I Am a Bubba

Irecently attended my granddaughter’s Chumash play. The proud principal welcomed parents, grandparents, and yes — great-grandparents. Great-grandparents? I looked around and, thank G-d, there was no one who appeared debilitated. It was a group of vibrant adults of different ages, bearing balloons and teddy bears. A fellow grandmother came rushing in, whispering that she had parked at a fire hydrant because she was in the middle of an important deposition (she is an attorney) and couldn’t get away earlier. Yes, I thought, baruch Hashem, we have a very different definition of “grandparent” than earlier generations.

When I was a little girl, there was one thing I wanted above all else. A beautiful doll was high on the list, but my ultimate, unattainable dream, once I was old enough to understand the concept, was a grandmother. I am zocheh to carry the names of both my grandmothers. I’m the youngest child by many years, and my maternal grandparents were long gone from this world when I came into it.

I wasn’t sure what “grandmother” constituted, since I knew almost no one who had a grandmother. Still, the grandmother of one close friend lived with her family, and it seemed really special.

To me, “grandmothers” were pictures on the wall. The soft smiles of two elderly women with flat, round sheitels were all that I could conjure up when I imagined them. That, and what my siblings and I called “Bubba cookies:” crisp bowtie cookies, rolled thin with cinnamon and sugar, cut into rectangles, and squeezed in the middle to create a bowtie shape.