The Spiritual Passage Into Grandmotherhood
“You’re seven months pregnant and you’re going to Maui?” I said in a tone that broke my be-an-easy-grandmother rule. I mean, my daughter is about to embark upon a life-altering new chapter. And I’m worried.
I try not to be a worrier. She and her husband are highly competent. They backpack in Montana grizzly bear country. They back-country ski in avalanche terrain. They trek internationally in places few feet have trodden. They will be able to handle the adventure of being parents with great grace. But shouldn’t she be lying down with her feet up, close to the hospital?
“We want one last trip before we’re parents,” she said, reading my mind. “We just want to be. It’s called a Babymoon.”
Attempt to be calm. Give them your blessing. Do not bring your fear into this!
So I reframed. “Go have fun! Dig a hole in the sand and lie on your stomach! Be waited on! Good for you!” She’s strong. Her pregnancy has gone smoothly. A vacation before the baby comes will be good for them. Still…
My mind reeled. Maybe I needed my own re-frame. Maybe instead of focusing on what I can’t control, I should turn the mirror on myself. My daughter is about to become a mother, never mind give birth. Her role is clear. Where do I belong in all of this? And how do I keep fear out of it?
I know what it is to be an expectant mother. There’s so much to fear. You do all the things you’re supposed to do but you hear horrible stories. You try not to think about them happening to you. You do your best to stay in the present until suddenly you’re doing this thing called nesting: cleaning the bottom of your dishwasher and taking a toothbrush to the shower grout. There’s a baby on the way. It’s real and your fear gets eclipsed by hope. You can’t wait to hold it in your arms. You start dreaming it all to life: your baby, your motherhood, your new family.
An expectant grandmother, however? I haven’t let myself dream at all. Dreaming feels dangerous. I can’t seem to even wrap my mind around the basics: car seats, strollers, diapers, baby-gates. They live across town. I'm going to be deep in it. I’m grateful and excited and terrified and wildly confused. I haven’t shed one happy-or-sad tear. And I cry easily.
The other day I shocked myself. To a trusted friend, I said, “Grandchildren are just another thing to break your heart.”
She looked at me incredulous. “I promise you: the minute you meet that baby, your heart will be blissfully changed forever.” Why did that sound like a too-tall order vs. a well-wish? Maybe it was time to take a look at my dishwasher. My shower. Myself.
Had I built a wall around my heart? I didn’t want to think so. I am a heart-centered nurturer by nature: a mother, a writing retreat leader, a teacher, a community builder. I love helping people feel and learn and become. I know I’ll be helpful to my daughter and son-in-law as they move into parenthood. But what kind of help am I going to offer my grandchild? What will my role be? Will I be wise? Will I be a true matriarch?
“Congratulations!” people exclaim.
I try to beam with pride, but instead I say: “I’m not the one who’s having a baby!”
Why is my reaction so grim? Is this a full-blown identity crisis brought on by stealth overwhelm? It’s a baby, not a category five hurricane!
It was time to get real. Because…I am “having” a baby. But just what is a grandmother’s role? Does that baby belong to me? Do I have rights to it? Will I know where the line is and will I be able to walk it? What if I screw up? It’s par for the course to sometimes screw up as a mother. But grandmothers? Aren’t they supposed to be rock-steady, yet full of endless fun? A wellspring of comfort and solicited sage advice? Cookies and sleepovers and unconditional love?
My grandmothers were all that and more. I longed to be with them. Plus, they understood my parents foundationally, and I needed that information to help navigate my childhood. One of my grandmothers lived with us. I took care of her. It wasn’t pretty, but she had taken such good care of me. It felt like my duty. Would my grandchild feel a sense of duty to me? Would I want him to? (It’s a him.)
Usually when I get into a head-spin like this, I relieve it with tears. I know how to pull the plug and let it all drain out. But since the moment my daughter announced her pregnancy, the plug won’t budge. I needed to turn my fears to tears. What would it take?
A Babymoon, huh? Was there such a thing as a Grandmother Babymoon? To go somewhere and just be before this life-altering next chapter of my life.
Where in the world would I go? A beach would only be a Band-aid. I needed to be cracked open, maybe mercilessly. To look in the mirror and see who I truly am in this exact time of my life. Seemed like a job for New York City.
My mind reeled faster, suddenly lusty: What would I do solo in NYC, free of responsibility? How about a foodie city crawl. Make it a Bourdain kind of fling. Pop into tiny food stalls, mystery meat rotating on a stake. Then hit Fifth Avenue, the shops all dressed for the holidays! And museums! The newly renovated Frick! The MET! Just me. No giving away my druthers for others’ druthers.
Maybe a Grandmother Babymoon, like a Babymoon, is a time to be self-serving. Self-soothing, before you give a large part of your heart to your grandchild. My heart will be “changed forever?” That’s perhaps what I’ve been afraid of most. My heart’s been broken before. It’s a long haul back.
But I knew that city-fix distraction wasn’t the ultimate salve. Instead, a painting came to mind. One that had been salve for me many times: the Joan of Arc by Lepage at the MET. I’d take a good look at myself through her mirror eyes. She would help me feel what I needed to feel.
I’d gone to Joan at other pivotal times in my life. This giant peasant girl being called from her garden, saints swarming around her. Bare feet, torn frock, that sacred gaze into her true purpose. The first time I saw her, I wept. I was about to leave everything I knew to become a writer. Was I making a horrible mistake? I gazed into Joan’s eyes, butterflies flocking in my chest. She said, Yes. Go. The next time I saw Joan, I was pregnant with my daughter. I also wept. A new calling. Would I be good at it? Yes. Go. Maybe Joan would help me to release the tears I knew I needed to cry.
So I went to NYC. For a painting but more for a pilgrimage.
I fast-walked to her gallery. She wasn’t there. Maybe she was out on loan. I’d traveled all this way and I was going to miss her. I needed her Yes. Go. Instead, I found myself in the Renaissance section. All those worried Madonnas with their crystalline tears. I need you, Joan! It felt like my grandmotherhood depended on her.
Dizzy, I sat on a bench. My daughter was about to bear a son into this worried world. I begged the powers-that-be: Please don’t let anything bad happen. Please…
Tears rose from the depth of my being. But they stopped. As if they were afraid to come out, safer in their own “womb.”
So I rose and walked, not caring where I was going. Maybe I’d stare at a mummy and wonder if it once was a worried grandmother-to-be.
And just when I was about to give up…there she was. That sacred gaze. Those mirror eyes.
I sat in front of her. A different bench. A different version of myself. What was I called to this time? I’d answered all the other calls. I’d left the “garden” many times. I looked into Joan’s glowing eyes. What is my role now? Matriarch? Am I wise enough?
And I realized that every time I’d looked into her eyes, I’d been this scared. As she surely had been too. But she’d answered the call. And so had I. Why would this time be any different?
It occurred to me then: I needed to trust that this baby will teach us how it needs to be loved. And that is something I know, for certain, that I can do.
That’s when the tears spilled. Maybe I didn’t need to be wise. Maybe I just needed to be love itself.
Yes. Go.
Laura Munson is a bestselling author and founder of the acclaimed Haven Writing Retreats . Learn more at lauramunson.com .
Please note that we may receive affiliate commissions from the sales of linked products.
