They are a small army of bodyguards—loyal and attentive, meticulous and watchful, dressed in standard-issue uniforms that range from jeans, t-shirt, and sneakers to a modest skirt, blouse, and sensible mid-heeled shoes, depending on personal taste and circumstance.
They carry large bags stuffed with all manner of essentials: water bottles and napkins, baby bottles and rattles, snacks and toy cars, small pots and plastic creatures with absurd names that change constantly and that they can never quite keep straight. They crowd the entrances of elementary schools, preschools, and daycare centers, swimming pools and gymnasiums (despite never actually playing any sports). They walk back and forth along the paths and playgrounds in public parks and neighborhood gardens.
The children in their care are only a few months or a few years old, and only rarely do they exceed ten. They work without salary and without fixed hours, yet with an almost obsessive attention and an affection that is often criticized as excessive. They all belong to the middle-aged and older set, though smiles, cuddles, constant activity, and regular visits to the hairdresser make them look much younger. We are speaking, of course, of GRANDMOTHERS! More important now than ever—in fact, indispensable—in big cities and small towns, in Italy and across Europe and the entire world.
What more is there to say? They have no union grievances to press, they don't go on strike, but sometimes, in Italy and Europe and everywhere else, they grumble a little among themselves. And they say something like this: "The thing is, these parents spoil them rotten"... or "they're never around"... or "they spoil them because they're never around"... and "these kids have too many activities and get so tired"... or "'stead of studying, all they do is computer this and television that and all those contraptions I don't even know how to use... but them... they're little demons..." These are the things grandmothers say to each other, and no one listens, but they're the gospel truth, as everyone knows.
Now and then one will complain a bit: "It's hard work, and my strength isn't what it used to be... by evening I'm exhausted." But the older grandmothers, who have already raised other grandchildren, stay quiet, knowing in their hearts that the years really do pass, and pass quickly, and that soon the beloved grandchildren will need them less... and then less still... until, grown up, they visit only rarely, and then the grandmothers and grandfathers, who have always been the grumbling, steadfast guardians, will finally begin to grow old.
Pennablù