Judging Grandma (& everyone else)

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My Grandma rolled with a lot of things in her life: the Great depression, losing a home to fire, the sudden death of a grandchild, becoming a widow. She didn’t judge much…except Fanny and her box cake.

It appears that high school never ends.

Many years ago Grandma asked me to go around to her neighbor Fanny’s house. I needed to pick up a cake she had made for a funeral. I made the mistake of commenting how nice it was that Fanny had done this. Grandma was less than thrilled. “It’s only a box cake. I know it.” And there it was, she should have known better. 

I just read something today about how women judge each other. Obviously, a lot of this centers around the main hot topics: kids, working, breastfeeding, maternity leave, stay-at-home vs. working moms. True, but already covered ad nauseam. There’s a great deal of research about teenage girls with their queen bees and wannabees, too. With Grandma, it was box cake.

It strikes me now that we are the most hateful, harsh critics of those that are most like us socially, ethnically, and economically. You’d think that the opposite would be true, being afraid and judgmental of those most different. I don’t think we are though. I’d argue that I give most people a pass. If we come from different cultures, most things can be explained because we come from different cultures. It they’re younger, it’s their age. If they’re older, it’s their age. If they’re my age, it’s game on.

Sometimes I’m the mom with the cute Valentines, fresh muffins, and craft activities. Other days I’m the sweaty mess that packed two different shoes for their kid, ran out of clean underwear and forgot an important meeting. Truthfully, this all happened…this week. Some days I shine, but on many more days I race, crawl, and drag my way to a finish line that never appears.

My Grandma didn’t judge me, but Lordy be, did she judge Fanny. And Fanny judged her. Two women in their late 80’s with the battle of boxed cake, tallying who had more guests seated at their table for the mother’s day tea, and keeping track of whose children visited them more.

Let’s be better, ladies. I don’t want to be stuck in high school, in mommy wars, or wanting my 90th birthday party to be bigger than yours.

Just get up, show up, and do the best you can.

I will, too.

Keep sharing moxie.

P.S. Shout-out–I do love what a fellow blogger and former high school classmate (@harvardhomemaker.com) has to say about sticking together. It’s a message worth repeating!

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