So what is grandmother Love, anyway?  I’ve left the part of my life journey called “the world I know” and am fumbling to find the trail head of a new path through a brand new territory, called Ama-land.

What is he trying to say?

Ama. That’s my grandmother name. I spent a long time dreaming it up, and part of the challenge was overcoming identity-shift aversion. I made sure my label came from me rather than anyone else’s imposition. I looked for meaning but also wanted a mellow sounding word. I insisted on something unique. Ama works. I notice that people don’t look at me weirdly when they call me that, which is making me comfortable with my handle. That’s progress.

It’s dawn now, and I’m alone with this bundle that’s forcing the change. I’m dreamy in one way but have all my practical neurons snapping too. “I’d better start working with weights”, I muse as my biceps seize, “this kid’s not getting lighter”. But I am also thinking about my personal version of grandmother Love. I get it that Love has to drive this journey, to outclass any other engines like obligation or expectation or guilt. Moms get to have hormones pushing them along to Love. Good dads like my son Jamie get to have pride in their man cub to snag Love. But what is my Love potion?

I rock. “What is going on inside your head, little Cedar?” I coo. “Do you feel mummy and daddy loving you?” I brush his cheek. “Do you see them light up when they look at you, little guy?”, I say in a soft voice. I let his tiny fist grip my little finger. “They don’t move an inch without checking on you, do they, Cedar?” I smooth the shadow of his hair-to-be, and touch his tough soft fontanel. “Does it feel good to be the king?” He’s perfect. “Do you notice, baby boy, that no-one can talk about anything else but you in this house?” It’s true. Parent Love is instant and total. “But what about me?”, I wonder. “How do I feel?”

I know what the Hallmarks folks say I am supposed to feel. I’m supposed to melt. I’m supposed to dance through Ama-land. Of course I’m fascinated by this little guy as he flicks from his sleeping doll face with hands splayed as if he’s getting a mini manicure, to a wince face of fury, frustration or pain, with legs curled to his chest as his insta-fists start flailing. Then back to calm. All in a flash. But is facination the same thing as grandmother Love? I continue to rock.

In my first month in Ama land, I’ve had many certainties sent in my direction. One of my friends was shocked when I told her I imagined myself being with the grandchild about a day a week. “What?” my friend raged. “And sacrifice all your own dreams just to become free labour? You are better than that!” Another friend Barb, an octegenarian, sniffs. “I always told my kids that you had ‘em, you take care of ‘em”. She thinks I’m nuts. When I offer a picture to confirm his cuteness, she just says, “I never carried pictures of my kids”. In a movie about Brits spending their old age in far off India, one character smiles as she heads for the airport. The grandchildren wave goodbye as her daughter fumes. Tough Love. These views deserve some weight, I guess.

On the other extreme are friends who welcome me to granny land as if I’ve joined them in the rapture. They promise me I’ll catch on. “There can never be enough of grandchildren”, they assure me. Some are a little concerned that I haven’t seen what they do in this paradise. “Are you sure you’re not depressed?” one asks. Ecstacy has a place in granny Love, I guess.

My sister Judi is worried about me too. “I see you have not bonded”, she notes. “Where do you get that notion”, I huff, feeling slightly unnerved. “I’ve seen nothing from you on Facebook. No tweets. I’ve yet to get a picture. Your emails say nothing about Cedar. Have we had a good chinwag about him yet?”  Now I feel inadequate.

Still, Judi was smug last weekend when I handed over ten bucks for a “pee pee teepee” at a craft fair. “Finally”, she observes, “you’ve hit on your first granny bait”. She intimates that soon I’ll never enter a commercial establishment without checking the kids section. To her it is all part of granny Love.

I’m happy to report that after one more visit to Cedar, and another early morning rock, I’m beginning to glimpse a path. It wasn’t the squirming bundle, but the exquisite joy of seeing my son being dad. So now my cell phone has dozens of pictures. I look at them in grocery lineups. But I only show one if I’m asked, “so, what does he look like?” I also wait to be asked how Cedar is doing before I babble, and stop short of sharing his prowess in burping. It’s a baby-step (pun intended) into Ama-land and I admit, the scenery is beautiful.

I wonder how other Island Women have taken on their roles as grandmother. Do you plunge right in or pick your way cautiously? I’d love to share your story of falling in grandmother Love.

Janet Dunnett
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