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Foster Grandmother
“I miss Lola, Mum,” my five-year-old Anya said woefully, referring to her grandmother who was in another country.
She was echoed by her three-year-old sister Thea who had gotten bored of her activity book and was looking sadly out the window. Out on the street, the trees swayed as the wind howled. It was not a pretty sight for children who had grown up amidst
a tropical climate, where the sun was almost always out, and where everyday was ideal for outdoor play.
“Me too, darling,” I said, swallowing a sob that was caught in my throat.
It was one of those bleak winter afternoons, our very first taste of freezing temperature since arriving in Melbourne as new migrants. We had just recently settled in our new country, hoping the stronger economy of Australia
could afford us a better life. Yet while we were confident about our economic prospects in our new land, the migration took us away from people we hold dear in our hearts.
My mother was first to be missed, especially by my daughters who had been cared for by their Lola since birth while I attended to a busy career in corporate communications.
Hoping to cheer up my little darlings, I bravely tried to start a new game, “What do I miss most about Lola?” The girls were preoccupied for awhile, taking turns and trying to outdo each other with answers like “Lola’s cooking” or “Lola’s massage” or “Lola’s bedtime stories.” But eventually the squeals died down when they ran out of answers. Then we realized we had just made ourselves more miserable.
I prayed my husband would not do overtime and arrive home soon enough to provide enough distraction. It was not only the girls I worried about. I also worried about me. It was my first time to ever be apart from my mother. Even when I got married, she had lived with us and was very much a part of my family. Though my husband and I were hands-on parents, she was an influential voice when it came to rearing the children.
She also took much responsibility off my shoulders and allowed me to immerse myself in my career. At one time, she even took it upon herself to attend to the family’s domestic needs, like clean laundry, freshly made beds, a good meal. And so it was sheer shock when I had to learn all the rudiments of homemaking when we migrated. House chores were a cinch; I took to it like duck to water. It was the more sentimental side of homemaking where I missed her presence the most, like my everyday efforts to raise good, little children and how to muster up enough love to properly iron my husband’s creased shirts.
The girls and I had resigned ourselves to missing Lola for the rest of the afternoon when there was a soft rap on the door. Who could it be
in this weather? I opened the door to see my aged next door
neighbour Mrs. Violet and her grandson, Josh, bearing a tray of goodies to warm the heart.
Josh’s grandfather had gone to the hardware store and they had gotten lonely in their house and would we want to share a plate of freshly baked cookies and hot chocolate?
“Would we ever!” was the girls’ delighted response.
Mrs. Violet and I went to the kitchen, preparing cups and plates, while the children ran off to the play room, their excited voices filling the previously quiet
rooms.
She was all of 70 years compared to my 30, yet despite the age gap, she has always made clear her intention to be my friend. She liked to visit at tea time to chat and “be
friends”.
Often, though, I did not welcome her presence because she would come when I was not yet finished with my chores or when I was deep into my writing. And so there were times when I would pretend not to hear her soft knocking or when I would draw the blinds shut to discourage her visits. When she passed by for her afternoon walks, I would shush the girls to be quiet lest she made a detour and bring herself to our doorstep.
Well, not this time. Her visit was like a burst of sunshine to our bleak day. We sat sipping our hot chocolate silently on that dreary winter afternoon. Closing my eyes, I was transported many miles home as a child in my mother’s kitchen, plopping her home-baked lemon squares in my mouth. I opened my eyes when I felt a gnarled hand on my own. Tears had streamed down my face unnoticed. Mrs. Violet’s eyes told me she understood.
Our silence brought back the children who had been waiting for us to call them to partake of the food.
When they had finished off the cookies, Anya said, “That was as good as my Grandma’s!”
To which Josh replied, “That’s OK you can borrow my Gran anytime you like!”
That was just what we did from then on.
When I miss my mother the most and when my children wish for a grandmother figure,
Mrs Violet is there to lend herself and be our Lola. Our houses have become extensions of each other, with the
children — and even ourselves — jumping over the low fence for daily visits.
Mrs Violet, just like my very own mother, volunteered to take care of my children so I
could work full-time, but I was determined to do it differently this time. I opted to stay home and experience family adventures with our new foster Grandmother by my side.
Mrs. Violet is not a disturbance to my writings anymore. In fact, she has become part of
it ... the new character in my short story about friendship and family. And it has a nice ending
... where the grandchildren finally find their grandmother in a nice, old lady with gnarled hands, who comes bearing cookies and hot chocolate on dreary winter afternoons.
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