'Suddenly, I'm a Grandma, and I'm at a Loss What to Do'

I am a grandmother, though I did not become one in the conventional way.

Then again, nothing in my life has turned out as planned, so how else would I enter my golden years but by being shot out of a cannon?

About a year and a half ago, my son told me he'd met a woman at work, a pretty widow with five children. I immediately launched into my best arguments against the relationship. You don't date single mothers. You date single mothers and their children, and these children had already lost their father and didn't need a boyfriend dancing into their lives and then dancing back out again.

I was proud of that argument, which I borrowed from "Jerry Maguire." I followed with veiled discussions about my son's maturity. I may not be the only woman who clings to the 8-year-old boy her son once was, but I have certainly been one of the most dedicated clingers out there.

My son and the pretty widow listened politely, and then over Memorial Day they got married in a raucous, three-day celebration where the families came together, and the children -- one boy and four girls, including triplets -- were beautiful. The bride danced a tearful waltz with her son, and my brother turned to me and said, "I don't know if I should burst into song or start crying." It was that kind of day.

Earlier, I'd tried to figure out how to be a grandmother -- or a step-grandmother, anyway -- but I labored under the burden of having had the best grandmother ever. My own grandmother stepped into the gap. She wasn't much of a cook, she sighed over my grade cards, and she pinched me -- hard -- when I screwed up. And she was always there.

I will not pinch these kids, so that left me with not cooking and sighing over grade cards. That, and being there. But my grandmother was never in the work force, never saw the ocean, never flew in an airplane, and she sewed her own clothes. From the outside looking in, we are from different species. I fumbled around while my son, without my approval or say-so, encouraged the kids to call me Granny. I still have to be reminded to answer to that.

My grand-sition wasn't pretty. Last winter, the triplets and I went on a hike at Gay City State Park and it was obvious they'd been coached to go easy on me. As we drove for chicken fingers after, one of them said, "I think we've learned a lot about each other, don't you?" When I asked her what she'd learned, she said, "Well, you're a good hiker!"

Good enough. We had a few sleepovers, though only a few, and I beat myself up about that, too. I have a full life (which sounds selfish, I know), and I hesitated insinuating myself into the children's lives. They have grandparents, and I'm not seeking to usurp any one.

So I hung back and felt like a creep doing it.

They moved out West so my son could take a job working for my brother, and I've been at a loss since, right up until the plane touched down in Albuquerque last week and the kids ran to me with a poster they'd made and stories they'd waited to share.

They shrieked that damnable "Granny!" and came running at me, and it hit me: Grandkids grade on a curve. They are hard-wired to love you. They want a little attention, and a few compliments about their soccer skills and their grade cards. They like jokes and some teasing, but not too much. I am not the grandmother my grandmother was, and I never will be. I am Granny Campbell, the Next Generation. Sometimes, life doesn't turn out quite the way you planned. Sometimes? It turns out so much better.