As a mother from the 70s, I am and always was content to let my children speak and write about issues—I didn't need to, I told myself—I raised them to be liberal thinkers and writers and besides I (almost) always agree with their views on politics, religion, family, and work. Then my feminist daughter (I love calling her that) decided to do an edgy magazine about motherhood and asked if I wanted to write a column about grandmothers?

Now don't get me wrong—I love being a grandmother. There is not a better job, a greater honor, or just plain more fun role in the whole world—but write about it? Do I have enough to say? Do I care enough about sharing my experience to put my words out there in black and white for everyone and anyone to read? Do I need the stress of deadlines and learning to edit on the computer with "track changes" when I could just play hide-and-seek and read The Potty Book? Can I find people who want to talk about grandmotherhood without just gushing endlessly about the little ones in their lives? Would people be willing to "tell it like it is?" In the "yes" column, I thought it would be interesting to find other grandmas (or "boomer-grannies" as one website names us) who, by making different choices or because life had a different path for them than they dreamed, would have a lot to share. As the saying goes, be careful what you ask us because we will probably tell you.

Since you are reading this, you are right: I answered yes to most of the above—and decided it was worth the agony of sharing my writing with you (and first with my editor daughter). Just when I was ready to quit without having yet started, I realized that I can't face knowing that Ruthanne, Clyde, and Caroline could (would) be told one day that I wouldn't write about being a grandmother or talk with others about it when I had been so much a part of their lives. So here we go...

I am a middle-class woman who was raised in white middle-class America. I came of age in the 60s when all sorts of possibilities opened up to women, and we had many choices. Even so, I chose a traditional path—marriage (a long one, 38 years so far), children, home, and a career when the children went off to school. Along the way I tried to make a difference and to think differently than I was raised—"make love not war," "give peace a chance," "America: home of the FREE (for EVERYONE)!" Just using common sense and with lots of help from family and friends, our family survived childhood and the teen years. Many times it was scary; lots of times we were very proud. All the time we were tired! Both my son and daughter have gone on to personal happiness and successful lives—all the time staying connected to family. At that point, little did I realize the best was yet to come. Grandmamahood.

My own grandmothers lived far away from us when I was growing up, but my favorite pictures of them (one in my head; another on an old slide my father still has) show them frozen in time. The best part of both pictures is the SMILES.

The old, somewhat-grainy slide of my mother's mother was taken at a family picnic on a sunny summer day. Grandma Shepherd is dressed in a red sweater, sitting on a bench surrounded by ten or twelve little grandchildren ranging from toddlers to pre-teens—everyone is smiling especially her!

The picture that is in my head (and that I wish was on a slide) is of my father's mother, Lida. Her strong face wears a huge smile, which appeared when I asked, "Grandma, don't you get lonely living here by yourself, painting all day?" As an eight-year-old, I was so worried about her living all alone along a quiet, beautiful lake in Minnesota. What I didn't realize until I had a husband and children (and never a room of my own) was that she, after raising nine children, probably felt that this was as close to bliss as she could get!

So I'm ready to explore grandmotherhood, and in doing so, I can't wait to talk to and interview other grandmothers.

Some of the grandmamas we hope to talk to for mamazine.com: