The Pitter-Patter of Little Feet and Oma's Identity Issues

Almost three weeks ago our kids added Levi James to our collection of grandchildren. Levi James is Number Six, and Number Five, his older sister, calls him by his whole name, "Levi-James." So we do, too.

I find myself quite bemused by this whole phenomenon of parents and children, not having birthed and brought up my own children. My role thus far with children has been limited to babysitting, leading children's choir, and teaching. To be fair to myself, I have tended to be a kid-magnet, i.e. they typically look at me, are drawn to me, and come and interact with me. I like children and they like me, which is probably a good thing, considering my profession as a teacher. But I haven't actually known what it is to be a parent with a little piece of my heart walking around in the body of another human being, never to be fully let go.

I have pondered this. As much as I love my husband's children and would like them to be my kids as well, I will never be fully theirs nor will they be fully mine. I have had to realize that they are not even quite as much mine as my students are mine. The dynamics surrounding this are complex and revolve around matters of choice, emotionally safe boundaries, and tippy-toeing around their histories and dynamics with their parents. I didn't change their diapers, didn't see their first steps, didn't watch what made them happy and sad as children, didn't see the development of their personalities and quirks, didn't shape their values and didn't participate in their stories. When it comes to the "remember when" conversations around the table, there is a bond there, and I'm not part of it. I can wish it were different, but that is what it is. I'm second-string where I would rather be first-string.

With the grandchildren, however, I am there in my own first-string place. I am Oma, and have always been Oma. I've held each one when they were babies, have been there for many birthday celebrations, have changed a few diapers (that's still something I'd rather hand off to Grandpa), have had them over for sleepovers and have cuddled them out of a few tears. But I'm still figuring out my identity as the pitter-patter of little feet continues to increase.

Third culture kids tend to wrestle lifelong with their identity, and I am no exception. Who am I to my grandkids? Who is Oma? My boss, of good German stock, claims that "Oma" can only refer to a portly older German lady in a cotton dress and apron with her stockings rolled down to just below her knees, and sensible brown shoes. He has announced, mercifully, that this does not describe me.

"Oma" is whoever I am, and like all third culture kids, I am whatever my environment calls on me to be. As I reflect on that, I realize that my environment mainly just calls on me to be there. That's pretty much it, Be There. And that is a revelation that bears more thought.

But I also notice that I become more engaged with my grandchildren as they develop language. I suspect that this is a case of my "teacher" identity kicking in. "What are you thinking?" "Why do you think such-and-such?" "How will you solve this or that problem?" "Why do you think the character in this book is doing this-and-that?" "Look over there at that whatever-thing-it-is. Let me tell you about those..."  Those conversations are my favorite ones, the ones where I am fascinated by how they learn. I find that I care much more about how my grandkids think and the choices they will make in life, than what cute little shirt they're wearing today, when their nap time is, or whether they have their peas and carrots for dinner (or dinner at all, although thus far I haven't missed making sure they get that).

Sometimes I go all introspective and wonder if I am deficient as an Oma. I wonder if God actually knew what He was doing when my life turned out to be one in which there would be no bearing and rearing of children. Perhaps I wouldn't have been a good mom. Perhaps what I'm good at is being a teacher and working with the mind and character, so God kept me from getting tangled up in what I'm not good at. Or perhaps, as some folk have implied to me from time to time, there is something missing in my own character because I haven't borne and raised my own children. Perhaps my grandkids' other grandmothers who tend toward the "motherly" ways--sewing cute costumes and playing dollies with the girls and picking just the right kids' presents and putting on snazzy children's parties--are better grandmothers than I am. Perhaps my accomplished career-woman self (which I am rather fond of) precludes knowing how to be a really good mother or Oma. These are some of the thoughts that wander through my head from time to time as I ponder my ongoing identity issues.

But then, maybe that's just the way life turned out, random and unplanned. Perhaps it doesn't have any deeper meaning. Perhaps my identity should be left to itself without introspection, without getting tied up in a knot thinking about it. Perhaps I could just continue enjoying those times as the Oma of this growing collection of sweet grandkids, should just continue loving these great stepkids (and their spouses) that I was gifted with when I married my dear husband. Perhaps this is the period in life to soak in the blessings of caring for the needs of parents who are in their long, slow decline, and to revel all the more in my career-woman self who is fascinated with leadership and organization and new academic programs and hiring really good faculty. Perhaps I should simply be thankful for my life the way it turned out, at face value. One's life can only hold so much, and this is my much.

Levi James, you certainly got yourself a funny Oma. But I can promise you this: she'll cuddle your sweet little self and wipe your tears away, and she'll probe your thoughts and have interesting conversations with you, and she'll watch your your emerging character and choices in life with great interest, ... and I betcha you'll like her.