When we went to tell my grandmother that I was pregnant with Will, my dad brought along a cake for the occasion.My grandmother still lives on her own, about an hour away from my parents, who take her to doctors' appointments and get her groceries and help her wash her hair. She has an apartment filled with dolls, from porcelain faces to a talking Caillou. Her name is Bernice, but she has always gone by Judy. To avoid confusion, she often signed the back of pictures with captions like "Judy (BM), Greece 1971."
There is a lot of history between her and my mother (her daughter), not all of it positive, and much of it involving my role as the first granddaughter, but over the last few years I have watched my mom step up and do what she had to do.
It was December 2006 and we were sitting in her small apartment when my dad brought out the cake. It had white frosting with a message written in red letters. She took a quick look at the top: "Merry Christmas!"
My dad pressed her further. "No. Read it more carefully."
"Oh, all right. 'Great. . .' Oh! 'Great Canadian!'"
Then my mom jumped in. "Read the cake, Mother."
"All right. All right. 'Great . . . Grandmother.'" She snorted. "Well, the only way I would be a great grandmother was if Lasha was pregnant!"
We are taking Will for a Christmas visit to the "Great Canadian" tomorrow. So far, every time we visit, she wants to examine Will's toes. Luckily her great-granddaughter loves to take her (own, and others') shoes and socks off.
May 2007
February 2008I'm sure I will have another sock removal, "look at these cute toes" picture after the weekend.
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