When my partner’s elder daughter, Maya, gave birth, she made the sweetest gesture. I’d been in a relationship with her divorced dad, Ronny, for about nine years at that point. She said she’d be happy for her son Kobi to grow up calling me grandma because while there were already four official, genetically linked grandparents, Maya’s mum – who is Brazilian – was going to be called Vovo (the Portuguese term for grandma). So the name was going spare and Maya wanted me to feel included.
I didn’t think before I spoke. The words rushed out. “I’m honoured,” I said, “but I’d prefer Kobi to call me Linda or even Lindush (rhymes with ‘Whoosh’, Ronny’s nickname for me). The thing is, I’m kind of saving grandma in case I actually become one.”
Maybe it was part superstition, an instinctual feeling that if I gave away the grandma moniker, then I might not become one to my own son. Or if I did become a grandmother, I would have already diluted some special status, even a relationship, I could have with a future blood grandchild.
It certainly wasn’t rational, given that my son Thomas, in a committed relationship with a man, has already said that having a child is likely never to be on the horizon. But I still can’t help wishing it.
