The Dilemma of Being Grandma

You know how it is when they dial for your fave pizza -- not just ordinary pizza, but meat-lovers, all in, cheese-encrusted. premium pizza?! It is delivered still steaming, making your mouth water. And as you grab the slice or two you feel entitled to, you are told the incredible. That the whole caboodle of golden crust and scrumptious toppings is yours, all yours. And you feel so giddy and greedy your eyes begin to water, too.

Giddy and greedy were how I felt when Baby Andrea Lorraine -- proclaimed by titos and titas an Angel Locsin lookalike -- was delivered by caesarian section two weeks ago. As Mommy had a lot of mending to do, and Daddy had to be at her beck and call, where does that leave baby with?

With grandma of course.

First there is this little problem with granny names. Mamita sounds so conyo for someone so pleasantly peasanty. Mamilo (mommy-lola) or Lomi (lola-mommy) has a noodley ring to it and we’re no big fan of pancit. Lolita (lola-tita) seemed promising at first, but why give Nabokov’s nymphet a nuance of antiquity? Lolit (lola liit) is too cutesy. And granola is such a mouthful; besides it is already taken by an amiga, also a new lola.

So lola, simply lola, it is.

And as it turned out, Lola is no longer the sprightly, springy mommy she used to be.

Oh sure, she still remembers the old tricks.

She can still maneuver baby on one hand and mix formula with the other.

She can still half sit, half lie down on the bed, feeding and burping and nappy-changing. She can also rise up with baby without help after trying seven times.

She still remembers most of the words of the “Dormi, dormi, dormi, good night and sleep well my love” lullaby she used to sing to her own babies, disregarding the snide remark of one of them, now all grown-up: “Mommy, hindi kaya ma-disintunado si Andrea?”

She can still catch 15-minute naps while cuddling baby, lulled by the sweetest scent God ever created -- baby’s breath.

She can still wake at the slightest rustle from the crib, even before baby begins to wail.

The trouble is in the morning. She simply can't get up.

As it turns out, the spirit is hardy, but the balakang and other assortment of bones are brittle.

And how go to work the next day with eyebags drooping to chin level?

So she files for a grand maternity leave for a few days, even if the personnel officer protests there’s no such thing.

Meanwhile she continues to sleep little or sleep not at all, psyching herself "a baby in the house is a wellspring of joy."

Still, she can't wait to turn over the wellspring to daughter-in-law.

She knows now she can take in only a piece or two of pizza, even if its meatlovers, all in, cheese-encrusted, and smelling like the most fragrant thing on earth.