What type of grandparent will I become? - The Globe and Mail

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I look around the circle of faces at this family gathering. This is a far cry from my quiet life. My granddaughter builds a Magnatiles structure with the careful attention of an eight year old. Along comes her 20-month-old brother ready to swing and knock it down, a gleeful smile on his face. My adult children are engaged in conversation, with lots on their plates, so much of life still ahead of them. I am aware of the feeling of being overwhelmed which comes when I spend time in a setting bursting with sensory stimulation. I listen and try to stay in the resonance of love. This is the buzz of a happy family setting after all. I concentrate, attempting to push back the voice that says, “you are irrelevant. What do you have to offer? You are moving too slowly and will be left behind.”

At 69, the blessings of my full, rich life are many. I look for ways to apply my gifts so that I might feel vital. We all want to matter and that need doesn’t disappear after a certain age. Perhaps I lack the strength to stare down aging? Stand tall, I think, despite my shrinking stature. Celebrate the wrinkles, the slightly stooped posture, the aches and pains of old injuries as they manifest into arthritis.

Work used to be the place where I used my gifts and felt my worthiness. The busyness of life was a mark of success. How do I move beyond proving and performance? It is an adjustment, smoothing out the edges of my restless spirit, the part of me that loves the next goal and the adrenalin rush of pushing myself. “Stop and notice,” I tell myself. But how?

In my overcrowded bank of memories, I pull out an image of my granddaughter when she was two. It is summer and she is staying with us at our cabin. She presses her chubby hands against the window, using the glass to balance herself, gazing outside. It’s a view that we are accustomed to seeing every morning. “Wow, wow, wow,” I hear her whisper, repeated like a quiet mantra. I silently step in behind her to see what might have appeared. Nothing new, just the same view, now seen through fresh eyes. The child becomes the teacher. A role model for noticing the wonder that is right in front of us.

Someone recently suggested that I should become the grandparent I want to be. That person is definitely not the sweet old granny sitting with her yarn and knitting needles in the rocker. But who is she?

When my mother-in-law was in her 90s and crippled with osteoporosis, I was tempted to see her physical frame as a reflection of her diminishing contribution. Having experienced a number of mini strokes, her conversational skills were limited. Yet, I could feel her spirit longing to speak and assert itself, especially as others made decisions for her. Her feisty side responded with anger.

Occasionally, when I walk by the mirror in our bedroom, the reflection I see reminds me of her. My lips curve downward at the edge, an upside-down smile like the emoji my adult children send me after a particularly tough day. Have my facial lines morphed into a permanent look of dissatisfaction? I make an effort to reverse the smile to a more pleasing expression. I want my grandchildren to see the playful, fun side of my personality.

On a hot summer day, my granddaughter and I put on our oversized painting shirts and set up our canvases on the plastic tablecloth draped across the picnic table. I reach for the acrylic paints and medley of brushes that my family gave me as a retirement present. It’s time to reconnect with my creativity, to experiment with colours and brush strokes. It’s about play, not mastery, for we are creating for ourselves.

What is my ideal vision of a nana? I reach for the images that are affirming: walking with purpose; sharing a laugh with an old or new friend; learning something new; giving back to my church; having others want to hear my points of view; feeling loved and accepted.

Within a society that often pushes “older” women to the periphery, the call to measure up has become silent. Our invisibility has become our ticket to freedom. We can listen to the internal whispers, ignored in the years of striving. Now I can reconnect with the lost parts of myself and finally give them a voice.

There’s certainly nothing like a young grandson to make me feel visible. He greets me with a big smile and a generous wave every time I walk into the room. He’s not judging me or wondering whether I’m worth spending time with. He feels the love that is reciprocated. In his eyes, I can’t make a mistake as long as I can get down on the floor and play. I can focus my full attention on him as I experience his delight in exploring the world around him. For a moment he makes me feel like I am living my ideal vision, even if I can’t articulate it myself.

Maybe, for now, that is enough.

Patti Thompson lives in Toronto.

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What type of grandparent will I become? - The Globe and Mail
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