With each contraction, my daughter’s breath came in low gasps. I, her hyper-alert doula, waited for Lina to tell me what to do. Lay down the plastic bags. Put the blankets on top. Give me a little water. Place the ball in the center of the room. Queue up Beyonce’s “Homecoming” on my laptop. Call my husband! 

This was a home birth, and while Lina’s husband and midwife were on their way, in this moment — when my only child was preparing to give birth to her first baby — it was just the two of us. 

“Anything else?” I asked her, moving quickly to set up everything she needed. Eyes closed, she shook her head and said weakly, “Thank you, Mama.”

Luckily, as the distance between Lina’s contractions shortened, her husband and midwife arrived within minutes of each other. My grandson began to make his way out of his mother’s slender body like a glacier floating across a sea. In the midst of Lina’s moans and stutters, I watched, waited and listened. An hour or so later, my grandson slid out of her like a reddish-brown song into the world, emitting a small, mewling cry as he, with piercing black eyes, looked at us for answers. 

Leaning on extended family

To say my daughter and I are close is an understatement. I was 21 when I had her. I was a single mom, part-time waitress and struggling college student in Los Angeles, and as Lina grew, I grew up alongside her. At times, we were more like sisters. I coveted and protected her from the world like a mama spider, carefully spinning an artistic web around her, one that included her friends and mine, cultural spaces, outings and, the truest of blessings, support from her dad’s mom, despite that he was not an involved parent. 

Janice, my daughter’s grandmother, kept her door open to us and cared for Lina while I worked or went to school. She taught my daughter how to tell dry jokes and how to be discerning. In ways my own mother couldn’t or wouldn’t because we were never close, Janice helped me parent Lina in unimaginable ways when I was on the verge of meltdowns. As I matured, I was determined to keep Lina as close to my apron as possible; under it forever, if need be. But that only worked for so long. In high school, Lina found the love of her life.

Years later, when she told me what I already knew before she said it, “Mom, I’m pregnant,” I cried. And when her belly rounded to the size of a watermelon as she wobbled around Brooklyn, I sang to it and cried. And yes, when my grandson was finally in my arms, I sang to him as sleek tears slid down my cheeks. There were lots of waterworks on my part. 

After Angelo’s birth, for the next week, I continued my doula duties of creating a soothing space, burning sage and rubbing my daughter’s back. I cooked, cleaned and rocked our baby boy so my daughter could sleep. But I couldn’t consider myself a co-parent because Lina’s husband was a tremendously supportive partner, a good husband and a proud papa who planted tender kisses all over his son’s head every time he held him. 

I was, instead, the backup plan. The tickler and love-giver. The one who never had to change poopy diapers. 

When night fell, and I rubbed my feet, I realized that I was still parenting my daughter but in a different way. As this extended mother, the “grandmere” grandmother, the “yaya,” I was also now, in my African and Indigenous communities, an official elder. 

As Angelo’s little legs and arms lengthened and his curly Afro grew long enough to braid, I joyfully fulfilled my duties as his grandmother. If he seemed to cough too much or if his eyelids seemed a little too low, all the old wives’ tales kicked in: Put peppermint in his socks. Give him a teaspoon of thyme in water or myrrh. Boil water and put drops of eucalyptus in. He’s teething? Chew on whole cloves, wet your finger with the juice and rub it on his gums.

Angelo’s dad’s mom, his other grandmother who lives in New York, is a treasure trove of advice, too. Two airplane rides away, it took me a little while to negotiate the space of sharing the grandparent role She as the Christian-minded grandmother and I, as the “spiritual” grandmother, do things differently, but that doesn’t mean either way is wrong — or even better. Subsequently, we both learned that Angelo needed to know his grandmothers communicated, talked on the phone and shared our lives. He needed to see that both of us were his extended guardians and knew what his little behind was up to, whether he was on the right path or needed some correction. Neither grandmother spanked him, but he knew that we backed up whatever his mom and dad’s parenting philosophies were. Whatever they said was law. That’s how you function in a healthy extended family unit. Support what looks good and, later, send helpful, nonjudgmental text message suggestions for anything else.

Navigating parenting and grandparenting

Eight months after he was born, my grandson experienced his first Christmas in Brooklyn. As soft snow creased the ground, my grandson and I looked out the window at passers-by, some in Santa Claus hats, and I wove the tale of his birth around his head and small body. 

“Mama, he doesn’t understand you,” my daughter laughed as she decorated their first Christmas tree with bulbs and popcorn. My son-in-law lightly plucked piano keys as he practiced for a holiday gig.

“Yes, he understands everything I’m saying,” I replied. “He’s my little bear and bears know everything.”

And this was my job. This crossing over from mother to grandmother was as clear in my mind, body and spirit as if someone had tapped me on my shoulder with an Orisha wand. My child had done a most magical thing and created her own child, and now it was time for me to extend what “parenting” meant — from raising my child to hers. When my second grandson was born at home, his entrance was different, as it should be, and he came with so much blood that I spent an hour cleaning it up after he was born. 

When I visit these days, there’s always a moment when I look at my two grandsons, the eldest now 5 and the youngest 2, as they run down the block or try to do yoga next to me, looking like little Gumbys on the rug. Most of the time, I hold my laugh in because they are so serious about doing what they do. That’s when it happens: A realization, dawning again and again, that we are bound to each other by blood and love and the gift I hold of being able to help guide them in the world. 

Grandparents provide a kind of support system that no one else can. We are secondary caregivers, but just like with our own children, we also feel responsible and accountable for what Baby does, says, acts and sometimes even what comes out of them. To have grandparents means they belong to a lineage, a dynasty, a legacy within a family paradigm. That kind of knowing means something to a child’s mental health and spirit, as well as to the adults who agreed to this role. 

I accept the call. And every Christmas and on their birthdays, I rub my grandsons’ heads and recount their births to assure them that I, the grandmother, remember when you came into this world and I, the grandmother, will tell you everything I know, as much as I can, about what you need to be a happy and fulfilled spirit in this complex, flawed-yet-beautiful world. 

We, the family, are in this together.

Shonda Buchanan is an award-winning poet and author of “Black Indian: A Memoir” and the forthcoming book, “The Lost Songs of Nina Simone.”