Sometimes I think about my daughters as old women.

I hope that they are the kind of old women that are sharp as tacks until their last breaths. I hope that they have amazing stories to tell and drink two fingers of whiskey every night before they go to sleep. I hope that they will be the ones that the kids like best because they keep secrets and sweets in their pockets. I hope also that they are the kind of old women who often force their sons and daughters, grandsons and granddaughters to cover their mouthes in shock and horror, because in my opinion, those are the most interesting old women ladies out there.

I thought of this over the weekend as I watched Eldergirlchild throw herself wholeheartedly into the task of gardening with my mother. So intent was she on gardening, that she eschewed a promised trip to Baskin Robins in it’s favor. When I called her in to go, at first, the Pavolovian “ice cream” response kicked in and she came running. But, having thought better of it, she tugged on my sleeve and said, “Mummy, can I stay here and keep gardening with Grams? Can you bring me back something instead?”

I’m happy that my children will have more quality time with my mother than I did with my grandmothers, both of whom lived 3.5 hours away and were only visited when my parents could face the thought of 3.5 hours of “NOW how long is it?” I have some lovely memories, however, of my mother’s mother, who came to visit as often as she was able. I would wait with bated breath every morning she was with us until the moment that my mother told me I was allowed to wake her up. I’d climb into the century old creaky bed in our guest room with her and she’d tell me stories that she’d no doubt learned from HER mother. One of my most precious possessions is a CD of her telling those sweet, old tales along with a written copy of some of HER childhood memories.

I am grateful that Eldergirlchild at least will have some memories of her paternal great grandmother, whom she shares one of her middle names with. Ivy, with the wicked laugh. Ivy, who tried to teach my two year old to say “arseholes”. Ivy, who ran into the street cursing Hitler after one of his bombs blew out her brand new bathroom curtains. Ivy, tough as old boots.

I hope that genetics are as strong as science would have us believe. I want my daughters to have skin like rhinoceros hide to defend against life’s incendiary moments that would break them and as thin as cheesecloth to let in the light. I want them to have it in them to raise children with bombs falling around their ears even if they don’t have to. And when they are old, I want them to gum endless sweets and laugh because they have had a bellyful of life.

Happy mother’s Day to all.