Thursday, March 31, 2016

Muddled Generations, Or, I'm My Own Grandma

This is bending my brain just a tiny bit. The man I was talking to on the phone this morning is my father's great-nephew. The great-nephew is a great-grandfather. Similarly, my younger son is the youngest grandchild on his father's side. He is essentially the same age, just a few months younger than, the first two great-grandchildren in that family tree. No fertility problems here. And certainly no snide jokes about the Southern branch of my family. Even though the first words out of my sixteen-year-old cousin's mouth upon meeting me was her asking fourteen-year-old me Y'all got a baby? I got one! Mama watches her while I'm workin' at McDonald's! I was dumbfounded and shook my head. It occurred to me at the time that I became a mother, at the ripe old age of nearly thirty-one, that my cousin might very well be on the brink of becoming a grandmother. Tradition dies hard.

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