When the unexpected news of my pending grandmotherhood arrived—and with it the expiration of my “mid-life” warranty—I didn’t feel ready. The famed trimesters ahead had the familiar echo of life lived, but without expectation of a re-run. After all, I’d had my tubes not merely tied, but seared shut. Biological trimesters were officially off the roster. Yet here I was facing nine months of déjà voo-doo: my grandchild in the body of another woman. Ready or not, I had entered “The Grand Triathlon.”

I was puzzled by my response, but also curious. Why the reticence? Why not the “Wha Hoo!”? I had to know. So I turned to the companion who had helped me sort out my feelings for as long as I could remember: my journal. In the early stages of this process, most of my “journaling” didn’t take written form, but was logged into my heart through thoughts, feelings and dialogue. Then random notes appeared. And finally, in the seventh month, the writing gave birth to itself.

My first (and recurring) roadblock to “Wha Hoo” was predictable enough. What major life passage doesn’t bring up insecurities?” The tip-off came the day I teetered on an unofficial diagnosis of “neurotic breakdown.” Here I was, ambivalent about even being a grandmother and at the same time obsessed with this query: “Who gets the baby next Christmas?!!” Underneath that dither lay the true source of my conflict: my insecurity that, in the familial scheme of things, I would be trumped by the maternal grandparents: still married, lived closer and with means I didn’t have. And my remarried once-husband closely followed suit. I could see the handwriting on the prenatal wall. I would be the “Thanksgiving Grandma,” the “No Grandpa Grandma,” the “Not as Many Goodies Grandma.”

Yet with that insight and its accompanying torrent of feelings, something else dawned. Those feelings were based on fear – not some curse cast by The Reality Witch. So what really mattered here? I asked with a little help from my friends. The answer was startlingly simple: shaping the kind of relationship I wanted with this child! And that little exercise in awareness led me to a comforting realization: I was right on Boomer track!

As a member of a generation of women that had overhauled every role they’d ever inherited, reinvention was natural. Even those who were over the “Grandmommy Moon” about their pending or wished-for status didn’t relate to the stereotype, I realized. If they did, they wouldn’t be busy dubbing themselves “Nana,” “Nonnie,” and “Mimi.” In fact, they wouldn’t even be asking the Boomer question du tri: “What do I want to be called?”Suddenly the time remaining on the countdown calendar was less about what to be called—and more about what I felt called to. What kind of person did I want my grandchild to know? What would transcend miles, money and marital status? How could I be grand in my own inimitable way? The “Wha Hoo” was starting to shimmer on my inner horizon.

But before I could whoop out loud, the oldest of all heir-related issues came up for air. Miffed that the maternal grandparents were taking such a heavy hand in the naming of the child they assumed would be of their preferred gender, my new focus grew blurry. And I knew the only thing that would restore clarity again was something I preferred not to do: a bit of self- investigation. Oh, I might be mute on the issue of the baby name, but simmering inside my skull were vibrant views on childbirth, breastfeeding and daycare. And underneath each of these agendas sat that ancient issue: control. I’d worked on this nemesis considerably, mind you. But I had yet to apply it to this particular phase of my evolution. Would the need for control infect my budding Matriarchy or would I have the courage to pioneer a new level of letting go? Could I deepen my motto of “Trust the Process” when I wasn’t a voting member of the board that would make these crucial decisions? Now I was beginning to understand the roots of my resistance.