Old Farts

When I was a baby, or so I’m told, I was adorable. Doting parents hung on my every utterance, ‘was that dada? Did she say mamamama?’ I was a cute toddler and never short of admirers. I can’t imagine it now, but I used to be shy. But whenever I did have something to say, some adult was bound to turn to another and exclaim ‘did you hear that? However does she come up with those things.’ It was at the very least as if I had made some earth shattering rediscovery about the theory of relativity. ‘What a child.’

Same thing growing up. Rellos and family friends pinched my cheek and coyly enquired about boyfriends. (Euww). My friends and I had all the answers about life, love and the universe. Our youth and inexperience qualified us to pronounce on such issues. We felt sorry for our clueless parents and treated them kindly but firmly whenever they attempted to give us the benefit of their wisdom . When the tables were turned it was a shock to our collective system. Our children refused our hard won advice based on life experience; they’d already discussed it between each other.

The older and wiser I got, the less inclined people seemed to take notice of what I had to say. I had taken my youth for granted, I hadn’t realised it wasn’t going to last.

Now that I’m at the tail end of things, it seems that no one even looks at me. I’ve joined a grey army of invisible people plodding dispiritedly down that path of no return. Even within the family unit, when people do deign to notice I’m there, it seems that I have reverted to cute. Only they’re not hanging on my every utterance. My world views or political opinions are cute, my views on raising children are cute and my preference for old fashioned values is cute. All are code for old fashioned. When I walk down the street I’m just another old fart tottering past, just a bit of detritus in the way of the next generation’s aspirations.
Just as I was ready to stop fighting it and settle down to old-fartdom, an amazing thing happened. I was given a brand new chance to reinvent myself. I become a grandma.

Babies don’t know it yet that old and wrinkly means cute. They pay attention to the love. They hang believingly on every word you have to utter. They are fascinated with your out of tune version of Mary had a Little Lamb and ask you to repeat it as often as your voice holds out. And when I walk down the street, heads turn once more. I’m basking in the glow of my grandchild. People smile at us both. ‘Coochie coo, what a beautiful baby.’ We all beam. I become the baby’s agent. People ask questions and actually listen to the answers. It’s a brand new world composed of mothers and grandmothers having a confab at the park, pushing a swing and sitting on a see saw; at the library, choosing books, reading stories; on the bus singing songs to keep the babies and the other commuters entertained. If my mother and her grandchildren are anything to go by, grandmothers can expect to experience an ongoing relationship based on mutual love, respect and friendship. I’m only at the beginning of all that, but I hope I can make it.