第1章
The Unexpected Joy of Becoming "Nana"
Anna Quindlen's "Nanaville" has become a cultural touchstone for the modern grandparent. Oprah Winfrey called it "required reading for all grandparents," while The New York Times praised it as "a loving meditation on grandparenthood that's also a keen look at the changing family dynamics of our times." This intimate memoir explores the delicate dance of becoming a grandparent in today's world-learning when to step in, when to hang back, and how to love unconditionally without overstepping boundaries. As baby boomers increasingly enter the grandparenting phase of life (with over 70 million grandparents in America today), Quindlen's honest, warm, and often humorous reflections offer both comfort and guidance for navigating this profound role transformation.
第2章
The Transformative Power of a Tiny Hand
Sunlight streams across kitchen tiles amid the chaos of toddler toys. The soundtrack of nursery songs plays endlessly-wheels on the bus, Old MacDonald-sounds that evolve through the years of childhood. A tiny hand rests on my leg, weightless yet profound, making me marvel at human perfection in miniature form.
"Nana," he says softly, but I soon realize he's not calling for me-he wants a banana. These moments teach humility about our place in the family hierarchy. We grandparents are supporting actors, not leads. Mama and Daddy are the bedrock, while we provide color, texture, and history around the edges.
The role connects to history and unfinished business. Many find their parents are better grandparents than they were parents, which can unearth old feelings. Unlike parenting, where you're making the whole cake, grandparenting is about adding decorative touches. It's a relatively modern invention, possible only because humans now live long enough to see their children have children.
I reject the notion that grandparents and grandchildren "share a common enemy." Instead, we share a nexus, helping children understand their parents were once small too. I'm not interested in being the "fun one" who undermines parents with forbidden treats, nor in creating conspiracies with my grandson. Trust between all parties is essential.
Being a grandmother doesn't make me feel old-it feels like a blessing, a second chance to see and understand the world anew. Everyone calls it "the best," with an agreement surpassing even chocolate or democracy. The little hand that takes mine, soft as feathers, the excited greeting of "Nana!"-these simple moments create magic I couldn't have anticipated until experiencing it firsthand.
第3章
Learning a New Language of Love
The first sentence I learned was "Wo ai ni. Wo ai ni, sunzi." I love you, grandson. Despite my lifelong aversion to foreign languages - stemming from traumatic high school French classes and failed attempts at Spanish - I found myself learning Mandarin for Arthur, who is half Chinese. We don't have to do this-everyone around Arthur speaks English, including his Chinese grandparents-but becoming a touchstone for those who extend my line means learning some Mandarin. I want to be in his world without crowding him or his parents, to create a bridge between our cultures that feels natural and loving.
Being a grandmother is about desire, not requirement-motherhood is mainly about "thou shalt," while being Nana is purely about choice. The freedom from obligation makes every interaction sweeter, more intentional. I try to bring my A game around Arthur, curbing my newsroom-acquired profanity and controlling my temper, traits that served me well in journalism but have no place in a toddler's world. Our Mandarin lessons paused when our teacher moved back to China, but one day Arthur said something to me in Chinese and I understood! He wanted milk-"Niunai!" That moment of comprehension felt like magic, a small victory in our shared journey of communication.
Trying to learn Chinese helps me understand Arthur's own language acquisition struggles. When he mixes up words or struggles to express himself, I remember my own fumbling attempts with tones and characters. When Arthur solemnly informed me "Rafiki is a mandrill" while watching The Lion King, I was impressed by both his knowledge and his parents' teaching. It was a reminder that children absorb language like sponges, while we adults must work harder for every new word. Language is the ultimate transactional process-listening closely to children's stories reinforces not just language but their importance as individuals.
I hope that by being present and truly listening now, Arthur might continue sharing with me even through the truculent teenage years. These early investments in communication and connection could yield dividends when conversations become more complex and emotions more guarded. Talking with a small child reconnects us with authenticity and living in the moment-there is no subtext, just text. Whether in English, Mandarin, or the universal language of love, these conversations remind me that communication transcends words; it's about presence, attention, and genuine connection. Each "Wo ai ni" is not just language practice - it's a promise to keep learning, listening, and loving.
第4章
The Evolution of a Grandparent
Arthur suspects Pop's devotion makes him a soft touch, a common dynamic in the grandparent-grandchild relationship. When Nana enforces boundaries with a firm "no" to donuts, Arthur instinctively cries out, "I want Pop!" knowing his grandfather's tendency to indulge. Watching his development through summer visits to the country reveals distinct chapters in his growth - from those early days as a tiny bundle nestled in a quilt, when he suddenly broke into an unexpected deep chortle that made everyone freeze and exchange wondering glances, to his wobbly first steps across the dewy morning lawn and eager rides in jogging strollers while pointing at passing dogs and birds.
Now Arthur has developed his own form of shorthand communication. He simply points and declares "Bear" - whether it's his stuffed companion, a character in a book, or a distant brown shape in the woods. He's evolved into an enthusiastic breakfast companion, eagerly sharing morning rituals of yogurt with honey, steaming bowls of oatmeal dotted with berries, and yes, those occasional forbidden donuts. While I savor these precious morning moments, I'm aware they're fleeting. Soon enough he'll be a teenager, barely grunting acknowledgment as he rushes past while I hopefully toast him an English muffin. But having raised children before, I understand this cycle - how teenage detachment eventually mellows into meaningful adult friendship.
The grandparent perspective offers a unique vantage point - we experience Arthur's childhood in vivid snapshots rather than the exhausting continuous documentary that consumes his parents' days. Each visit brings delightful surprises as we marvel over new vocabulary, emerging skills, and developmental milestones. We find ourselves offering enthusiastic praise for everything from successful potty training to wobbly artistic masterpieces, celebrating each small victory with unrestrained joy. Today's baby boomer grandparents approach this role with unprecedented enthusiasm and involvement, backed by census data showing more grandparents than at any previous time in history, with many living longer, healthier lives to enjoy their grandchildren.
My own grandfather's experience was markedly different - with thirty-two grandchildren, individual attention was necessarily limited to brief encounters at large family gatherings. In contrast, I cherish this special season of "Just Arthur," when I can give my undivided attention to his breathless tales about backyard turtles and imaginary fish. Though I'm a storyteller by nature, I consciously resist the urge to shape his narrative style, instead allowing him to develop his own voice and interests. Each visit reveals new facets of his personality - a budding interest in dinosaurs, an elaborate imagination for building block cities, or surprising observations about the world around him. This privilege of witnessing his growth and development without the weight of daily parental responsibilities stands as one of grandparenting's most precious gifts, allowing us to fully immerse ourselves in the joy and wonder of each moment.
第5章
When Children Become Parents
My elder son knows things-literature, comics, history-and is exceptionally precise with language and detail-oriented, perhaps to a fault. Given his methodical nature, I wasn't sure I would have predicted how excellent a father he would turn out to be. One of the most thrilling aspects of grandparenthood is watching my eldest child become a first-rate parent-seeing him and Arthur at school pickup, both with joyous smiles and outstretched arms.
For years, unlike his siblings who seemed natural caregivers, my eldest said he had no intention of becoming a parent. His reasoning was logical: it was too hard to do correctly and catastrophic to do wrong. I understood this perspective, having once felt similarly myself. As a young woman influenced by books like "The Baby Trap" and Ayn Rand's philosophy, I'd planned to remain childless, valuing independence over family responsibilities. Then something shifted mysteriously, and I embraced what became the most transformative experience of my life.
My son's journey mirrored mine-his firm "no" became a wholehearted "yes." He opened not just a life-insurance policy and college savings account but his heart in ways he couldn't have imagined. Parenthood excavated unexpected qualities in him: the sentimental in the rationalist, patience he never knew he had, and a deep curiosity about who his son is. Being an oldest child often means feeling like the adult in the room, but Arthur has helped unearth his inner kid.
The true measurement of parental success isn't logistical milestones but something subjective: have you raised good people? Watching my son become a thoughtful, loving father answers this question with a resounding yes, offering me a profound sense of continuity and hope for the future.
第6章
The Bridge of Books and Bedtime Stories
The evening ritual with Arthur has become a cherished dance of comfort and connection-from the splashing symphony of bath time to the playful challenge of wrangling an energetic toddler into pajamas. Some nights it feels like coordinating an Olympic event, complete with giggles, negotiations, and the occasional escape attempt. When I discover I've forgotten my reading glasses one evening, I'm saved by having memorized every word of Goodnight Moon through countless readings. Arthur, ever observant, has his own running commentary-pointing out the tiny mouse that appears on each page, debating whether the bears in their chairs are truly sleeping, and insisting we find the balloon that floats through the great green room.
These shared reading moments create an intimate bond between us, echoing the way books helped me maintain deep connections with my own sons during their childhood years. This was particularly important when prevailing cultural wisdom, steeped in dated Freudian psychology, insisted that boys needed to separate from their mothers to develop healthy masculinity. Rather than accepting this limiting perspective, I discovered that literature could serve as a bridge, maintaining our emotional closeness while respecting their growing independence.
Through discussions of characters' choices, complex themes, and vivid descriptions, we were really exploring our own feelings, fears, and dreams. Whether discussing Max's wild rumpus in Where the Wild Things Are or pondering the deeper meanings in The Giving Tree, books provided a safe space to process emotions and share perspectives. Now with Arthur, I eagerly anticipate following his literary journey-from picture books to chapter books to young adult novels-so that even when he naturally seeks more independence, we'll have this intellectual and emotional connection to sustain our relationship.
Reading together creates an unbroken chain across generations-whether it's the timeless tale of Ferdinand the peaceful bull, the whimsical world of Goodnight Moon, or new classics yet to be discovered. These stories become part of our family's shared language, creating reference points and inside jokes that span decades. In these quiet evening moments, with Arthur's warm weight against me and the familiar cadence of beloved stories filling the air, I feel the profound continuity of family life. The gentle rustle of pages turning, the soft glow of the bedside lamp, and the gradual relaxing of small muscles as sleep approaches-these are the precious moments that weave themselves into the fabric of both our memories, creating an enduring bond that will last long after he outgrows my lap.
第7章
From Distant Patriarchs to Active Participants
Parenting has transformed dramatically over generations. In my parents' era, they simply "had babies and got on with it" without the term "parenting" or today's intense focus on child development. My mother somehow managed five children in succession while my father could only cook grilled cheese and tomato soup on rare occasions when she was hospitalized having another baby.
My own grandparents had thirty-two grandchildren and approached grandparenting with the same detached formality as their parenting. Sunday visits were ritualistic obligations rather than opportunities for connection. They looked like proper old people, never getting down on the floor to play, maintaining clear boundaries between adult and child worlds. Love was conditional, based on accomplishments and behavior, not the unconditional affection today's grandparents offer.
Today's grandparenting landscape has shifted dramatically. With smaller families, each grandchild is a precious rarity rather than one among dozens. Baby boomer grandparents paradoxically seem both older (as people have children later) and younger (remaining more active and youthful-looking than previous generations). At sixty-four when Arthur was born, I was significantly older than my grandmother who became a grandparent at forty-seven, yet in many ways appear younger than she did then-so much so that I was once mistaken for Arthur's mother while carrying him in a sling at a market.
Despite these changes, some aspects of grandparenting remain timeless. Children still want to eat cookie dough, slide backward down slides, bounce on forbidden beds, and play peek-a-boo games. They still delight in sidewalk chalk, bubbles, and the classic "got your nose" trick that grandfathers have performed for generations. The difference is in our approach-my grandfathers were distant patriarchs who never hugged or praised me, while today's grandparents are more like "demi-parents" who participate actively in family outings and childcare.
第8章
The Golden Rule of Grandparenting: "Did They Ask You?"
I learned a crucial lesson about grandparenting boundaries when I overstepped regarding my grandson's preschool enrollment. After expressing my disapproval of my son and daughter-in-law's childcare decision, my son pushed back firmly. The next day while walking with my friend Susan (whose last name is, appropriately, Parent), I recounted the incident. After listening, she asked simply: "Did they ask you?"
That question became my guiding principle for grandparenting. When a grandchild throws a fit, has a fever, or refuses vegetables, I may have opinions, but unless explicitly asked, those opinions should remain unspoken. The two commandments of Nanaville are simple: love the grandchildren and hold your tongue. Grandparents who dispense unsolicited advice risk seeing their grandchildren only on holidays and in photographs.
Being a good grandparent means bringing past experience to the table but then letting go of it. Many parenting innovations since my time are vast improvements-from practical maternity clothes to high-tech breast pumps and NASA-engineered car seats. The temptation to resist these changes must be overcome.
The grandparent's role includes transmitting family stories and history, but we must recognize that today's parents face unprecedented pressure from experts and strangers telling them how to raise their children. They don't need Nana adding to the criticism. We grandparents occupy an uncomfortable position-feeling responsibility without true authority-which makes safety concerns particularly anxiety-inducing.
I was completely wrong about preschool-Arthur loves it and has thrived there. He runs in excitedly to see his friends on mornings when I take him. I've grown from this experience too. While I have strong opinions, I've learned to share them only when asked, otherwise remaining as quiet as the house at naptime.
第9章
Finding Balance Between Empathy and Indulgence
With Arthur's parents away at a wedding and Pop working, I had my grandson all to myself in the country. Our day together included a long walk with him in the jogging stroller, playing ball with the dog, and visiting a crafts fair at a historical farm. I was grateful his parents aren't overly strict about nutrition as we shared sweet pastries for breakfast.
Arthur showed little interest in the crafts but enjoyed a hayride and watching horses. After returning home for a nap, we sat side by side at the pool's edge with our feet in the water, engaging in that special form of conversation where I talked and he repeated words or added sounds that resembled speech.
Then came the moment that took my breath away-Arthur suddenly launched himself into the pool fully clothed. I dove in after him, pulling him quickly to the surface where he cried briefly before repeatedly announcing "Wet! Wet!" as I wrapped him in a towel. The incident taught me several lessons: we should have started swim lessons earlier, and most importantly, that I will do absolutely anything necessary to keep this child safe and happy-even facing my own fears.
The challenge for grandparents is finding the balance between empathy and indulgence. While conventional wisdom says indulgence is a grandparent's privilege, parents aren't fond of grandparents who indulge too much-it can feel like being one-upped or disrespected. And respecting the parents is the linchpin of success in Nanaville.
At dinner one evening, Arthur wanted to leave the table early, but his mother insisted he stay until dinner ended. This reminded me of my place in the family government-I'm somewhere between speaker of the house and president pro tem, but definitely not president or vice president. I can't sign off or veto. So Arthur stayed at the table until we finished. He didn't fuss, and I didn't interfere. Lessons learned: "No" doesn't mean "I don't love you." And hang back-I cannot repeat this one often enough. Hang back.
第10章
The Luck of the Draw: In-Laws and Family Expansion
When my children unanimously approved of their brother's girlfriend from China, I knew we'd lucked out. On paper, she seemed a risky match-an only child from a Communist atheist country joining our large Catholic family. Cultural differences emerged immediately, yet she proved wonderfully sane, smart and delightful company.
Her transition from girlfriend to wife to mother highlighted how crucial the daughter-in-law relationship is to grandparenting. When your son becomes a father, so much depends on how your daughter-in-law feels about you. Traditional advice to mothers-of-grooms-"wear beige and keep your mouth shut"-doesn't work for me. I look bad in beige.
I've heard countless stories of difficult in-law relationships: the DIL who excludes in-laws from holidays, who cancels plans last-minute, who never brings the kids to visit. Having been a daughter-in-law myself, I was prepared to give latitude, but it's been unnecessary. My DIL has proven an excellent mother-firm but loving. From the beginning, she's welcomed our involvement in her son's life.
One afternoon by the pond, as Arthur unraveled during the "arsenic hours" when children melt down, I held out my arms. Without hesitation, she handed him to me: "Give it a shot." In that simple gesture was all the trust and partnership I could hope for.
And now, the family expands again. "Lynn's pregnant," our son announced on a video call, as Arthur sat in his high chair. This time will be different-for all of us. My son and his wife will discover that two children isn't just one plus one, but rather "one plus one plus a hundred." With a second child, the grandmother becomes even more essential. I know my rightful place now, having learned from mistakes made out of haste and ignorance but never lack of love.
This baby will be a girl, a sunnu in Mandarin, completely unique despite our inclination to think of second children as sequels. My job will be making sure Arthur never feels supplanted while helping the new baby feel like her own person. Everything changes, including Nanaville, but the chain of family continues, linking together through generations.
第11章
The Future Reflected in a Child's Eyes
After Arthur was born, the pediatrician showed his parents a large Mongolian blue spot on his buttocks-a congenital birthmark common in Asian babies but unfamiliar to many others. This physical trait symbolizes our changing nation, where one in seven babies born the same year as Arthur was multiracial or multiethnic, triple the number from when his father was born.
The arc of progress bends toward grandchildren who are like us yet not. When I was young, cultural lines were barely crossable. A "mixed marriage" meant Catholic and Lutheran. My father, from an Irish family, married my mother, an Italian-a small difference that was still considered notable then.
Now my family represents this new world. One daughter-in-law is biracial, another Chinese. With Arthur, I've experienced the awkwardness of strangers asking, "Where did you get him?"-a question stemming from our visible differences. Once I impishly replied, "Whole Foods."
Arthur is Chinese, Irish, Italian, Slovenian-a miraculous blend. His maternal grandparents journeyed from Beijing through China's Cultural Revolution to American academia, while his paternal grandparents grew up with Catholic notions about converting "Red Chinese." Our children expanded our existence, introducing us to new cultures, foods, and perspectives.
I believe there's richness in genetic diversity. Arthur sometimes looks like his Caucasian father, sometimes his Asian mother, and often uniquely himself. This helps me avoid the parental trap of projecting expectations based on my own needs. With Arthur, I simply wait to see who he'll become, without wishing for a specific path.
"He isn't like anyone else in the family," a woman once said about her grandson. "Isn't that wonderful?" It surely is. In Arthur's face, I see not just our family's past but America's future-diverse, complex, and infinitely promising. Through him, I've learned that the greatest gift grandparents can give is not just love but the freedom to become uniquely oneself.
