The Mimi effect

The wedding JG and I attended last Friday was a good 4-hour drive from our house, so we decided to spend Thursday night at his grandmother’s house so that we’d only have to drive for an hour to get to the wedding. She loves seeing the grandkids and we only get to visit with her about twice a year, so it seemed like a good plan for everyone.

Mimi, as JG and his siblings call their mom’s mom, is the sweetest, quintessential American grandma I have ever had the opportunity to meet. She calls everyone “honey,” happily produces plates of homemade chocolate chip cookies and caramel brownies, and plays a mean golf game, that is, when she is not laid up from shoulder surgery. She is the driving force behind the annual family trip to Ocean City, New Jersey, and she loves to take the girls out shopping after Thanksgiving. Until recently, Mimi worked as the drive-up teller at her local bank branch and she can’t walk into any public place – supermarket, country club, restaurant – without seeing someone who came through her window for a transaction or was related to someone who did. Her house sits on the fringes of what I’m told is a very good golf course and she would often bring out cookies to golfers who were on the tenth hole. Mimi is well-loved by her town and marrying into her umbrella of good will has been really wonderful.

It’s interesting for me to experience a grandparent as I experience Mimi. My own family time was unfortunately laced with obligation. It was our duty to visit, to converse, to have a good time, or else. I was told to be a blessing, not a curse, which would have been just fine if everyone else had followed the same reprimand. I learned to simply show up at family events and stock up my stories for the questions I expected people to ask. If I didn’t have to talk, my mind was elsewhere, resting for the next period of strain, when I would try my best not to embarrass myself, or worse, my parents. Now, as an adult, I marvel at how Mimi makes me feel like an original grandchild. Even more astounding, I am able to fit right into that slot and shuck off the obligation to impress. Mimi just wants me to pull a stool up, tell her what I’ve been doing lately, and talk a little bit louder, into her good ear.

The night we stayed at Mimi’s, I had a terrible time sleeping. I woke up just before 2am after tossing and turning from some strangeness in my stomach, so I got up to read in the next room because JG had the good fortune to be sound asleep. When 6am rolled around and the last page of the book was turned, my stomach was still unsettled. I padded back to JG and whispered that I was going to the kitchen and he murmured back, “Mimi will make you anything you want, so just ask.”

I slid into flip-flops and jeans and made my way up to the kitchen, where Mimi was puttering around with dry ingredients. “Good morning, Mimi,” I said, loudly enough so that it would reach her hearing aid, and she turned, smiling.

“Well, hello, honey! What are you doing up?” I’ve only come for two Thanksgivings and she already knows that I am not among the family’s early risers.

“I wasn’t feeling very well, so I decided to come upstairs.”

Mimi’s already creased face furrowed with concern. “Oh, dear. How about some tea?”

“Tea would be perfect.”

I sat at the island with a steaming mug in my hands and the two of us chatted about the family, upcoming vacations, and whether or not she could go back to the time when she didn’t have those handy digital cable radio stations. I sipped at my tea as Mimi mixed up dough for a new batch of chocolate chip cookies, spraying flour around the counter. My stomach gradually calmed down and I sat in quiet awe at my settled state of mind. I was still physically tired, sure, but talking with Mimi simply made me feel at home. If there was anything I needed after such a restless night, comfort was it. And that’s what Mimi gives people.