Transitions

Are grandmas supposed to be soft?

With the countdown to a high school reunion now in weeks- two themes dominate the range of thoughts and emotions that surface:

1. There is absolutely no way FOUR DECADES have passed since this way cool bunch of kids grabbed diplomas and scattered.

2. I have waited too late to hit the gym.

Of course one must walk into a group that disintegrated forty years ago appearing unchanged (or at least recognizable), right? I see many old high school friends regularly and keep up with many more on Facebook, so extra pounds, sparkly hair, and a few “laugh lines” shouldn’t shock anybody. But it would be nice to hear “You haven’t changed a bit!” and believe the speaker isn’t lying through his/her teeth while thinking, “Bless her heart, I’m glad she wore her name tag.”

The fact is, the soul doesn’t age at the same rate as the body, and while we may still feel like that seventeen-year-old with weird hair, polyester bell-bottoms, and platform shoes- many of us from the class of ’76 have transitioned into grandparenthood.

Transitions are hard.

Remember going from junior high to high school- and then high school to college? Over the summer, we plummet from the top of the heap to the bottom, facing embarrassing initiation rituals (when those were still allowed), wondering if we are in the right building, and hoping we have the same lunch as our friends. We stand in the basement of the dorm with a dryer full of pink clothes thinking, “So that’s why Mom said not to put everything in the washer together.”

Transitioning from college life to the real world is a shocker. One day, I’m surrounded by hundreds of smart, friendly kids who are a lot like me- having fun, playing intramural sports, sitting on the floor singing to a guitar, sipping a beverage (mine was Dr. Pepper- it kept me awake), engaging in meaningful philosophical conversations, going to parties and football games, (and class), playing pranks, my biggest worry is getting that paper typed up by nine o’clock class…then I wake up one morning with a JOB.

Single to married…a couple to a threesome- those are big transitions! Life takes on new meaning. Suddenly me becomes us. Neither spouse is as charming all the time as the other thought, and adjustments are in order. Then someone hands over a bundle and tells us to leave the hospital- and a jolting realization hits: the most beautiful child ever born into the world is relying on us– for everything. We can’t say “Dad will pay for it,” or “Mom will clean it up.” That’s us now.

The young parent days of diapers and play dates transition to speeding from lesson to scouts to game in the minivan, and the children’s school days whiz by in a blur. Along with laughter, and victories, and celebrations- there are moves, losses, crises, and disappointments- more transitions. Suddenly we find ourselves joining a line of sweaty, middle-aged basket-cases lugging heavy boxes up four flights of stairs. We are abandoning the last child at college. The house is strangely clean and quiet, the elderly family dog (with many tears) has gone to the vet for the last time, and once again we find ourselves searching for footing in a new reality- only this time it doesn’t seem as exciting as before.

But as always, as soon as we acclimate to new surroundings and are starting to enjoy ourselves, it’s time for another transition. There is a tired-looking, dumpy older person who won’t get out of the way when we try to look in the mirror. Adults in their thirties are calling us ma’am. Ridiculous (obviously legally blind) cashiers ask if we want the senior discount, and friends are talking about retirement and colonoscopies.

In the midst of these alarming, unwelcome developments, the most wonderful event occurs. A daughter or son hands us (what they consider to be) the most beautiful child ever born into the world. We are grandparents. As we cuddle this tiny miracle, we think of our grandmothers- how warm and soft their hugs were- and how loved we felt in their arms. This little one will go through a lot of transitions, and for a while, God gives them Grandma’s lap as the softest of places to land when life seems hard.

In a few weeks many of the DHS class of ’76 will gather once more. We are the same eighteen-year-olds we were forty years ago, and we are not the same. Yet as happens with old friends, even if we first have to check the name tag, after a few minutes, changes of time don’t matter at all- and we only see who’s inside. Chicago is on the radio, Gerald Ford is in the White House, the Viet Nam War is over, and we just beat Rossville. We started in the same small town; we traveled together, then apart; and it’s good to come together again- to catch up- and to remember.

Transitions- all those uncomfortable moves to new territory- can make us hard, or they can make us soft- kinder, humbler, gentler, more understanding and gracious. I’m looking forward to seeing the kids I grew up with- hearing their stories- and looking at pictures of their grandchildren (or children, or fur-babies, or travels). I’m also accepting that transitions are life, they move us where we need to go, and grandmas are supposed to be soft.

It’s good I put off those trips to the gym- they most likely would have transitioned me right into the chiropractor’s office.

Senior ’76! Go Big Red! See you at the party.