I wrote this awhile ago because of a prompt from Elizabeth.

I’m a fifty-nine year old woman with three grown children.  I’m also a grandma.

I had my first child at twenty-one years old and I had no idea what I was doing.  Of course I thought I did, but that wasn’t the case. 

Mistakes were made.

I spent my twenties having babies and going to school.  I became a nurse and even got married during that time.

Being a mom was all I ever wanted when I was young.  It was not what I expected. 

My last baby was born with a severe intellectual disability.  My oldest son had learning disabilities and a strong penchant for lying.  My middle daughter got the hardest job; she was the normal one.   My husband was an alcoholic.   I was depressed.

Mistakes were made.

I have two grandchildren now, two little boys by two different women, both belong to my son. 

My son has spent the last twenty years of his life locked in a battle with drugs and alcohol.  The drugs and alcohol are winning.   He is slowly losing his mind. 

His oldest son is living with my husband and me now.  Five years ago I remarried a lovely man who is happy to be a grandpa to my grandson. 

I’m raising a small person again, at fifty-nine. 

Some things have changed.  I’m no longer young. 

Some things haven’t changed.  Small people need a lot of love and attention.

Mistakes will be made.

I don’t beat myself up like I did when I was young.  I know how imperfect I am.  I know my flaws much better now.

I run the dishwasher, sometimes when it’s not even full.  I put pots and pans and plastic in the dishwasher too.  I lead a reckless life.  All those years of hand washing pots, mistakes were made.

I don’t worry about the fact that my grandson will only eat french fries and chicken.  His aunt only ate condiments when she was his age; she has her own food blog now.

My almost three year old grandson isn’t toilet trained yet.  I also know he won’t go to school in diapers.  I toilet trained his disabled auntie, it took five years.  I got this.

I’m much more patient.  When my grandson yells, “Nana, you  bad guy!” because I took away a toy, I don’t take it personally and I’m impressed with his language skills.

I melted my brand new air fryer by accident and yelled “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” and then cried hard and scared him.  Mistakes were made.

 I apologize to my grandson when I screw up and I try to tell him why I screwed up.  I was tired.  I was scared.  I was angry.  I was hungry.  I was sad.

I’m thankful when my grandson doesn’t repeat everything I say and I’m learning to say fart and sugar.

I tell him I love him, even when he’s mad at me.  I tell him it’s okay to be mad at me and that I will always love him.

His anger with me isn’t a knife in the heart like it was with my own children.  It’s not personal; he’s learning and he feels safe enough to be angry with me.  He knows I can handle it and even more importantly, I know I can handle it now.

The last six months have been hard.  Mistakes were made.  Mostly though, there was a lot of love and I've learned to sit down with a little person and just give him my time and attention.  Sitting side by side is enough sometimes.