The Day I Was Really, Truly Grandma

I’ll probably never forget the day I felt like I was a grandma. I mean like a real grandma.

I bet you’re thinking it’s that first moment I held a tiny newborn in my arms. The first time I smelled that newborn smell or heard the coos. But you would be wrong. Those moments were exquisite, to be sure, but the reality of what was to come weighed heavy.

Let me tell you the story of the first day I felt like a really, truly grandma…

Why, it happened just last week.

My grandson was racing in a Nordic ski loppet. Part of the Jackrabbits program he’s been doing every Saturday. Kids learning to cross-country ski. Learning how to fall. How to get back up. How to keep moving when their legs are tired and their faces are cold.

This particular event is a pretty big deal around here. People come from hundreds of kilometres away, all over BC & AB, from the Yukon and Washington. Little kids. Teenagers. Olympians and future olympians skiers with serious gear. My eight-year-old grandson was racing five kilometres on skinny skis.

The clouds were so low they created a swirling, foggy mist, shrouding the race tracks that looped in and out amongst the pretty cedars and hemlocks all decorated with delicate hoar frost.

Kids everywhere. Laughter. Boots crunching. Skis sliding. Someone always calling out a name a little too late. The announcer over the PA. Cowbells ringing out of nowhere. The whole place alive in that muffled quiet, winter way.

There I was, breathing in nature’s beauty and human energy all around me. Like I didn’t have a care in the world. Why, I had no job that day. Imagine that.

On this big day, I wasn’t the point person. Grandpa Walter had it all handled. He was point person for our little athlete. Saturday mornings belong to the two of them. Early wake ups. Cold fingers and complicated boots and bindings and wax. Shared rituals I don’t interrupt. That rhythm and relationship are solid and right.

My sweetie, Wes was there too, volunteering with his Rotary Club (which used to be mine too, eight years ago), providing warm refreshments for athletes who came through flushed, grinning, and spent.

Which left me with nothing to do.

And everything to feel.

I stood on the side of the trail, hands wrapped around a cup of hot chocolate. I noticed how long it stayed warm. I noticed that no one tugged at my sleeve or asked me a question halfway through a sip. I finished the whole thing without interruption and almost laughed to myself when I realized it.

I stood at the finish line with other excited parents and grandparents, cheering on the children as they slid over the snowy red line under the flags. It didn’t matter which child, we cheered together.

When my grandson came into view, my chest tightened in that familiar way. Pride mixed with something older and deeper. He looked so small out there. Determined. Focused. A little bit awkward in the way kids are when they’re still growing into themselves.

I cheered. I clapped my gloved hands (too quietly). So I whoo-hooed loudly. Probably too loudly. I have video, so trust me, I was looooooud!

But you know, I didn’t care if he heard me. It was enough just to say his name out into the cold air.

Later, between the various races, people drifted about… older competitors gathered for the longer endurance races. I saw faces of friends I hadn’t seen in years. Conversations picked up easily, without explanations or backstory. We talked about snow conditions. About kids and grandchildren. About how fast time seems to move now.

There was laughter. Easy laughter. The kind that doesn’t ask anything of you afterward.

At one point, I caught myself thinking how this must look from the outside. Just another grandma on the sidelines. Boots in the snow. Hands tucked into mittens. A smile that came easily. Just another grandma on the sidelines.

I felt light. Not carefree exactly, but unburdened. I wasn’t corralling children, tending hungry bellies, or cold fingers. I was Grammy the cheerleader. I wasn’t responsible for the outcome of the day.

I was simply there.

Watching. Cheering. Belonging.

Me.

When he finished his race, cheeks red and eyes bright, everything else faded for a moment. There was only that small, shining pride. The kind that doesn’t need words or photos or proof. (I have photos, wanna see?)

I rode home in the passenger seat, without a care. I let all the feelings of the day settle into me.

My heart felt quietly full. I arrived home carrying something gentle in my heart. Something I didn’t want to name too loudly, because so many don’t understand, and it’s emotionally draining to explain. Something I hope I might get to feel again.

I was just a Grammy. For a whole day. Imagine that! Yayyyyy

Now… where is that permission slip due tomorrow?