Holiday Memories

Excerpt from MommyBest: 13 Inspirational Lessons… Lesson + Memoir + Reader Reflection = Ways to be your MommyBest!

Holiday Memories—

“Kitty” and Grandmothers.

Very rapidly, mothers ripen into glorious grandmothers

who leave indelible imprints on both their children’s and

their grandchildren’s lives.

I gleefully watch from the sidelines, letting “Granny

Lynn” become mere putty in my children’s tiny,

adoring hands. As she spoils my sons. I often tease

and question why I didn’t get this “VIP treatment”

while I was growing-up?

I believe one of Life’s great blessings is:

A grandma who always has an extra stash of

cookies she dotingly saves, eagerly awaiting her

grandchildren’s visits. Be prepared to see your own

mother transform into a grandmother and journey

with your children in wondrous ways!

Holiday Memories:

“Kitty” and Grandmothers

     My mother, now in her sixties, loves being a grandma. After

hundreds of requests from my children, she recently

agreed to stay overnight. My toddler sons were so excited

to have their “Grandma Lynn” to themselves so she could

play with them, and especially, read a bedtime story. They

heartily laughed when my mother was unable to decipher

some of the words without her reading glasses on. Both boys

eagerly found her spectacles after digging like dogs through

her immense and cluttered purse.

     But, the biggest hysteria came when they saw their

grandma clad in her brightly colored, ruffled pajamas—accented

by my father’s black socks. After lots more giggling

and snuggling, Grandma tucked them in with a promise of

“more fun tomorrow.”

     I was awakened very early the next morning by the

sounds of scurrying footsteps and loud whispers—which

are my spirited children’s attempts to be “quiet.” I went to

see what all the commotion was and found my two sons

hanging over our guest bed, their heads downward, pressed

very close to my mother’s face. Their hands were covering

their mouths, in an attempt to contain their laughter.

Grandma Lynn was making a good amount of noise snoring,

although she calls it “heavy breathing.” Her eyes were

half-open—until she jolted up when I joined my sons in

their amusement.

     “The kids were in here earlier this morning. I must have

dozed off again,” my mom groggily shared. It was 6:30 am

by the time I arrived, so I reprimanded my sons for going

into what had now be called, “grandma’s room.” Both boys explained they

had come back for a second visit because they were very

interested in seeing “Grandma’s teeth again.”

     My mother was mortified when she learned my two

son’s return to her guest room was in response to their discovery

of her false teeth, sitting in a glass of water beside the

bed. My mother is old-fashioned and very private about

what she considers “personal,” and her teeth or lack thereof

falls into this category. Thankfully, after seeing and hearing

our laughter, Grandma joined in, now jokingly sliding her

teeth in and out of her mouth in a rhythmic pace.

The jesting continued as my sons observed and dissected

the contents in the glass as if they were investigating a science

experiment. The direct and innocent questions about

“where did her real teeth go,” “how did she get her teeth

out of her mouth if they were glued inside?” were wondrous.

My younger, mathematically-inclined son wanted

to know if the entire set of teeth cost “more than $100”

or did Grandma have to “buy one at a time.” The scenario

ended with my mother joyfully smiling while hugging my

sons—sporting a full set of gums.

I’m often able to use Grandma’s teeth to further instruct

my children on the importance of taking care of their pearly

whites when they complain, as they sometimes do, I make

them brush their teeth too much.

     As I watched from the “sidelines,” I saw my two boys

wondrously playing games starting with “Go Fish” before

dragging Grandma outside, tossing a moving basketball

to her before returning for a snack inside. Each boy vied

for her attention and she didn’t disappoint them, bouncing

from one activity to the next…until I reminded them

Grandma Lynn needed a rest. I could tell my mom was exhausted,

yet enamored by all the attention my sons showered

her with.

     While I continued to watch my boys snuggle with my

mom, I knew “Grandma Lynn” would be one of the most

important people in their lives; I began to reminisce about

my own grandma’s visits as a child and how special those

moments were, and continue to be, for me.

     “Kitty” was a nickname we teasingly called my grandmother

as a shortened version of her name: Catherine. The

nickname was very fitting because she was playful and

youthful like a kitten. She and my grandfather, a New York

City Police Officer, had six children. My grandfather died

early, at the age of fifty, leaving my grandmother with some

very challenging times ahead of her. One of her first challenges,

which she enlisted the help of my father, was learning

to drive.

     It wasn’t long before she was on the road, now able to

commute to her new job as a secretary in a religious high

school, as well as visit her family scattered throughout the

Northeast. Sometimes when Grandma came, we’d be playing out

side with friends as her car passed by. All of us raced home

to greet her and taste one of the many delectable cakes and

cookies she always brought fresh from, as my mother would

say, “the best bakeries in the Bronx.”

     My friends, upon meeting her, often thought she was an

aunt because she didn’t look old enough to be a grandma. She

probably would attribute her youthful glow to her meticulous

hygiene rituals. Whenever Grandma slept over, she would

systematically wake early by 5:30a.m., dutifully cleanse her

face with a handful of cold cream and rinse it off .

Next, she would turn her head downside and frantically

tease her jet-black hair, before swooping and pinning it

into a high and tight twist.

     Once her grooming was complete we would find her,

usually with eyes half-closed, sitting on the living room

couch waiting for everyone else to wake-up. She’d often

stay a few days doing our favorite things—shopping, talking

and eating—before she returned to her own home.

     After years of living in the four-bedroom Colonial in

Mount Vernon, Westchester, with her youngest daughter

(my aunt), they were confronted by robbers one evening

after returning home from work. Boldly and brazenly,

Grandma ran after them as they took fleet!

     Worried about Grandma’s safety, my mother had invited

her to live with us, as did some of her other children.

But, she confided in me she wanted to be independent and

not become a burden to her children. Instead, Grandma

decided to sell her house and downsize to an apartment.

I was sad when the house that represented some of my

earliest Christmas memories was sold. Grandma’s house

sat high above an incline with an entourage of trees;

ironically, most were Christmas evergreen. I vaguely recall

an enclosed porch with tiny glass windows. It was on this

porch I sat in front of an organ, slamming its keyboard,

pretending to be on-stage.

     I can still sense the aroma of home cooking from visits I

had, and I especially remember eating the best homemade

macaroni and cheese I have ever tasted. As a child, I was scared

 of the cellar that housed the infamous

“cat of nine tails” my grandmother teasingly threatened

she would have to take out if we didn’t behave well.

Also scary to me as a youngster was a recurring dream

I had about roller skating at an uncontrollably fast pace down

the house’s precipitous driveway, into oncoming

traffic and ultimately down under into a sewer drain gate.

On my way down, deeper into darkness, I would abruptly

wake-up with heart-racing palpitations.

     But the most lasting impressions that still remain with

me are those from one Christmas gathering I recall: All Grandma’s

children and grandchildren were scattered throughout

the living room laughing, munching and eagerly awaiting

Grandma’s cue to sit down for present opening. Grandma

enthusiastically put her glasses on before selecting one from

many piles of gifts. Once each name on the gift tag was

read, the recipient raced to the front of the room and back

to his/her place before tearing open their prize.

Every gift I received from my grandmother was wonderful

because I felt—even as young as I was—she had spent

much time and consideration in her selection, personalizing

each present. Her gifts became even more meaningful

as I grew older and appreciated their sentimental value.

It was during this one Christmas celebration when Grandma

 gave me a ceramic figurine of “Snow White” with a

matching watch clasped at the bottom of its dress; I was

enthralled! I wore the watch around my wrist and carefully

took it off when I showered and slept. I put the “Snow

White” statuette atop a shelf across from my bed so I could

see her before I went to sleep each night.

     Following Christmas that year, Grandma moved to a

quaint, one-bedroom apartment in Park Chester, NY. It

was then when different Christmas traditions started and

my grandmother earned a new nickname: “Rudolph.”

Each Christmas season, she traveled to her six children’s

homes. Her car was the sleigh she maneuvered across the

Northeast.

     Like the Christmases we celebrated at her home, we

continued to eat lots of food and desserts; we started our

own tradition: each child in our family took a turn sitting

in a designated chair to open presents while we all watched

in anticipation. It was as much fun to give as it was to receive.

Like a little kid, Grandma’s eyes widened as each gift

was opened.

     During one visit, there was an “Elvis Presley” marathon

of movies on television. My grandmother and I, both adoring

fans, watched in delight. As the evening progressed, I

noticed my grandmother sitting on the couch, eyes closed

with head slightly tilted. I could hear her breathing heavily

(as my mother does when she sleeps).

     “Go to bed, Grandma,” I called across the room. When

she didn’t answer, I giggled and repeated, “Go to bed, Grandma,

you’ve been up since 5:30 this morning.

     “NOOOoo,”Grandma wailed, as she flung her head upright and lifted

her feet from the floor, vertically moving her legs in a scissor-like motion:

“I want to watch Elvis,” she demanded!

I could not argue with—nor could I ever forget—the

endearing and child-like protests she made!

     My grandmother died the following year, on December 7, 1980, two and a

half weeks before Christmas. My family was deeply saddened by her sudden death.

We longed for a holiday visit from her.

     To our surprise, my aunt delivered presents Grandma had

purchased before her death. I felt as if Grandma was watching

me as I opened them. Her spirit was with us that year

and remains with us—especially during the holiday season.

     I often feel as if she is bestowing gifts upon us and guiding

our way with her light. Sometimes, when I wake-up in

the early morning—when it’s still dark out—I feel as if she

is sitting on my sofa, waiting for my family to wake-up.

     “Snow White” continues to sit high, atop a shelf overlooking

my bedroom. The figurine, with its jet-black hair

(the color of my grandmas’) has aged: some of its smoother

surfaces scratched; some of its vibrant color faded.

     Yet, like my grandmother, she has matured with dignity

and grace, while possessing a beauty that transcends time.

     Both Grandma and Snow White represent magical

figures in my life and cherished moments from my childhood—

moments that become dearer with each visit and

every holiday my children share with their “Grandma

Lynn.”

Reader Reflection

• What’s your most powerful memory of your grandmother?

• How has your relationship with your own mother changed

   now that she’s a grandmother?

• What’s her relationship with your children like, and what do

   you cherish about it?