When I was in kindergarten, “Show and Tell” was one of my favorite things. One day, I brought in pictures of my mother’s youngest brother, Danny. I was so excited about showing them to the class and telling them that my grandmother had a new baby.
The teacher questioned me several times about exactly who gave birth and explained that this child could not possibly be my uncle because “grandmothers don’t have babies.” I stood my ground, insisting that I was not making up a story – these pictures were really of my Uncle Danny, who was just a few weeks old at the time.
Later that day, the teacher called my mother after school and asked her to please work with me on family relationships because I had told everyone that my grandmother just had a baby. My mother informed the teacher that I was not confused about anything and had told the truth. She said that my grandmother was 42 years old. The teacher was flabbergasted – it was “inconceivable and unnatural for a woman that age to give birth!” She exclaimed.
I didn’t understand what all the hoopla was about and my mother was just annoyed with the teacher’s attitude.
Through the years, many people thought my grandmother was my uncle’s grandmother, and looking back, I’ve tried to pinpoint the reasons for that assumption. Was it strictly based on her age? What made her look old? Was it her clothing, hair, or makeup?
She laughed when people thought she was Danny’s grandmother and seemed to understand why people would think that, but I didn’t understand. My grandmother did all the things with my uncle that my mother did with my brother and I, but people never thought my mother was my grandmother – so what was different?
My grandmother certainly didn’t fit my definition of an old person – that was my great-grandmother’s role. She had gray hair pulled back in a bun; she always wore dresses that were well past her knees. She wore long underwear and undershirts – we were fascinated watching them flap on the laundry line – and flesh colored cotton stockings rolled down to her knees with black shoes like the mean school teacher in The Wizard of Oz. If we played on the front lawn, my great-grandmother would yell out the window for us to get off the grass. She smelled like moth balls, and we served her meals to her on a tray in her room so she could eat in peace. That was my definition of an old person!
After suffering four previous miscarriages, I became a mother at age 48, through adoption. When I started the adoption process, I had a few friends who were dumbfounded and one who literally refused to remain a friend, stating that she “could not associate with someone who could be so completely unreasonable.”
I can survive with one less friend, but not without my son.
I have not had the experience of anyone mistaking me for my son’s grandmother, but I wonder what would happen if I didn’t dye my hair and let the gray show. When my age does come up, people seem surprised I’m “so old” and usually comment that I don’t look my age. I don’t know what that means but I am glad that they think I’m younger!
I can see differences between my relationship with my son and my grandmother’s relationship with my uncle. I am definitely more physically active – I never saw my grandmother on a bicycle, playing tennis, or kicking around a soccer ball. Even my grandfather didn’t do those things with my uncle because he was “too tired” after a long day of work to play games.
I think that as the Baby Boomers turn 65, the perception of what “old age” is will shift more toward 75 or 80, in part, because many boomers will choose to continue working past traditional retirement age – some by choice and some out of financial necessity.
My grandmother died at age 56, only one year older than I am now. I think that is why despite my fondness for celebrating my birthday, turning 55 was different. I passed on the big birthday party and celebrated quietly with my son and parents. I think about all the things my grandmother never got to do with her son and I worry about not being there for my own child.
My experience as a midlife mother is definitely different than my grandmother’s experience. I don’t smoke, drink or use drugs, and I try to eat healthy and exercise– all things that I hope will help me live a long, full, active life. I will continue to dye my hair, play tennis and cards, and ride a bicycle until I’m at least 100 – then I think it may be appropriate to go gray, and enjoy my great-grandchildren.