Last week a young student asked me: 'Why do you look like a grandmother?' Because I am one! Being a grandma isn't so bad. It's actually fun.
Maybe I feel this way because I want to be the grandmother I never knew. My mum's mum passed away when I was just two. And my other grandma? Well, that's another story.
When grandma was coming, it meant we had to tidy up - and fast. I'd scurry to find the 'good' towels, as well as clean and polish the fixtures. Then there was my brother's toys. I'd scoop them up and stash them in a closet.
As we heard grandma and grandpa's car pull into the dusty gravel driveway, we'd take our places to greet them. She didn't hug us or kiss us. None of that.
When we visited grandma every Sunday evening, we'd sit on her plastic-protected sofa and watch TV - not a toy in sight.
Although we lived on a farm, grandma never took us for a walk out to the pond or through the woods to pick wildflowers. And why didn't she ask us to sit on her lap to listen to a story or offer to do a puzzle or game with us? Trips to the park for a picnic or to visit monkey island at the zoo? None that I recall.