Take it from a grandmother: Growing old is a privilege | Opinion
My oldest son recently sent me a photo of his twin daughters proudly posing with their new Georgia driver’s licenses, and for a while — a looooong while, to be honest — I was overwhelmed by a jumble of emotions. I was proud, of course, proud of the kind, conscientious young ladies they’ve become but also strangely sad that they looked so …well, so much like fashionable women in their wide-legged jeans and cropped tops.
“The little bald people are growing up,” I texted him, my fingers shaking with nostalgia. If I hadn’t been on deadline, I probably would have succumbed to a good ugly cry.
I can’t help but feel wistful for their long-ago debut, when these identical hairless babies anointed me as an abuela for the first time. It was magical and scary, humbling and exciting, an experience that made sacrifices so worth it. Since then, I’ve been blessed with other grandkids, each a gift that has revived my delight in knock-knock jokes and my commitment to improving the world in my own small way.
You know that saying, “If I had known grandkids were so much fun, I would have had them first.”
True, but grandparenting does so much more than provide fun, hugs and cuddles. It gives context. It rewards with a new role and responsibilities. It helps link the generations and connect the dots. But it has also reminded me of the unrelenting march of time. Watching your children’s children go from learning to walk to learning to drive is like announcing the obvious: I’m getting old.
Old as in retirement age.
Old as in the creaking knees stage.
Old as in I can’t hear the waitress in a noisy, crowded restaurant.
Old as in valuing health over wealth.
Old as in falling asleep before 10 o’clock.
When I confessed these misgivings to a friend, who is anxiously awaiting the crown of grandma “hopefully before I croak,” she said it doesn’t take a grandchild’s licensing experience to force you to realize this inevitable truth.
Her acceptance came in stages, she added, and each stage was accompanied by a jolt of self-awareness. It began when people started referring to her as ma’am. Once she got used to that initial shock, she decided to think of it as an honorific title. And why not? The idea is to age boldly, with just the right touch of defiance and grace. What’s more, we should do this without lament or regret.
Then one of her high school pals decided to nickname their longtime clique The Golden Girls, as much for their age as their choice of salon-applied hair color. She liked Golden just fine. Finally, this was followed by the surprise that Mick Jagger, he of the hip-swiveling dance moves, had become a great-grandfather. A great-grandfather, imagine that. Even rolling stones reach certain life markers, though the 81-year-old doesn’t seem to be resting on his laurels.
It’s taken me a few days to understand what she was trying to tell me, but I suppose we each arrive at moments of insight on our own schedule. There’s nothing wrong with remembering the sweetness of what is past. Nothing inherently gloomy about a trip down memory lane. Events that make us feel over the hill— the sudden recognition that crawling babies have become driving teenagers — are reminders that we are a small but important stitch in the huge quilt that is family.
At times, it may feel like a loved one is growing up way too fast, that the rush of life is leaving me behind, a hapless passenger in a train without a conductor. But that’s not true at all. Growing old is a privilege, and so is bearing witness to the beautiful metamorphosis of a grandchild.
Ana Veciana-Suarez writes about family and social issues. Email her at avecianasuarez@gmail.com or visit her website anavecianasuarez.com. Follow @AnaVeciana.