Read an extract by Jane Caro from Grandmothers

Grandmothers is an anthology of essays by twenty-four Australian women, edited by Helen Elliott, about the many aspects of being a grandmother in the 21st century. In thoughtful, provoking, uncompromising writing, a broad range of women such as Jane Caro, Maggie Beer, Judith Brett, Alison Lester and more reflect on their vastly diverse experiences of grand-motherhood.

Today, you can read an extract from an essay by Jane Caro from Grandmothers. Read on!

Jane Caro

Pass it On

by Jane Caro

‘Can I give you a kiss goodbye?’

I always ask my three-year-old grandson for permission before I give him a hug or a kiss. We are very big on consent in our family and believe in teaching respect for another’s bodily autonomy early, but sometimes (often) it has its downside.

‘No, you can’t.’

I respect his choice—I have to, that’s the point of asking— but I don’t give up entirely.

‘Can I shake your hand instead, then?’

He looks up at me sweetly and replies with exactly the right note of kindly condescension and regret.

‘No, sorry, you can’t. I am just too busy.’

Once again, I must content myself with a wave and blowing a kiss. His little sister, not yet verbal, loves to give big, open-mouthed, sloppy kisses and, despite her snotty nose, I’m happy with that.

I love being a grandmother. I love it in a way that surprises me. When my daughter first announced she was pregnant— with my perennially time-poor grandson, as it turned out—I was pleased, of course, but I also felt an unexpected clutch of anxiety. Ever since my daughters moved out of home, I have revelled in my child-free existence. I love the freedom to work, loll about, watch what I want, eat what I want, when I want (with only minor objections from my husband). I love that when I tidy up, it stays tidy and I love the peace and quiet. I love the freedom to travel, to come and go as I please. I loved it so much that when our two cats died within months of one another, I had zero desire to replace them. That’s why I worried—guiltily—what the return of little children into my life would do to my blissful and professionally satisfying existence.

And, of course, my two grandchildren have blown up my life. Not as much as they have blown up my daughter’s, but enough to have taken most of my down time. What is surprising is that I don’t mind. I look forward to seeing Alfie and Esther with the anticipation of a teenage girl with a crush, and I like who I am with them.

I am much more patient with my grandchildren than I was with my own daughters. I have just enough detachment— and more than enough energy, unlike their sleep-deprived mother—to observe their temper tantrums (they are real, human children, after all) without feeling either responsible or disturbed. My daughter tells me I am the master of distraction—I suppose it’s the decades of experience as a mother kicking in. It is always nice to discover old skills that have lain rusty for years and find you can still use them with skill and tact. I rarely lose my temper with my grandchildren. I do not mind mess, sticky fingers, the aforementioned snotty noses, spills or marks on furniture. I am not good at playing games or rumbling (I never was)—that is my husband’s terrain—but I am great for reading stories, telling stories, drawing pictures, singing songs, going for walks, sploshing in puddles, rambling round the garden, watering plants (I don’t even make too much fuss when I get hosed) and taking their conversation and observations seriously. I pay my grandson and my granddaughter serious attention. I hope I always will.

When I was in the grip of the small flare-up of anxiety that greeted my daughter’s announcement of impending birth, I made a silent promise to myself: I would be as supportive of my daughter and her mothering as I possibly could be. I would not criticise—and I don’t. (This is not hard because I generally agree with her parenting style.) I would help her out whenever she asked—if I possibly could. I would never let her see that I was putting time in reluctantly, even if I was. I remember with pain how bad I felt every time I asked my own mother for help—help I desperately needed. My mother had four children and by the time her grandchildren came around I think she had well and truly had enough. She loved her children’s children, but she was protective of her hard-won freedom. When my sisters and I were young mothers, it was my mother’s feminism that made her so reluctant to give up the space she had finally created for herself. It is my feminism that makes me so determined to help my own daughter as much as possible and never, ever make her feel guilty for asking. I remember how annihilating it was to drown beneath the demands of a toddler who wouldn’t sleep during the day, a baby who wouldn’t sleep at night and a husband whose job took him away twenty-six weeks a year. I do not want her to feel that way.

Perhaps it was those bad memories—my younger daughter’s first year of life was one of the worst years of mine, mostly due to chronic sleep-deprivation—that triggered the frisson of anxiety when I first heard I was to be a grandmother. I was afraid that I might have to go down that dark rabbit hole a second time, but it has not turned out that way. I underestimated just how much I would love these small but vigorous and insistent voyagers into the future—a future that I will never see, a future I now worry about even more. What will climate change do to their prospects? But that is an issue for a different essay. Just as I felt about my own children, I recognise that these grandchildren are my only chance for immortality or, at least, life after death—they will remember us.

Read the rest of Jane Caro’s essay here

—Grandmothers: Essays by 21st Century Grandmothers, edited by Helen Elliott (Text Publishing), is out now.

Grandmothers

Essays By 21st Century Grandmothers

by Helen Elliott (Editor)

An anthology of essays by twenty-four Australian women, edited by Helen Elliott, about the many aspects of being a grandmother in the 21st century.

It seems so different from the experience we had of our grandmothers. Although perhaps the human essential, love, hasn't shifted much? In thoughtful, provoking, uncompromising writing, a broad range of women reflect on vastly diverse experiences...

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