Children don’t stay children forever. They grow up and move on with their lives.
That is as it should be.
But when do mothers stop being mothers?
My kids have been grown and on their own for more years than either I or they care to admit.
All three are married with children of their own and manage quite well without me.
Changing roles from “mama” to “nana” has been the best job promotion I could hope for — all the joy without any of the work.
And while my grown children always make me feel loved and appreciated, my grandchildren make me feel like a rockstar.
I like being my grandkids’ rockstar nana.
I’m happy to leave the parenting to their parents. But I can’t quite seem to stop being a mom to my grown kids.
u It’s hard for me to go more than a few days (certainly no more than a week) without hearing from each one of them. In person. And at length. For at least 20 minutes, but preferably longer. If they don’t call me, I will track them down.
u Yes, they’re grown, but I still need to hug them often and smell the backs of their necks. They don’t mind the hugs, but the neck sniffing drives them crazy. Too bad, I don’t care.
u At times, I might offer them a bit of unsolicited advice, but it is always well-intentioned, and in most cases, ignored.
u I love to tell hilarious stories about things they did when they were growing up. I can do this until the cows come home, or until the kids make me stop. I think they like hearing those stories, even if they insist they aren’t true. Which they are.
Those are only a few of the ways I still tend to act like a mom. Maybe most moms do those things.
But here’s one that might seem a bit odd: I need to see every corner of every room of every place they’ve ever lived.
I’m not sure why. It’s not an inspection.
It’s more like a familiarization.
I just can’t quite rest until I can picture them in their new surroundings.
To do this, I have traveled near and far, across town and across country, to New York or Montana or Los Angeles, any place they’ve called home.
Today, I drove six long hours to spend a few days with my oldest and his wife and their 14-month-old, Jonah, in their new home in Northern California.
We FaceTime often, but it had been a few months since our last real visit.
I was hoping Jonah would recognize me as the nana who lives in his dad’s iPhone.
But not at first.
He took a while to warm up to me.
Meanwhile, his mom and dad gave me a tour of the new place.
I checked out every corner of every room.
It was perfect.
Then we sat in the yard and watched Jonah run barefoot in the grass.
We were eating pizza in the dining room when Jonah finally grinned, pointed to me and said the magic word: “Nana!”
I wish you could’ve seen him.
Somehow, it made that six-hour drive seem a lot shorter.
After dinner, Jonah took me in his play room and kept handing me books, one after another, begging me to read to him.
Watching him in action, with his golden hair shining like cornsilks in the sun, I thought once again, as I’ve done so often since he was born, how very much he looks like his dad.
Suddenly, I realized another reason why I love being a nana: Looking at my grandchildren, I can see, not only them, but the children I knew long ago: A cornsilk-haired toddler who begged me to read; a little girl in long braids who picked fistfuls of flowers just for me from the neighbor’s yard; and a blue-eyed boy who loved to catch lizards and hide them in my purse.
My grandchildren, God bless them, are giving me back my children.
I am “mamanana.”
It’s one great job with all the joy of both and none of the work.