Olives and Underpants!

My grandson is four years old and most definitely the most beautiful, inquisitive, funniest four year old the planet (and I am not just saying that because I am his Mimi, strangers stop me randomly to tell me) but last week he was sick, too sick to go to daycare. So, he was with me. I made him hot cocoa with mini-marshmallows, we snuggled in my bed and watched the Monster Buster Club and Transformers, and right before he went down for his nap he said, “Mimi, you always make me feel better”. (I nearly melted away) Being a grandmother might very well be the best job I have ever had, despite the fact that I went into it kicking and screaming. When I was first told of my little buddy’s impending birth, I was stunned to say the least. I mean aside from the obvious, my son and his girlfriend weren’t married and were not as mature as I would have liked them to be, I was (am) way too young and cute to be a grandma! I immediately decided I would not be called “granny”. I spent the next few months trying out different titles… Grandma?…uhhmmm, no…G-ma?… sounds like a gang member, nope…Big G?... sounds like a big gang member…Nanny?...hhhmmmm, pass. Eventually I went to the web. I discovered that Lola means grandmother in Brazil. I repeated it over and over… Lo-la… Lola… Lola. I liked the sound of it. Lola is still cutesy enough to be an acceptable grandparent moniker but could double as a stripper name if they ever bring back Amateur Thickens Night at the Déjà Vu Strip Club (Doesn’t it always come back to stripping with me?) So, Lola it was, and the closer it got to the big day the more excited I was. I don’t know why though. I generally don’t like children, especially babies, they always seem to be leaking one thing or another and if they are ugly it is hard to find something to say to the parents, “Wow, little Mackenzie Ann is sure interesting to look at” or “Hey, I thinks it’s neat how little Patty Jane can look at two things at once” or “Gee whiz! Look at those teeth; little Bobby will be able to eat that apple right through a picket fence”. But my grandson was perfect – extraordinarily beautiful, flawless complexion, his eyes worked as a team, no potential for bucked teeth, just perfect – and the moment I held him, Lola was gone and I was Mimi. I don’t know where it came from but it fit likes a glove. And well, it’s still cute and kind of sexy, right?

The relationship I had with my grandparents was completely unlike my relationship with my grandkids. My grandparents were… uhhmmm… different to say the least. Unfortunately my Dad’s parents, Bertha and William, died young and therefore I never had the chance to know them but my Mother’s parents were around… Boy, were they ever! When my beautiful white mother (she looked a lot like Natalie Wood in her Senior High School photo) married my equally as beautiful but black father, my grandparents were not as excited as one might have anticipated. They did not exactly welcome him with open arms or even as gracelessly as in the movie Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner (If you haven’t seen it, you definitely should). What they did do though is tell all of their friends and neighbors, clergymen, store keepers, paperboy, etc… that she had, in fact, died. Yes, I said died! And since my parents lived in Illinois and my grandparents were in West Virginia, everybody believed them. Poor, poor Alice and Louis – their daughter died so young (re-read the last line while playing Taps in your head – it gives the effect that I am looking for).

But then something incredible and miraculous happened… ME! Beautiful baby me (I really was a good looking baby. I didn’t reach my awkward stage until about 7 or 8, until then I was absolutely adorable). After I was born, my grandparents moved back to Illinois and reconnected with my apparently resurrected mother. It wasn’t an easy process but eventually my parents and my grandparents made peace. Growing up we actually spent a lot of time with them but they were never the snuggle up and read us a story kind of people (but sometimes if we were good granny would give us a margarine tub of popcorn and let us watch Days Of Our Lives from the kitchen table).

My Granny and Papa, who for some reason took to calling me Missy, did love me and my sister a lot but they were just a bit cold and terribly, terribly cheap (They used to make homemade Ham Salad by grinding their own meat in a grinder clamped to their kitchen table. However, they used blocks of bologna they bought in bulk instead of ham. Yet, they still called it Ham Salad). Therefore, when they showed up at my sixth birthday party with not 1, but 2 presents. I was ecstatic! All of my friends were there and my parents had really gone all out with everything! A great cake! Streamers and balloons! Party games! I felt like a Princess! When it was time to open gifts, I was nearly vibrating from a combination of sugar and excitement! I went crazy tearing paper and ripping off bows. Jackpot… It’s a Baby Alive! BINGO… A black Barbie! BINGO, Again… A white Barbie! Crap… A Board Game! Yes… A Sit-and-Spin! Finally, I came to my grandparents’ gifts, which I had purposely saved for last. Granny handed me the first one and oddly shaped present and I proudly announced to my very jealous friends, “This is from my granny and papa” and tore into the package. The room went silent. It was a jar of olives! My grandma smiled and announced, “It’s just a little joke! My Missy just loves olives. ”. I was so embarrassed but I steadied myself and opened my REAL gift. Underpants!

Olives and Underpants at six years old!

And so a lifetime of humiliating moments began! Thanks Grandma!