In My Grandmother Era

Embracing not just the trappings, but the aging part as well

My face has been changing. A large part of it is the weight loss I’ve been actively pursuing; you can’t drop more than 50 lbs. and not have the evidence of it show up in your face. I’ve lost the roundness that used to raise my cheekbones, and the areas around my eyes now show that the skin is thinning into fine wrinkles. Only a few ounces of all those pounds used to live in my face, but their loss has aged me. The real kicker, though, the real thing that is fueling my more aged look, is that I crossed the half century mark in the middle of this health journey— and, yes, I “look 50,” whatever that means today.

I think back on what my Mamaw looked like at 50 and realize society’s expectations for middle-aged women have shifted drastically. Even saying “middle-aged,” isn’t kosher anymore. While some have pivoted only slightly (“midlife,” is common) most have ditched the idea of anchoring life to both a beginning and an end, preferring, “older adult.” So neat. So tidy. So indicative of nothing.

Mamaw was round in the middle, and soft all over. She honestly could have stood to lose some weight herself in those years, but aside from seeing her politely listen to her friend Rose extol the virtues of her cottage cheese diet (why was this even a thing?!), Mamaw never gave any indication that she was unhappy with her appearance. She sewed her own clothes: knee-lenth house dresses in cotton for daily work, bright pantsuits in patterned polyester for days spent out and about, structured dresses in subdued tones for Sundays at church. She kept her hair short (“old ladies don’t need to fool with all that curling and fussing”), wore pantyhose only when she left the house, and clung solidly to the idea that Jesus cared more about the state of her heart than her sense of style. I never once saw her pick up a fashion magazine, or heard her say how she felt about hemlines or haircuts.

Mamaw existed in a time and a place when to be a grandmother was to be timeless. A woman simply got to a certain stage of life and stepped beyond the frivolities of lesser things, like whether or not your shoes matched your belt. There may have been talk of wrinkle creams and hair dye— and I’m sure there was, because this was the 1970s, not the Dark Ages— but she never indulged, never entertained thoughts of looking younger than she was. She was a Mamaw, and proud of the years that had given her this gift. If she ever looked back wistfully, you never knew it. She was settled, accepting and grateful in her season.

The kicker? Mamaw became, well, Mamaw when she was just 41 years old. Imagine a first-wave Millennial today welcoming grandchildren, excited to cross over into the stage of life where they are a full generation removed from center stage. Picture a 40 year-old today, happy to set aside the bulk of what drives her to be present for whatever the Lord asks, even it that ask is raising another round of children. She was an outlier even in 1974. Most of her peers were a few years out from seeing their children become parents. But marrying in her early teens guaranteed a different trajectory for her, and she embraced it. Mamaw found purpose and joy in being exactly who she was.

I was 9 years old when Mamaw was the age I am now, and I remember her clearly. I can still tell you how she ordered the bobbins in her sewing box, where she kept the heavy pyrex mixing bowl she used for mixing cornbread, what the hand lotion she kept staged by her Bible on the end table near her favorite recliner smelled like. My own grandchildren will have no such memories of me at 50. The oldest is now 3, and the younger two are each only a year old. They will never know how much 50 year-old me delights in reading them picture books on video calls, or how I smile knowing that I have a handful of toys stashed in a basket under the coffee table right now, just for grandbaby play. I will be older when their memories form, but I will work to ensure that the ones they carry with them are good.

I adore being a grandmother. My kids gave me the gift of selecting my own “grandma name,” and while I toyed with being a traditional Mamaw, I opted not to. Many assume it’s because it sounds dated, or too old. The truth is that actually, the shoes left behind by my own Mamaw seem too large to fill. I’m honestly not sure if I can ever be all that she was, though I pray God gives me the strength and grace to try. I settled, instead, on being called Marmee. Yes, I lifted it from Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women, one of my favorite books. I hoped it would inspire me to embody some of her qualities: kindness, wisdom, the ability to step into a situation and fill the needs before me. If you’ve only seen a movie representation of Marmee, you’re missing one of her key traits. Alcott’s depiction gives her an unshakeable faith, present as her husband is off at war, and as her daughter’s navigate launching into a world not terribly hospitable to the unique, winsome creatures she has raised. All of that resonated with me, and still does.

I realize as I look in the mirror these days that, like Mamaw, I have skipped the part of the story where I grapple with growing old. Instead, I find myself a little surprised at the reflection staring back at me. But I’m not shocked. I’m not uncomfortable with this truth. I am “in my grandmother era,” as it’s popular to say— and not just because my interests tend in that direction. I knit, I bake, I garden… and I am also old enough that my memories of 9/11 feature me grappling to explain the events to my preschooler and toddler. I’m not simply drawn to a slower, simpler way of life because it’s trendy or because it “passes the vibe check.” I’m here because it’s where I should be.

I am a grandmother.

The glory of young men is their strength,
but the splendor of old men is their gray hair.

—Proverbs 20:29

The next few years will bring more changes. My wrinkles will deepen, and my eyesight—which is suddenly so much worse— will continue its slow decline. I will watch my kids at home continue to grow. Several will graduated and leave home. Some will try their hands at algebra for the first time, and another will learn to read. My adult kids will change jobs, move to new homes, celebrate 5 years married, then more. God willing, we’ll meet new grandchildren along the way. And through it all, I will wear sensible shoes. I will tie on my apron, and continue to abhor the idea of actually styling my hair. I will spend hours on my knees in my garden, cursing cucumber beetles and tomato hornworms.

I will get older, and I will rejoice. Because being in my grandmother era is, it turns out, every bit as beautiful as I always suspected it would be.

In Christ,

Heather