“I need a grandchild.”
“When are you going to give me a grandchild?”
I’m not getting any younger, aren’t you EVER going to have children?”
I figured after ten years of being married that they had decided (privately) that it wasn’t part of their five-year plan (obviously) or even their ten-year-plan and it was their business and I might be obnoxious about MANY MANY things (I admit it) but I wasn’t the stereotypical Jewish mom in THAT way.
I was 100% totally OK with it, too.
So it came as a shock to no one more than myself how excited I was when my son and DIL told me they were expecting a child, and in our lovely TMI way—providing me with all the who-what-where-when details of the actual conception (my son is SO proud of himself; my son the overachiever lol.)
First, I screamed.
Then I said, “It’s about time!!”
And then because that’s the way I roll, I make everything all about ME.
Since that day, I’ve become OBSESSED with all things baby—I swear, hand to heart, it’s as if I’m the one who’s carrying this boychild and I know that sounds weird , REALLY weird if you think about it, geez, that’s my SON, but that’s how invested I am.
If everyone thought I was a helicopter mom before, all I can say is LOOK OUT.
I actually tell people I’m having a baby.
I mean I’ve told absolute strangers that I’m having a baby, and when they look at me skeptically—medical miracle and all that, plus my belly with no discernible bump- (well, there are definitely lumps but no bumps) I clarify that it’s my son and his wife who are having a baby, and they inevitably say,
“Ohhh, so you’re a first-time grandma, now I get it. Been there, done that. Best time in your entire life. Congratulations!”
I’m a shopper.
I’m a shopaholic.
I’m obsessed with retail therapy.
I love shopping for myself.
I really, really do.
But there’s something wrong with me!
I drive to all my favorite stores and run my fingers through silk blouses and sparkly jewelry and high-heeled winter boots; and NOTHING.
I buy NOTHING. Not a thing. Nothing sparks my desire.
However, I find myself magnetically drawn to the baby department where I analyze and scrutinize newborn onesies, the softest little socks, nursery bedding, high chairs, and strollers.
Apparently the only stroller worth having in 2015 is a Bugaboo, which costs as much as a used car.
When my son was born, we had this pram, similar in design to this Milson used by the royal family, with big wheels and shock absorbers guaranteed to provide Angel Boy with a smooth ride. We found it at an antique store and I’m pretty sure no one else in San Diego County pushed their child in this kind of luxury.
I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow.
In the past, I’d be happy because the office is near Anthropologie, J Crew, and Bloomies.
I’m excited as can be because I can stop at Buy Buy BABY.
What the heck is wrong with me?
Have I been infected with that grandmother-itis I’ve been hearing about?
The high chair is used but very clean and only needs a new insert.
Who could resist this sailboat onesie with matching hat?
Yes, there’s most definitely something wrong with me.