Somewhere in the last year or so, children stopped accidentally calling me “Mom” and started accidentally calling me “Grandma.” It happened again today. I’m not pleased with this turn of events.
I drove back to my office pondering what exactly it is about me that caused this shift. Is it the extra weight I’ve put on? Is my skin showing more signs of age? Do I need to change my hair? Are my clothes frumpy? Is it the way I carry myself? I mean, I’ve been through a lot of sh*t in the past year. It’s reasonable that it would have aged me some.
Then I started thinking about my grandmothers. They’re both pretty awesome people. They’re amazing women who have accomplished a lot in life. They’re intelligent, loving, and kind. They’re talented. Children love them. I love them, and as a child I remember admiring them and looking up to them. And they are both beautiful. I come from good genes.
Maybe it’s not so bad to seem like a grandmother.
Also, my co-worker pointed out to me that a lot of these kids have moms who are 17 and grandmas who are 35. So, there’s that. Maybe I look about 35?
I’m sure that’s it.