This past
weekend saw yet another milestone happen in our lives: Mr. Ashbury and I became
great-grandparents. Yes, we're young for that status. But we became grandparents
young, too. I was 37 and he was 39 when our first grandchild was born. Now we're
great-grandparents, and that's amazing.
My
daughter is a 35 year old grandmother. She has a bit of my grandmother in
her, because she has decreed that she is to be known as "Nana" since, she said,
"grandma" just sounds too old. No, I didn't smack her, but only because she
informed me that I am now to be known in the family as "GG".
I can
recall my mom telling me how my dad was annoyed with his mother at one point. By
all accounts a vain woman, she apparently promised my brother and sister treats
if, when she took them out anywhere, they would call her "nanny" instead of
grandma. My dad wasn't pleased. "Nanny", my father had said, was the term given
to a paid employee charged to look after children. Apparently he retaliated by
referring to her, to my siblings, as "your father's mother."
My
daughter isn't vain, in fact, quite far from it. And she actually possesses a
lot of my mother's personality traits, too. The most notable of these is that
she is a great believer in personal space, and doesn't often wax sentimental
over anything.
And while
hugs from my mother were few and far between, I have to say that my daughter, as
an adult, is exactly the same.
When I
was raising my children, because my mom had not been one to hug or say I love
you very much, I ensured that I did that every day with my kids. It was a top
priority for me, and I never really cared if it seemed that there was a part of
me trying to make up my hug deficit from my own mother that way.
But as an
adult, my daughter is parsimonious when it comes to displays of affection. And
not just towards me, either.
So
imagine my surprise when, a few weeks ago, she arrived as she often does through
the course of any given day, and then came right up to me, and threw her arms
around me and gave me a huge, really quite wonderful hug.
"Thank
you. What was that for?" I asked.
"You
refurbished that bassinette for me!"
That made
me laugh. Allow me to explain. When I was expecting my first child, my mother
brought out of storage a wicker bassinette on a wicker stand. She told me that
her mother had given it to her, for her first born. That was in 1944, and I have
no idea if it was new then, but likely it was.
My mom
used it for all three of us, and gave it to me for my first child. My
mother-in-law and her sister-in-law decorated it – fashioning a padded inside,
covering it in pretty baby-type material. This "decorating" was complete with a
hood made of a pretty blue cotton with little white "pompoms" dangling from the
edge.
I used
the bassinette for all of my children, and then, put it into storage. When my
daughter was expecting her son, I got it out and re-decorated it. I'm not much
at sewing or such, but I was able to do a pretty good job of that. The only
other things I've ever made in my life were my kids Halloween
costumes.
My
daughter gained a whole new perspective and appreciation when she—who ironically
is good at sewing and such—attempted to redecorate the bassinette for her
first grandchild. It took her hours to complete and, she said, she considered
quitting more than once. But she didn't, and I'm glad of that. That bassinette
is more than a bassinette, it's a family tradition. It represents one more thing
now, too.
It's a
rite of passage. They come in the most unusual ways sometimes, don't
they?
Love,
Morgan
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