Nana as holy terror – muwahahahaha….
Because Nana told me I could.
From a T-shirt on Pinterest
I should have known that I would be this kind of Nana. I was that kind of mother. I was the mom who taught daughter and stepdaughter to make faces at the dinner table. No wonder my
daughter has pictures of my granddaughter and me making faces at the Seattle Aquarium in celebration of cookies with too much black food dye. Oh yeah, Nana the subversive.
It’s probably a godsend that Sophia isn’t in public school. She is on the highest end of the autistic spectrum, which means she’s, well, quirky. And isn’t that familiar? It’s almost more like having a co-conspirator than just a grandchild. If Sophia was in public school, I’d be out there working diligently against every hyper-conservative, socially backward piece of cultural crap they were feeding her (“No, honey, calling your teacher ‘Mrs.’ is giving in to the sexist cultural paradigm. I don’t care what she says. Call her ‘Ms.’”) I’d be getting her in trouble, I just know it. Of course I would. I did that with my own kids. I was the parent making snarky comments about how the system thought it owned my children, to the disgust of the office staff. Or about how marital titles only applied to women since we don’t have to pay a set number of goats to get our virgin husbands.
Yes, indeed, I am a terror. My daughter, Lina, recognized the threat when I thanked her kindergarten teacher for not making me have to go all Nana Bear on her. Fortunately, the kindergarten teacher (whom I actually liked) didn’t get it. Lina said “Mother, you cannot threaten her teachers,” to which I replied “Why not? They need to know that Sophia has backup. And besides, I thanked her for not making me do it. How is that a threat?” Lina just rolled her eyes. Okay. I concede. Busted.
Nor can I behave in public. We’ll be out somewhere and we’ll be all over the place until Lina finally reins me in. Just when Lina thinks she has us settled down, I get… tempted. I can feel that look spreading across my face and suddenly, my right pointer finger is out and headed toward a granddaughter tummy. An anticipatory squeal of delight erupts from Sophia even as my daughter swivels, looking pained.
“Mother, behave yourself,” Lina quirks my very own lifted brow at me.
Dang. Busted again.
It’s all of two minutes before that finger is back on target and Sophia is desperately trying to muffle more giggles and squeals.
“I mean it, Mother,” Lina barks again, more serious. The eyebrow is down now – this is a danger sign.
Okay. Fine. I’ll pretend to be a grownup. I’ll fail at it, but that’s okay. There’s always next time.