Anyone whose ever imagined being a parent has already thought about what they would do differently (or the same) as their own parents. You think you’ve got that all figured out - until - you actually are staring down the barrel of reality and there’s a tiny, brand new person your holding. That brand, spanking new person is helpless, completely dependent on you, totally in awe of it’s surroundings and absolutely ready to trust you with ever fiber of their being. Then suddenly there’s this wave of thoughts and emotions that rush over you. You think of everything totally differently, no matter how much you thought you were emotionally and mentally prepared for the journey of parenthood you simply cannot have any idea until that zero hour when your holding your baby.

Then and only then you can look at your parents from a parent’s eyes. Only then can you understand that deeply routed desire to protect this tiny creation at all costs, feed it only the best food, dress it in only the comfiest clothes, surround it by only the most worthy of people. You assess your family totally differently. You might do a 180 and decide that you hate them or love them all of a sudden. Even if your opinion of them stays the same it’s intensified, you hate them for missing out a second time around or you love them all the more for always being there. Then, just when the dust has settled from this whirlwind of a brainstorm you watch the grandparent situation unfold.

If you’re around my age, you were born in the seventies, possibly to hippies (as I was). I know my own mom (dad passed away long ago) did an ok job with what we had. Not stellar but not terrible. There were difficult times when I became a teenager and embraced the punk rock era, she likened it to the hippie generations rebellion and I now see the similarities but then our fights felt so intense but sounded so superficial. “Why don’t you want to look pretty?!” - Just because I’ve got on converse and jeans & a t-shirt doesn’t mean I’m not pretty, I don’t have to wear a peasant blouse and bohemian skirt to look lovely. We butted heads on so many other levels too. It all seems crucially important when your an angry teenager.

Time marches on. You AND your parents grow up a little more over the years. They needed to grow up, the hippies were so set on ‘sticking it to the man’ that they thought any signs of adulthood were just non-groovy ways of selling out. Somewhere around the age of 50 it’s like they gave in, oh crap - I got old anyway and now these bohemian skirts look better on my grand-daughter. My own punky style/persona evolved into a tamer version of a once-punk girl, no more green hair, the holey t-shirts are worn too thin by now and we have a happy medium. I still get to wear jeans and converse but hey, that’s practical when you spend a lot time at parks.

Then sit back and observe the finally grown up, former-hippie-mom, now-grandma in her role. It’s pretty incredible, she’s not perfect but she’s miles away from where she was. She’s ready to let her grand-daughter explore things that aren’t traditional girl roles, she’s ready to get muddy, to participate in utter silliness and to emerge eventually as this damn good grandma. Watching it makes me feel lucky, it helps me to move on (not forget, forgive a little) from a lot of the wounds from the past. You’re being good to my kid, you get props.