Yes, I thought, baruch Hashem, we have a very different definition of “grandparent” than earlier generations

Irecently attended my granddaughter’s Chumash play. The proud principal welcomed parents, grandparents, and yes — great-grandparents. Great-grandparents? I looked around and, thank G-d, there was no one who appeared debilitated. It was a group of vibrant adults of different ages, bearing balloons and teddy bears. A fellow grandmother came rushing in, whispering that she had parked at a fire hydrant because she was in the middle of an important deposition (she is an attorney) and couldn’t get away earlier. Yes, I thought, baruch Hashem, we have a very different definition of “grandparent” than earlier generations.

When I was a little girl, there was one thing I wanted above all else. A beautiful doll was high on the list, but my ultimate, unattainable dream, once I was old enough to understand the concept, was a grandmother. I am zocheh to carry the names of both my grandmothers. I’m the youngest child by many years, and my maternal grandparents were long gone from this world when I came into it.

I wasn’t sure what “grandmother” constituted, since I knew almost no one who had a grandmother. Still, the grandmother of one close friend lived with her family, and it seemed really special.

To me, “grandmothers” were pictures on the wall. The soft smiles of two elderly women with flat, round sheitels were all that I could conjure up when I imagined them. That, and what my siblings and I called “Bubba cookies:” crisp bowtie cookies, rolled thin with cinnamon and sugar, cut into rectangles, and squeezed in the middle to create a bowtie shape.

Almost no one in my school had grandparents attending school events, so I didn’t feel different or particularly deprived. But deep inside, I knew I was missing something special. I bestowed the term Bubba/Bobbi on a neighbor across the street who had known my grandmother. I stopped over there to collect candy or show off new dresses, but I knew I was mostly nursing a delusion.

The One Above determines our blessings, and I feel immense hakaras hatov to carry the title Bubba. My son didn’t know my mother, as he was three when she was niftar. But when his daughter was born, he dismissed any other possible nomenclature for me: Safta, Grandma, even Bobbi. “I had a Bubba, and I want my daughter to have a Bubba.” I have a picture of my mother on a bench in Miami with this same son, his three-year-old elbow resting on his Bubba’s knee as the two of them laugh at a shared moment of joy. It was their last picture together.

I share all I can with my own grandchildren: my pop-up book collection, autumn nature walks, special toys and birthday gifts. I give them unconditional love and sleepovers where we play Hi-Ho Cherry-O or Uno or Monopoly until sleep overtakes the players. (Usually the adult players before the younger ones!) I joyfully attend their school performances, birthday parties, graduations, and science fairs. I try to arrive with mazel tov balloons in tow, and in my heart, I say shehecheyanu to have been zocheh to fill this role.

Each little person at the Chumash presentation has her own cheering team, made up of numerous glowing adults. And I have to wonder — do the attendees grasp the depth of this miracle? Perhaps you must experience the vacuum to truly appreciate the gifts you receive. My refrigerator is decorated with the most beautiful pictures in the world: “I love you, Bubba,” with stick figures that generally represent the artist and yours truly. Pictures of their most recent activities occupy a great portion of my phone’s storage space or are printed and sit on my desk or flash across the electronic frames I have in several rooms. I keep a constant reminder of the bounty with which I have been blessed. I am a Bubba.

As a postscript, the writing of this article was interrupted by a phone call from my grandson, who carries my father’s holy name.

“Remember how I’m learning a Thursday late-night seder? So we were thinking of having cholent, but we need a few sponsors….”

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 942)