Until now, I thought that the case was closed on Momzillas– they exist, the rest of us get overmothered and suffer. Rinse. Repeat.
That was it– I would sight Momzillas, tell you guys about it. Many of you would stare blankly at the screen; others of you would nod in understanding; all would find something amusing, hopefully, and life would go on.
Life does not go on. People: GRANDZILLAS EXIST.
Do you know what a Grandzilla is? Grandzilla, for my purposes: grandmother + momzilla.
It’s a Momzilla who, unfortunately for mankind, not only allowed her offspring to “grow up” but to actually SPAWN as well.
It is a frightful combination of the inherent smugness of the grandparent –forgivable in most circuits because everybody knows that grandparents are the Bearers of Stuff and the Human Automatic Teller Machines– and the inherent smugness of the Momzilla, She Of The Insatiable Mothering.
So you can imagine that being in the presence of a Grandzilla yields hours of incessant cooing; of assurance to anyone who should listen that said Grandzilla’s grandchild is definitely THE MOST BEAUTIFUL/SMART/FUNNY/GORGEOUS/ADORABLE/INCREDIBLE child who ever lived; and of snide remarks as to how SHE would raise that child, given the opportunity.
The Grandzilla will resent most attention not specifically paid to her grand-offspring, and will try to bully and alienate with saccharine gusto– often by scaring the crap of any other child within a five-mile radius just by threatening to hold the poor unfortunate “rival” child or children in her talon-like grasp. This is a cunning strategy so as not to appear completely heartless.
The Grandzilla, true Momzilla that she is, will realize that as much as she loves her offspring, her offspring have made ill choices –such as the people they’ve chosen to spawn with. This means that the Grandzilla will try to micromanage every single decision her children and children-in-law try to make regarding HER bundle(s) of joy. Sometimes this will be welcome, as Grandmother seems to be so delightfully eager to babysit while Mommy and Daddy go out for a nightcap.
Sometimes Mommy and Daddy might return from said nightcap to discover the locks have been changed and the trail is cold.
Beware the Grandzilla, people.
She is heartless.
Grandma on Dad’s side was a zilla. I think the experiences she left behind had a positive effect; neither of my parents are zillas. My daughter, however, bodes promise of zillahood. Perhaps the zilla-gene skips generations?