Being a grandma was not in my plans for a while yet. I’ve not had “my” time, and I had always planned on having a few years to enjoy myself between taking care of others. My kids are grown, my surviving parents are healthy and active, my 50’s were supposed to be all about me - not grandchildren.
I was raised in a big, upper-middle class, suburban, blended family - before blending was so rampant everywhere else in America. In the 4th grade, I was the only kid who didn’t live with her father during the week and had to go visit him every Sunday. The other kids in my class didn’t understand that lifestyle, back then. The next generation kids who did live with their dads were the exception, but they knew who they were and saw them frequently. This new generation doesn’t even know their dads.
Having birthed 3 sons, married into 3 more sons, and having a direct influence on the raising and care for at least 6 others, I’ve had a lot of children in my life. And, don’t get me wrong, for the most part it’s been good.
With my life in a swirl of transition of man, home, and work, imagine my surprise when a 3 year old and his mom appeared on our doorstep a few years ago. It’s been an adventure ever since.