As part of my birthday festivities (of which included a surprise dessert party featuring five — FIVE! — cakes), the children presented me with a video of greetings from loads of friends and family. Which was lovely — I laughed (and cried) my way through it.
However, the reason I bring it up here isn’t because of my birthday, but rather because I want you to see my son and daughter-in-law’s contribution.
It has a little Easter egg in it, so watch it before reading the rest of the post.
Did you catch it?!
Now, to be clear, I’ve known the news for months now. My son told us way back in the early days. (Which about drove me mad. Not that there was a baby coming — that news launched me straight over the moon — but because they told me so dang early. Now I’d have that much longer to wait until I’d be able to hold the wee one, grumble-grumble.)
Also, we were (naturally) forbidden from sharing the news for weeks. HOW WAS I TO SURVIVE.
But the weeks ticked by. Bit by bit, they told people. (When they finally told their siblings, that was the biggest relief. I’d been so terrified that I’d accidentally say something, that I actually stopped mentioning my son and daughter-in-law around the other kids.)
On corn day, my daughter-in-law told the cousins. But she didn’t just tell them, oh no.
That morning when she’d arrived, she’d asked for a piece of bread to put in the oven, and then partway through husking, she sent the kids into the house on a scavenger hunt to find it.
My nephew was the one to find the hamburger bun. It took the kids a minute to figure it out — they weren’t familiar with the “bun in the oven” expression — but once they caught on, hoo-boy! Squeals and hugs and jumping up and down.
And then when they realized their parents didn’t yet know, they tore outside shouting the news.
The rest of the day, the kids brainstormed names for my husband and me. They made a list, polled family members, and tallied votes. That piece of paper now hangs on my fridge — but none of the names really click.
Which leads me to the main point of this post.
I’ll be a grandma, but I don’t want to be called grandma. So what to be called instead?
Here are my thoughts thus far:
The name has to match us. It has to feel like us.
I’m fine including our first names, or versions of them. In fact, this might be the most authentic, since our kids often call us by our names.
I want the names to feel warm without being cutesy. (We’re not exactly cuddly folk . . . though there’s a good chance the grandbaby will experience a side of us not yet revealed.) Also, gruff names can be warm.
The names may nod to our personalities but it definitely shouldn’t lock us into them.
This is where you come in. If you want to share, I’d love to know:
What you call your grandparents.
If you’ve got any unique and delightful grandparenty names tucked up your sleeve.
If you’re a grandparent, what you’re called and/or wish you were called.
Any tricks (or thought exercises) for determining a name.
We still got a few months to solve this riddle — and it’s not like the kid is going to come out speaking — but the sooner I can work it out, the better. (For my mental serentity, you know.)
On the other hand, our names don’t really matter, not even a little bit. The baby is going to arrive and we’re going to be head over heels and that is that.
But choosing a name gives me something to fixate on. Something to do while I wait.
Twenty years ago this month, we moved into this house.
We had three children back then, ages 5 and under. I was 30 years old and pregnant with our fourth.
2005: celebrating my 30th
Fast forward to now.
Three weeks ago, we paid off the house. Tomorrow I turn 50.
I’ve never lived this long in one place. Our children are from this place — the home place. It feels extraordinary, that we’ve made a home. That we’ve raised them. That we’ve lived all these years, here. The gratitude I feel — for these walls, our five acres, this valley cupped with the gentle swell of blue mountains — is chest-crushingly enormous.
Twenty years of full-on, hair-straight-back living in this place! I keep mulling it over. The exactitude and finality of two complete decades makes the chaotic richness of those years that much more mind-boggling.
I am so different now.
We are so different — all of us.
2008
2022
Over the years, this house has seen so much life.
There’s the upstairs bedroom where I squatted on the floor to push the baby out, just a few months after we’d moved in.
In the field, the children dug holes and started fires and rode horses and built forts.
The beloved dogs are buried next to the porch (and all over the property, skeletons of chickens and pet mice, cats, baby goats, and other sundry bits of farm life are tucked beneath the ground, because raising animals means you gotta deal with the bodies, too).
There have been water balloon fights, fire bombs, hymn sings, cookouts, butcherings, doughnut parties, a wedding.
There have been the other people who have lived here with us (the foster children and Fresh Air kids and International volunteers), as well as the renters who tended the place the year we lived in Guatemala, and the many, many guests — some from just across the field and others from across the globe.
There’s been SO MUCH FOOD: grown, harvested, preserved, purchased, cooked, eaten.
There have been spills and messes and broken glass and tracked mud, and fights and temper tantrums and punched walls and patched drywall. So much patched drywall.
There have been stacks of library books, and hours of reading aloud together, voices droning, pages slishing, eyelids drooping.
There have been lazy morning and rolicking after-supper debates, accidents and illnesses, depression and loneliness, exuberance and random flare-ups of Unstoppable Giggles.
There have been mountains of dishes washed (and the abundant caterwalling to go with).
There have been endless home improvements: clubhouse! milking shed! attic fan! computer desk! barn! closets! kitchen island! patio!
There have been family night movies with all six of us piled on one sofa and hundreds of pounds (literally) of popcorn eaten.
We’ve loved this place, and we’ve loved in it, and through it all, it’s held us.
Now, even as we’re continuing to fix it up, parts of the house are beginning to go. Twenty years is when you have to start redoing things, my husband says. Like the deck, for example. The railings are wobbly and loose, so “fix deck” has been added to the (mental) queue.
first evening on the new patio
I’m 50 this year. This week — tomorrow.
I know I already mentioned this, but it bears repeating.
The number itself is easy — 50 strokes of the hairbrush, 50 chew-and-swallows for a meal, 50 steps, calories, dollars, etc, etc — but when it means years lived? Of my life? That’s harder.
The other morning when I was putting on my shoes before work, it occurred to me that it used to be that the years stretched endlessly ahead of me. All that future, just waiting to be lived!
But now time is stacking up behind me. I’ve lived long enough to have changed — in many ways, I am wildly different from who I used to be — and I have the memories to show for it, way more than I can possibly hold in my brain.
I think about this — my dwindling future — a lot.
Making the last payment on the house. (Or so we thought. Turned out we had to wait another week.)
My college roommate used to say she wanted to have lots of wrinkles when she got old because they’d be proof she’d smiled a lot. (Do you remember this, Corinna?)
Now that I’ve got wrinkles and gray hair and less energy, her comment pops into my head at least once a week. I don’t fully share my friend’s enthusiasm for the wrinkles, but I know I better find the beauty in, and gratitude for, aging if I’m to do it gracefully.
(Isn’t it funny how one small inocuous statement can barnacle itself to another person while we forget almost everything else? Makes me ponder what barnacles I might be leaving in my wake…)
Unlike houses, remodels on the human body do nothing to extend the lifespan, so long ago, I decided I’d skip the hair dye (and other age concealors). Sure, they tempt me occasionally (or the idea of them tempts me), but I figure it’s better to come to terms with my natural evolution (or de-evolution?) incrementally, rather than in one big whoosh at the end.
After all, life is just one long race to the grave so it behooves one to pace herself, yes?
2025: our house, twenty years a home
So there you have it. In summary, barring a catastrophe, this house will probably long outlast me.
Act I 50 years, lived. Children, raised. Home, made. …and lots of other stuff I’m skipping.
[intermission]
Act II Coming soon…
Here’s to hoping the second half’s as good as the first. [clinks glass]
