The Transformation
At 12:47 am, May 16, 2012 my life changed permanently. After
almost 24 hours of my daughter's drug-free labor, many hurried texts to the
father-to-be in the labor room, countless cups of horrible hospital coffee and
several walks around halls, up and down stairs and out to the parking lot for
some fresh air, I became the grandmother of a beautiful baby boy named Benjamin
Alexander. 5 pounds 4 ounces of sweet perfection, complete with startling blue
eyes, all twenty fingers and toes and a head full of wispy blonde hair. I
looked into his eyes and my heart melted; he could do anything he ever wanted
at Grammy's house (including riding our dog Cooper like a small horse) and I
wouldn't mind. Anything. He. Wants.
As I walked out of
the hospital in the wee hours of the morning, smiling and humming to myself, I
couldn't wait to get home and start posting pictures and bragging on Facebook,
after about 10 hours of sleep, of course. I got into my car, put the key in the
ignition and turned it, and was immediately blasted awake by Korn screaming at
me about feeling like a freak on a leash. Now, for the two of you who aren't
familiar with Korn, let me put it this way. They are a lot like Pat Boone...if
he were dreadlocked, tattooed, fed a TON of acid and handed an electric guitar
and a set of bagpipes. And as I was driving out of the parking lot, bobbing my
head up and down and singing along, it hit me: I'M A GRANDMA AND I'M LISTENING
TO THE DEVIL'S MUSIC!
Okay, let me clarify. I don't really think Korn is the
devil's music, but I suddenly seemed to be channeling my grandmother on my
father's side. Grandma Genie was a sweet and sedate ministers wife who always
wore floral-print dresses, knitted and crocheted blankets and sweaters and
almost wore out her knees praying for the salvation of her granddaughter's rock
and roll soul. I felt very insecure at the thought that I was supposed to start
acting like a grandma, and grandma's aren't supposed to rock in anything but
rocking chairs, right? Right.
I admit, during my daughter's pregnancy I questioned my
ability to be a good grandma. I was the girl who once flashed the megatron at a
Guns n' Roses concert; I got drunk in the school parking lot at 7 am on the
first day of 11th grade. I lost my virginity in a graveyard, for crying out
loud! How was I supposed to guide and teach my grandson when honestly, 21 years
earlier, I had barely felt qualified to teach his mother anything? And then a
realization hit me. I'm not supposed to be MY grandmother. She was a wonderful,
patient woman whose taste in music and fashion I would still question if she
were alive today. But couldn't I take the patience, the teaching, the homemade
cookies and secrets that she shared with me and share those same things with Ben?
Hadn't all the crazy life adventures I had made me a better, more open and
aware mother to my own children? Did I really have to stop going to concerts,
seeing friends' bands play, or cranking up Metallica's "Seek and
Destroy" every time it came on the radio? A resounding HELL NO!!! Er,
heck...heck no. Sorry Ben.
Lacy sweaters, gray
buns and floral-print dresses aside, being a grandma is all about being worldly
wise, a keeper of secrets and a giver of unconditional love. I can do all that
in a leather vest without batting an eye. (Side note: spit-up cleans off
leather much easier, too!) I know that what really matters is what's in my
heart, not what's coming out of my speakers. I know that taking Ben to the zoo
and park and beach will all be great, and hopefully I'll get the opportunity to
take him to his first metal show as well! Rock on Ben...Grammy loves you!
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