The Arrival
Cole presents himself, and I hear his cry. I watch Sarah gaze at him as she says: “You’ve done it.” and then after a brief pause “We’ve done it.” Cole my grandson is here, a miracle it seems. I watch him closely from this beginning, getting to know him moment-by-moment. He is complete at the start. Everything from here on in is just an extension of who he is on arrival.
I, on the other hand, am unsure about who I am as I hold him. I will be called Nana, a familiar name attached to my mother's mother, a woman whom I loved dearly as a child. She had a round face with wrinkled skin, soft to the touch. Her hair was frizzy grey, curled each week at the beauty parlor just up the street from her apartment in Astoria. Her body had little form and moved slowly, but she generously reached out her arms and gathered me up onto her ample lap. Sitting there, I played with the skin on her upper arms that drooped and felt like dough. We were comfortable just being together. She knew me right off, and I didn’t need to know more about her than her familiar smell, watchful eyes, and predictable dinners filled with favorite foods of my childhood. Only now do I wonder what she was thinking. At the time, she never said, and I never asked.
I knew from childhood that one day I would assume the titles "wife" and "mother", but I never imagined that I would become Nana. In my mind’s eye, I am still the young girl who lay on the dock by the river naming the clouds. Like her, I wake up each morning with energy and desire to get busy for the day. I rarely sit still and when I do, I often plan what is next. Yet, unlike with my own children who I strapped to my back taking them out into the world with me, this new being calls me to sit still. The few times I have had with him I feel quiet and not in a hurry. Yet, the unexpectedness of who we are to one another puzzles me.
This musing reminds me of the day in our garden when Ron, my first husband paralyzed by ALS, asked me to look with him at a tomato plant growing in our garden. Each day he sat out on our deck in his wheelchair and watched it grow. My runnings about often kept us apart, and he urged me to sit with him. Once or twice when he asked, I took a breath, held his hand and together we watched the little plant with its two small tomatoes. It was a moment of peace for us, a rare moment. I wonder if watching Cole is like watching the tomato plants.
In searching my memory for more stories about grand mothering I remember stories of my father’s mother who died not long before I was born. I was named for her, but I knew little about her, except that my father spoke of her kindness and her talent for baking pastries, which he claimed were unequaled. My Nana was lovable and cooked a mean brisket of beef that I still try to copy, but she was timid. She and my grandfather had been together since she was a young girl. They were very close, and growing up I felt their love for one another. Each morning Nana laid out my grandfather’s clothes, and every evening she waited by the window of their street-floor apartment to see him return. He was her life, and then he died. For seven long years she waited to join him. She was so frightened and unhappy that she couldn't sleep, but she was too afraid to turn on a light, so she kept the refrigerator door ajar in order to see her way around her apartment. Occasionally she brightened, especially as she held my daughter on her lap, but it was only for a moment.
Remembering how she had been before my grandfather’s death—her pleasure at our arrivals on Sundays, her waiting for us at the window with the table set and filled with our favorite foods—I had wondered how she had disappeared with my grandfather. I knew that my images of her fear and dependence could not help me become what I want to be -- a feminist grandmother. Sarah complains when I use this term. “Mom,” she asks with irritation, “why do you have to be a feminist grandmother? Why won’t just grandmother do?” But it doesn’t.
When I reach further back into my family history, I discover more about my great-grandmother Bertha on my mother’s side of the family. The stories I heard portrayed her as respected and feared, especially by her sons-in-law. A portrait of her, painted late in her life by my great-uncle, went from family home to family home, and it was always given a central place of honor from living room to living room. In the painting, great-grandma Bertha’s grey hair is swept up and back. She is elegant in a black silk dress with a string of pearls around her neck and a cameo pin at her neckline. Her face is quiet and impassive, expressing confidence about her capacity to manage life. At the time this portrait was painted, the family was doing well, and she was revered. My grandmother and great-aunt’s told stories about her strength and elegance. They left out details of the time in which she had had to learn to manage on her own.
I, on the other hand, am unsure about who I am as I hold him. I will be called Nana, a familiar name attached to my mother's mother, a woman whom I loved dearly as a child. She had a round face with wrinkled skin, soft to the touch. Her hair was frizzy grey, curled each week at the beauty parlor just up the street from her apartment in Astoria. Her body had little form and moved slowly, but she generously reached out her arms and gathered me up onto her ample lap. Sitting there, I played with the skin on her upper arms that drooped and felt like dough. We were comfortable just being together. She knew me right off, and I didn’t need to know more about her than her familiar smell, watchful eyes, and predictable dinners filled with favorite foods of my childhood. Only now do I wonder what she was thinking. At the time, she never said, and I never asked.
I knew from childhood that one day I would assume the titles "wife" and "mother", but I never imagined that I would become Nana. In my mind’s eye, I am still the young girl who lay on the dock by the river naming the clouds. Like her, I wake up each morning with energy and desire to get busy for the day. I rarely sit still and when I do, I often plan what is next. Yet, unlike with my own children who I strapped to my back taking them out into the world with me, this new being calls me to sit still. The few times I have had with him I feel quiet and not in a hurry. Yet, the unexpectedness of who we are to one another puzzles me.
This musing reminds me of the day in our garden when Ron, my first husband paralyzed by ALS, asked me to look with him at a tomato plant growing in our garden. Each day he sat out on our deck in his wheelchair and watched it grow. My runnings about often kept us apart, and he urged me to sit with him. Once or twice when he asked, I took a breath, held his hand and together we watched the little plant with its two small tomatoes. It was a moment of peace for us, a rare moment. I wonder if watching Cole is like watching the tomato plants.
In searching my memory for more stories about grand mothering I remember stories of my father’s mother who died not long before I was born. I was named for her, but I knew little about her, except that my father spoke of her kindness and her talent for baking pastries, which he claimed were unequaled. My Nana was lovable and cooked a mean brisket of beef that I still try to copy, but she was timid. She and my grandfather had been together since she was a young girl. They were very close, and growing up I felt their love for one another. Each morning Nana laid out my grandfather’s clothes, and every evening she waited by the window of their street-floor apartment to see him return. He was her life, and then he died. For seven long years she waited to join him. She was so frightened and unhappy that she couldn't sleep, but she was too afraid to turn on a light, so she kept the refrigerator door ajar in order to see her way around her apartment. Occasionally she brightened, especially as she held my daughter on her lap, but it was only for a moment.
Remembering how she had been before my grandfather’s death—her pleasure at our arrivals on Sundays, her waiting for us at the window with the table set and filled with our favorite foods—I had wondered how she had disappeared with my grandfather. I knew that my images of her fear and dependence could not help me become what I want to be -- a feminist grandmother. Sarah complains when I use this term. “Mom,” she asks with irritation, “why do you have to be a feminist grandmother? Why won’t just grandmother do?” But it doesn’t.
When I reach further back into my family history, I discover more about my great-grandmother Bertha on my mother’s side of the family. The stories I heard portrayed her as respected and feared, especially by her sons-in-law. A portrait of her, painted late in her life by my great-uncle, went from family home to family home, and it was always given a central place of honor from living room to living room. In the painting, great-grandma Bertha’s grey hair is swept up and back. She is elegant in a black silk dress with a string of pearls around her neck and a cameo pin at her neckline. Her face is quiet and impassive, expressing confidence about her capacity to manage life. At the time this portrait was painted, the family was doing well, and she was revered. My grandmother and great-aunt’s told stories about her strength and elegance. They left out details of the time in which she had had to learn to manage on her own.
I found a photograph of Bertha walking on the boardwalk in Atlantic City beside my mother who was pushing my sister in a baby carriage. Bertha is holding her strong arms tightly in front of her, a robust and formidable woman, looking sternly into the camera. Using this picture, I made a sculpture of her head, with her seal hat at a jaunty angle and her coat collar high around her neck, giving her a regal air. I tried to embody her vitality and sturdiness. This sculpture sits on my desk, watching over me and reminding me of my capability to face adversity and not to expect someone else to take care of me.
A powerful image of a matriarch who might inspire me, but still not the right model for me as Nana. So how does a 70’s feminist turn herself into a Nana? I don’t want to be relegated to predictable Sunday suppers, but what do I want? The other day when Cole was fussing, I walked with him up a hill to a park nearby. I liked the feeling of just me and him, out together heading off on a walk. I wasn’t sure exactly where we would end up. Along the way I told him about the things that were on my mind. For a while he cooed and made sounds, and then I realized he was fast asleep, and I just kept on walking. I found myself singing as I walked.
My arms grew tired, and I realized that the next time I would have to put him in a stroller or a baby carrier, but I knew that there would be a next time, many next times. Just Cole and I heading out, not certain where we would land, but relaxed and easy with one another and just a little bit excited about what we might find along our way.
1 comment:
Hello Nana
Feminism gave us the chance to write our own rules about who we are and who we will be. It is fun to see that that extends to nanahood. I have no children yet and struggle to see how I will fit them into my current busy life. But what makes me think I must have children one day? The thought of growing old without them. So happy to see that it doesn't stop with having children and that you get a whole new chance to explore and enjoy when your children finally get around to having children. Much love to you and special nuzzle and kiss for Cole.
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