Am I a grandmother?

I think I’m a grandmother. Before the age of fifty, I’m a grandmother. I’ve taught my girls all their lives to wait until they’re in their thirties to get married, have kids, settle down. I’ve encouraged them to see the world, have experiences, live in different places, have different jobs, fall in and out of love many times before they can even begin to know who they are, what they want, and who they want to grow old with.

My formerly (and possibly currently) troubled daughter has a plan to get married next month to her now-fiancé and be the stepmother/mother to his two-year-old daughter. He now has custody of her and she’ll be with them most of the time. Most of this I learned second hand via my older daughter, who spent some time with them while home for a visit.

As I’ve fretted over before, she’s only nineteen and not equipped for such a responsibility. From what I understand (remember, I haven’t had the conversation with her), the plan is to have her work from home while he goes out and does landscaping. Of course, according to her, she still works at the job that doesn’t seem to have any record of her. I don’t even ask anymore because I won’t get a straight answer anyway.

Nevertheless, now it’s even more complicated.


Big sister met the little one and FELL IN LOVE. She showed me pictures and videos from their visit and I can see why—she’s absolutely precious. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed, spunky, happy, and funny. She was worried because they discipline her a lot (words, not hands), which isn’t always bad, but sensitive big sister worried that they were too harsh. BUT, I dug a little and she feels that they do love her and take good care of her. She’s clean and fed and has two parents (she calls my daughter Mama).

Very nice, but their environment isn’t fit for a child in my opinion. They live in a one-bedroom apartment and just took in a roommate, who will occupy the bedroom. Therefore, the little family of three will live in the tiny living room. That’s horrible and cannot be good. I can only imagine the mess (my daughter is already a slob), the stress, the unhealthy lack of privacy.

This got my wheels turning. I know my daughter was raised with good values and I know I was a good mother as far as exposing my children to books and toys and experiences. They know about bedtimes and good eating, cleaning and bathing, all that good stuff. I think it’ll all come to the surface somehow for her. Even though she has always been rebellious, she knows. I have no idea about his upbringing of course. I don’t even know his last name, so I can’t begin to know how his parents raised him.

But I’m suddenly so concerned about the little one—have even lost some sleep over it. I want to help get them into a bigger place and will help financially by contributing to their rent. I don’t want her brain to decay, and will help developmentally by giving her books and toys and games. I can’t wait to meet her—and have a feeling that I’ll be in love too and will embrace this grandmother thing even if I can’t deal with how they live. I can only interfere to a certain point—and even then I run the risk of alienating them. I have to be very delicate in the way I offer my help.

2017 Update: Fucking idiot I was--I took a closer look, opened my eyes and ears, and learned they were using meth the whole time. My daughter is long out of that scenario, but it proves how stupid I was and how skeevy she was. I think I just hated to admit the truth of who my daughter was.