I have never given birth to a child, so it looked like I was never going to get a chance to be a mother—let alone a grandmother.
And then, eight years ago, I married a beautiful man with a beautiful family—a widower with three children and nine grandchildren. The only experience I had up to that date was as an aunt, and a sister to my younger siblings. Let the adventure begin!
I started out in fear and trembling. I didn’t want anyone to think that I imagined I could just walk into their grieving hearts and replace a beautiful mother and grandmother who had passed away only six months ago. I wasn’t even a cook or a baker, and there were 21 close family members at the time. But no worries! Everyone contributes to a part of a meal when we all meet. When nine-year-old Carter asked if I could bake cookies, “you bet!” Chocolate chip cookies, coming right up. Everywhere, there were signs of a warm welcome.
I was included in the big phone call from the oldest granddaughter, even before we were married: “Grandpa, you are going to be a great-grandfather!”
When we were dating, my fiancé turned up at his daughter’s house one morning without me. Nolan, 4.5, got right to the point: “Where’s Lynn?”
At the first full-scale family gathering, I got the names mixed up. I called Hayden Carter and Carter Hayden. They don’t even remember the incident.
Our wedding included everybody. Nolan and his sister Angela, age two, were ringbearer and flower girl. An adult granddaughter did a scripture reading. The rest of the grandkids helped with the decorations and the cleanup. It was so much fun.
I leave it up to the family what to call me—Lynn, grandma, great grandma. My favourite was “Great Lynn” That’s the way I sometimes sign their birthday cards.
The whole family is always there for me.
When we went hiking as a family for the first time on the west coast of the Island, I slipped on the trail and found myself hanging over what felt to me like a cliff. Only a tuft of grass between my legs was holding me up. Then two strong hands rushed to pull to safety, as I looked into the eyes of the concerned (and relieved) grandson-in-law.
Another time out hiking with the family, I fell and broke my arm. They all ran to my assistance. One daughter turned back on the hike to help my husband get me safely over the roots and mud to the trailhead, and his daughter-in-law, a nurse, was there with treatment and advice. Everybody kept asking “how are you doing, Lynn?” It was so reassuring.
A few weeks ago, I caught a mild case of covid and had to isolate myself. My husband became my servant: Get me a coffee! I would like ice cream! I had a craving for boiled potatoes. He followed my instructions and they appeared on my plate. In the meantime, his daughter texted me about how I was doing with the illness. Aha! I could relate the funny story about her Dad learning how to make boiled potatoes.
“I’m sure he was pleasantly surprised at how easy it is to cook potatoes,” came back a text with a laugh emoji. (But I need to be fair here: he cooks lots of dishes tougher than boiled potatoes, like penne primavera and Texas hash.)
That big family, and those enormous grandma shoes, looked pretty scary when my husband-to-be first asked for a date. But I’m glad I didn’t let them frighten me off. So if you’re ever in my position, let me tell you this: “Don’t be afraid to join a family. Go ahead and marry a warm-hearted widower, and don’t forget to just be yourself.”
