When I had children, my mother-in-law refused to be called ‘Grandma,’ which confused me. 30 years later, I finally understand.

Fast forward two years, and you would have found Irene doting on my toddler, Claire. And as toddlers often do, Claire had a different plan; Irene was not “Mimi” or any modern incarnation. She was “Grandma Irene,” so Irene was begrudgingly stuck.

I had no idea the weight of a label, until now. I’m carrying a few now myself — “retiree” among them. Now that I’m hitting some senior milestones, I’m beginning to understand my mother-in-law a bit better.

I initially struggled to understand my mother-in-law

Irene clung to her artificially blond hair far beyond the time that anyone would have expected anything but gray, and I was perplexed. Why would anyone go to the trouble and expense of hair color into their 60s and beyond?

Irene was also an active woman and enjoyed spending time at the pool in the summer. I joined her with my children occasionally, and her choice of bathing threw me. She wore a skirted bathing suit. Why would anyone want an extra layer of Lycra clinging to their body getting out of a pool? As far as I could tell, the skirt didn’t do much to disguise what I can only assume were flaws she didn’t want to be seen.

Large-print books were another misunderstood concept. When I saw her with a book that outweighed a regular print version by at least 25%, I didn’t get the idea behind toting all that extra weight. My younger version would think that just holding the book further away would be a much simpler, lighter solution to the small print problem.

I just couldn’t understand why my mother-in-law acted the way she did.

I now understand where she was coming from

Now that I’m approaching 60, with a head full of what I can only assume is gray hair, I get it. I haven’t gone more than seven weeks without fresh color on my hair, and going gray is far more nuanced and complex than I ever imagined. I have been coloring my hair since my 30s to cover silver strands in my brunette locks. About five years ago, my hairdresser gently suggested that going blonde would allow me more time between touch-ups. I acquiesced and had a lovely blonde bob that required root refreshing every six weeks.

So when is the right time to go natural? It’s definitely not now; I have a daughter getting married in two months. So, on my hair color issue, I’ve kicked the can down the road until fall, at least.

I’m also north of my ideal weight, with freckled legs and a 7″ jagged scar from a hip replacement, and I still don’t understand the skirted suit. I have, however, fully embraced the tankini, which wasn’t an option in Grandma Irene’s youth. I may inspire fear in the youthful moms and toddlers at the pool these days, but it won’t be because of sopping wet layers of Lycra.

And now, with my new sidekick, presbyopia, large print books are a godsend. Who has time to keep track of reading glasses? There’s no way I’m wearing them around my neck like a librarian, no matter how groovy the chain is. I’ve sometimes given up and gone to audiobooks for as long as my hearing holds up.

I’m sorry I judged her all those years ago

Finally, I never understood my mother-in-law’s afternoon nap. Sure, my toddlers needed naps, but they were growing children, constantly on the go. What did my mother-in-law need a respite from? Sure, she played tennis some days, but nothing on her agenda required exertion. She didn’t clean her own home. She didn’t cook often. So what wore her down? I’ll never know. But like clockwork, she had a daily siesta.

And you know what? Now that I’m in retirement, I do, too.

I’m sure my choices are foreign to my children and son-in-law, but give them a few years, and I’m sure they’ll catch on. I know I did, and I regret ever judging my mother-in-law. Aging can be difficult, and we all deal with it in our own way.

I’m sure I’ll also struggle with the label “Grandma” when the time comes, too.