My daughter Amy has three boys. My three grandsons. Jake, the youngest is on the brink of adolescence. Born on the Fourth of July twelve and a half years ago. My daughter called him her little firecracker because of his larger-than-life personality. Sulks, stomps, tears, giggles and a heart as big as Montana. A feisty child whose parents made sure Jake knew who was in charge. Loving, but firm in just the right doses.
My daughter and son-in-law seem to be naturals at parenthood. I know my daughter has the right DNA for motherhood, unlike her Nervous Nellie mom. Case in point – they were at my place on Christmas Day; Amy was sitting on a bar stool at my kitchen counter and we were chatting across a plate of deviled eggs. Jake came over to us and poked one of the eggs.
“That is not a toy, it’s a deviled egg,” reprimanded Amy with just the right amount of sass and authority. Jake stopped his poking. Not embarrassed or ashamed, just called on bad manners. It got my attention. The naturalness of it. Why couldn’t I have been more like that? My M.O. with my kids was to shrug things off till they reached monumental proportions, then erupt like Vesuvius.
But I can’t compare myself with her. I had a gaggle of kids right off the bat. Different person, different era, different circumstances. It just sure would’ve been nice to have that natural mom gene. But you know what? I really do think I have the Grandma gene.