Scared to Be a Grandma

It’s been seventeen years since I held a baby whose genetic coding was closely linked to mine. But nearly twenty-four years ago, my first child was born. He came “home” to an upstairs apartment, barely funded by his father’s teaching job, his birth kindly paid for by the state of Indiana.

We had recently come home from Europe, having taught ESL for a year, and broke, just a few months before. It had not been my choice to return to the US.

But here we were. Living upstairs from an elderly couple in that little sweet little town. It wasn’t all bad.

But my son didn’t come home to a fancy bedroom, all painted and decorated for a new baby. He didn’t have a closet full of cute clothes or all of the gadgets a new mother could have to “help” her in these early stages.

No, it was just me and him. And a dad who was still trying to figure out life.

I had what I needed…and nothing that I wanted, except a healthy baby.

…

My second child came home to a mouse-infested, newly-purchase (thanks to my father’s credit) farmhouse. The upstairs had no heat, so she slept with me. In fact, my son slept on his mattress next to me on the floor.

One and a half years later, they both “moved out” to a room together, next to mine. They slept together for years, kept each other warm, and it seemed to work.

It was not the “normal” life. Finances were always shoddy and I never felt well cared for. My children, however, were not going to experience that. Everything I lacked in my ability to provide financially, I would provide emotionally, spiritually, mentally, intellectually…whatever I could do. My creativity and resourcefulness worked overtime for decades.

And it seemed to work well enough.

…

Two more babies and twenty-some years later, here we are. A single mom, newly divorced, totally broke, trying to finish school, run a small music school, finish raising children, manage some severe health issues, and still be present for the other children…that’s me.

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And, because all of that isn’t enough to break me each day, I’m going to be a gramma. I’ll actually be an “Oma”, most likely. That’s what my children call my mom, too.

And you ask, “Why are you NOT excited? What is wrong with you?”.

Well, I am asking that of myself right now. And I hate the answers. Because they make me sound like the most selfish woman I have ever known. And I don’t want to be selfish. I want to be the best gramma ever. I want to be excited.

But more than all of that, I find that I want to be READY. And I’m not.

My son and his wife are never going to live near me again. He is in the service and they will move around. That is hard enough for me. I miss my son every day and ache to see him and his wife, witness their growing relationship and support them. I am in no financial state to be able to move to be with them. And, at this rate, it is likely that I never will be.

I’m not excited because I am in no way ready to be able to travel to spend time with them and the little one. I might be able to see them once a year or so, but that is going to be it. And my heart is broken just thinking about it.

Remember when they were little, how I could kind of make up for not having “things” and be present with them, teach them, spend time with them, and love them? How do I do this Gramma thing, not be present and not have the finances to help out, if needed?

I can only hope that they will be fine, financially. I pray every day that whatever is wrong with his father, my son did not inherit. So far, so good. He wants to be a father. That is a step in the right direction.

…

Being well-resourced going into this stage of life is a dream that is not coming true. I never imagined being here, at age 48, having no idea how to make ends meet in this small-minded small town. The skills I have take the energy of a 20 or 30-something to make a living. And I did them — during my 20s and 30s.

Now, with a heart condition, stress level in the stratosphere, and broke, once again (still due to divorce), I am definitely not well-resourced.

I want to be excited. I want to somehow wake up and have things different. I want to get over the fact that I won’t be able to be the grandma my sisters and sisters-in-law are, or are going to be. They have resources. They have financial stability. They had their educations finished in their 20s and are able to step back into teaching (which they literally all do). And they have husbands with good jobs, retirements, and 401Ks, health insurance, and the works.

I have none of those.

I’m still paying the high price of freedom and it hurts all day, every day.

And I hate, more than anything, that I’m making it about me. But the pain will not stop. The tears come and go as they want to.

I’ll do my best. But I’m scared. I’m scared I won’t be enough, that I won’t be present when I am needed. That somehow my failure to recover from the divorce will continue to thwart my opportunities for joy for the rest of my life. It’s a terrifying thought.

I wanted to be a good mom. And it turned out well enough.

I can only hope that somehow, this will be the same.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.

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