get used to newfangled grandmothers who are entirely unlike mine. I mean – and I guess that’s from the perspective of age – some of them look like pretty hot babes to me. Grandmas aren’t supposed to be hot babes. They are supposed to smell of lavender and like mine sit by the kitchen stove knitting and reading and certainly never looking like what one would call ‘hot’. She wore Granny clothes and drank tea not martinis. I once spied my grandmother smoking a cigarette at a social gathering. I was rather shocked.
I realized the other day that when my grandmother died she was actually two years younger than I am now. Now that was a wide-awake moment