Time has sped up these past few weeks, and I haven’t even begun to address the reasons behind my reflections on Nanas. In brief: My son and his fiancée became engaged two and-one half years ago, which brought us a now ten-year-old grandson, and in another week or so will bring us a newborn granddaughter!
Life is complicated. Mom and her son live in London, with an immigration application underway for the past several months. Dad lives here and, as a lawyer contentedly practicing criminal law in Ohio, is geographically bound to this state, barring a complete change of career or focus. In either direction, immigration laws are not easy to navigate, and neither are family dynamics. And I haven’t even mentioned the political climate in this country, nor the complexities of this little family’s individual situation.
Grandpa and I are headed for London in three weeks. I had made our reservations to ensure that the baby would have actually arrived before we did, which now looks like a definite outcome, as medical complications are ensuring a birth at the end of this month.
I have always so looked forward to becoming a Nana. But I freely admit that I had imagined that possibility in fairly specific ways, which involved grandchildren residing nearby, all sorts of commonalities in culture and religion and interests and ambitions, week-end nature hikes, and annual treks to the beach. At this point, I have had to abandon all preconceptions, including those I don’t even know that I have. We will be whipping up Nana-ing from scratch.