The best part of our trip to the East Coast so far — besides my mom calling out my dad for claiming he watches the busty weather girls on the Spanish Channel because he “really thinks it helps him learn Spanish” — has been introducing Skylar to my family’s oldest generation. Watching Grandma Failor, a sprightly 88 years old, hold my daughter for the first time was all kinds of awesome. Talk about a new appreciation for the circle of life.
If Grandma looks surprised, well, it’s because she is: I’m pretty sure she thought I would NEVER produce a child. Probably because she once said to me, “You’re NEVER going to have a baby, are you? [PAUSE] Oh well. At least you have your cats.”
I may look like my dad’s side of the family, but I definitely inherited my firecracker gene from my mom’s side. As has Miss Skye, I suspect. I hope. Even at almost 90 years old, Grandma Failor takes care of her own home and walks with a bouncy strut that puts runway models to shame. We call her Mother F. — much to her chagrin — because she used to sign all of her cards to her children, “Love, Mother F.” One day her son-in-law asked, “You DO know what ‘Mother F.’ is slang for, don’t you?”
“Why, no, I don’t,” Grandma said, confused.
When my uncle filled her in, she was horrified — which made everyone else only erupt into laughter.
“Oh, you’re all bad!” she cried. The laughter swelled.
I’m so grateful Miss Skye got to hang out with Mother F.