As the world turns so do we all

I have been invited to my first Grandparents event! How exciting is that. We'll be in the States for Thanksgiving, and Bibs' pre-school is inviting Grandparents in for a visit the day before Thanksgiving. We are so lucky to be gifted with grands while we are still "young" — as meaningless a word as any in existence — except in a relative context to the much too meaningful term "old." My twenty-something/thirty-something daughters are dealing with the concept of what it means to be "old" — while sixty-something me is proclaiming the joy of being "young."

I don't really think that I am young. In fact being gifted with grandchildren has made that very clear to me. After Bibs was born, Megan, (half)-jokingly told me that if the goal of a species is reproduction then my time was up since I had successfully reproduced — and that is a half goal reached — but now that my progeny had successfully reproduced, a full goal had been reached, and I was now surplus. I say half-jokingly because our family thrives on stories of biological determinism, an outgrowth of Bob's work in cognitive science and animal behaviour, I think, and of course it is true that I am the one who should be tipped out of the lifeboat if needs must.

It is true though that having grandchildren has given me an age reality check. I have discovered that I am no longer 35 years old. I generally live ignoring this knowledge, but I have now accepted it as true when I am faced with reality. Age moves inexorably onwards, but inside we don't feel any different. My 91-year old friend says she sometimes is shocked by her reflection in a glass window, thinking, who is that old woman. When younger people occasionally offer me a seat on the Tube, I want to say, "no, no, can't you see I am the same age as you." When younger people don't offer me a seat, I can think, "see see, they know I am their age." I realised a few years ago that mid-thirties was my forever age, but I have just figured out why.

Last week Susan had a few reversals of fortune — minor, not tragic — but in an effort to be "maternally helpful" I blurted out, "Well, the late 20s is really a shit time of life for most people," which she didn't find to be particularly helpful. My reference to the relativity of "young" and "old" above, came from this conversation, because her first response was "Late 20s! I'm in my mid 20s." then her shoulders fell, and deflated she said, "You're right, 27 is late 20s." I felt awful, because my point wasn't to make her feel old, but to say that all the big life issues and decisions that bombard you in your late 20s will feel oppressive, but they can be gotten through, and will eventually pass, just as early adolescence, another shit time of life, did. That's when I realised my forever age is 35, because by then I was a grown-up, with a husband, two wonderful children, a house, a potential career that never materialised, but put it all together, and I had a Life. A Life cobbled together from some planning and lots of happenstance, never perfect in its day-to-day reality, but certainly near perfect in retrospect.

My age check came last winter when I lived with Megan for two months — a month before and a month after Bobs was born. On a routine trip to the paediatrician, I sat in the waiting room, surrounded by mothers with their children, all doing what mothers do when their children need to see a doctor, and I suddenly thought: I used to do this, this used to be what I did when I was 35 or 45, the age of all these mothers sitting in this paediatrician's waiting room with their toddlers or teenagers. This is their life, but it isn't my life any longer. So that's when I discovered I was no longer 35 years old, but it was okay because I also remembered how much hard work it was to hold everything together in that life. The grandparent role is great because you can share in all the benefits that children bring to life, but it's not your job to hold everything together any more.  Despite knowing I am not 35,  I still feel like I am most of the time — and that paradox never seems to bother me either.

Becoming a grandparent also reminded me that the universe we live in has an order to it. When I was left without parents in my mid-20s, I remember feeling like I was free-floating through the ether with nothing to hold on to, as if I had been sloughed off from some Great Chain of Being. Since that time  other people have told me of having the same experience when their parents died. When I had my children I again experienced that feeling, but happily because I now had hands to hold onto again. Having new sets of hands holding on to my daughter and her husband, adding a new link to the chain, is a lovely way of illustrating that biological imperative for survival.