A Goddess And A Warrior, In Granny Form

It’s been a while since I have felt motivated to write anything.

Reading my daughter’s blog today gave me much pause for reflection.

In my heart, I was a feminist when feminism was a dirty word. I strove to raise my daughters to be strong, independent women, fearless women who would take on the world without fear. I wanted them to be all they wanted to be and live life without regrets. But I didn’t know how to be truly independent – that independence was finding myself, being true to myself, being confident in myself, loving myself. I only knew that I wanted more for them, as women, than I had.

The focus of my daughter’s recent blog was social justice and the power that we have to effect action and change. I have spent the better portion of my life, and am still very active, in the pursuit of social justice and change. But, I believe, with every fibre of my being, that we cannot effectively advocate for others unless the true spirit of feminism burns within us. I believe a feminist is a Goddess and a Warrior.

As I have already stated, I have spent a major portion of my life advocating for those marginalized members of our society, but, in retrospect, I was not coming from a point of inner strength and confidence – I was doing it because I felt a moral obligation to help those less fortunate than myself. Helping others filled a void in my life and helped me justify my existence.

Selfish reasons.

I am not saying that activism for self-serving purposes negates the accomplishments. I am saying, for me, being a feminist is not feeling the need to justify your place in this world. Being a Goddess and a Warrior means moving through this world with compassion, with courage, and great love for yourself and your fellow (wo)man.

Justice will surely follow.

My journey, over the past sixty-seven years, has been challenging and the flame, for most of those years, has been weak, but now it burns brightly and today I am a Goddess and a Warrior.

Let's Talk About (Grandchildren And) Sex

My first-born grandson, Zachary, will, in my heart, always be the son I didn’t raise. I was in the delivery room when he was born. I didn’t approve of his father or my daughter’s marriage to him so when Chrissi divorced him two years later it was a good thing.

Zach, his Auntie Cathy, his Uncle Kyle and myself have always been extremely close. We (mostly me) delighted in terrorizing him – monsters in the closet, trolls under the bridge, sharks in water and, of course, big slobbery kisses at every opportunity – the more public the better. We also drove Chrissi crazy by painting his fingernails and toenails every chance we got. Our terrorist tactics did not leave any permanent scars. We also didn’t have much luck trying to influence his thought processes. My daughters and I were (and still are) pretty vocal about the superiority of women – we could never get Zach to buy into that. When Zach was about four, his Mom and I took him on a camping trip. He took it upon himself to protect us – at each campsite he strung rope around the trees to keep the bears away from us, he gathered wood so that we would be warm around the campfire. .

We had endless discussions on what women (particularly Grandmas) should and shouldn’t do – Grandmas shouldn’t drive hot cars. Grandmas definitely couldn’t drive motorcycles. Grandmas shouldn’t wear short dresses, low cut clothes or brightly colored clothes cause they weren’t “grandma clothes.”

As Zach got older, he relaxed his views on what Grandmas could and couldn’t do. Zach and I have had many laughs about his early years and he, very lovingly, calls me his "crazy grandma."

Zach now has a girlfriend and I am finding that difficult – much more so than when my daughters had boyfriends. I never felt I lost my daughters when they fell in love, but I am now feeling a sense of loss. What makes it even worse is that Zach and his girlfriend are “doing the wild thing”.

He’s not old enough!

In my mind, Zach is still that little guy who strung rope around the camp to protect us, who stood up at Cathy and Kyle's engagement party, gave a toast to “flamily” and told Kyle to take care of his Auntie. Zach is the little boy who escorted me along the beach on a sunny afternoon eight years ago, stood in front of the Marriage Commissioner, friends and family and said “I give my Grandma to this man.” I have never felt so proud.

My mind is not ready for female friends and fornication.

Not ready at all.