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If there was one title Mrs. Elise Wickerbottom did not expect to gain in her life, that was “grandmother”.
It’s not that she particularly disliked children; it was in fact quite the opposite. Back in Liverpool, one of the many joys as a librarian included reading to the children in the afternoons as her “assistant” smiled back at her from the register with her rosy dimpled cheeks.
Ah… what would Dorothy think about the situation she was in, were she alive today? Sometimes Wickerbottom thought of things like that on nights where her insomnia was particularly awful, but never for too long. It had been years, after all, and there were more important tasks for her to attend to as the official grandmother.
The first of these tasks was to check in on the children. Wendy was never the most cheerful of them, though surprisingly her sister held a lot more spirit despite being just that. It was always a pleasure to brush her hair and to fix up her little pigtails and send her on her way… ahhh, but then it was the monstery one’s turn. Webber often needed a good brushing as well, but their spidery fur was absolute proof that some kind of higher power was hellbent on testing her patience. However, as all things do, the frustration would pass and the little one would beam and skip away like a happy little junebug afterwards. Wurt was certainly a much more demanding child when it came to her morning readings though, and it always did take up quite a bit time before the older woman was able to convince the little princess to mosey on her way.
Grandmothering was not only reserved for the little ones, though. Even the adults, as mature and grown-up as they claimed to be, would be lost souls without her guiding spirit. Maxwell was the second oldest person of the entourage, but even he had the attitude issues not unlike those of a groaning 8-year-old. Oftentimes he would be bickering and teasing Wilson for one reason or another, and the short man would bark back some sort of humorous insult that only further prolonged their arguments, until the community grandmother was able to keep the peace in her pride. Just one of her prized librarian shushes was sufficient to send them on their ways with their proverbial tails between their legs. However, a much more difficult challenge was keeping Willow’s “tendencies” at bay. The simple sound of a crackle was enough to send Wickerbottom on a manhunt as a one-woman pack of disciplinary bloodhounds to quell the potential flame afoot. More often than not, it amounted to her just setting a leaf or two on fire to watch it burn, but there were times she was just in time to stop her from setting Maxwell’s “misplaced” tie into a campfire. Willow's object of affection wasn’t usually any less destructive either; all Wigfrid did was yell and kill the ever-loving hell out of animals. All she could bear to do was shield little Wurt’s eyes from the messes before giving a nasty look in turn.
Wickerbottom hardly ever lectured WX-78, not because she didn’t think they hadn’t done anything worth lecturing, but because they were hardly ever receptive to her criticisms. Though she did know that sometimes, when she pretended she wasn’t looking, WX would make sure to carefully polish her reading glasses and organize her books. The best disciplinary action she could manage for the robot was to let them believe she didn’t think they had a softness deep down in their circuts. Wortox was absolutely a different story, because all she ever did was tell the little critter to stop leaving only the crusts of sandwiches behind on people’s plates or to refrain from making mudpies in the crockpots. He wasn’t ever particularly harmful of course, but goodness golly gracious did he test her patience daily. The only other non-human sort that gave her a bit of a pain to teach was the little planty fellow, Wormwood. The only things they ever had trouble with were the random flower-growings and the bawlings over trampled daisies, though.
Of course, Mrs. Wickerbottom did find solace in the bit of maturity she came across from the other adults. Winona was always pleasant, if not a little overwhelming from her gusto, but sometimes helped her tighten the fit on her glasses when they started to get too loose. Warly was always fun to speak to about his passions, but his hyperfixated ramblings sometimes wore her out, but she knew he had the sweetest intentions. Woodie and Wolfgang were also a pleasure to spend time with, though Woodie’s accidental transformations and Wolfgang’s tendencies to call on her to take care of particularly frightening bugs did get a little grading over time. At the end of the day though, Wes would always bring her up a notch with their silent yet sweet disposition. He would sometimes bring her little balloon trinkets and share the rest with the children, which always made her happy to see. It was amusing to see such a tall and lanky fellow surrounded by small individuals clinging at his legs, arms, and back, and she was quite comforted by the fact that there was another maternal sort in the group other than her.
At the end of the day, she often found herself so exhausted she could barely stand, but would still go through and read all the little ones goodnight, and tonight was no different. Her insomnia was her biggest foe out of everything the constant had to offer, because her exhaustion kept her from being the best grandmother she could be. She had to cut her readings short unfortunately, and gave them all a kiss goodnight on their wonderful foreheads (Even little Abigail, though it was more of the thought that counted in her case, as she was corporeal.)
Tonight, though… as she stepped over towards her tent for the evening, she was surprised to see all of the group standing outside; even the little children out of their beds. They were smiling up at wicker, and parted ways for Wilson to come out from the group.
“What’s all this?..” She could barely manage to speak in her bewilderment before the smaller gentleman smiled up at her kindly.
“Ma’am, you’ve been working so very hard for everyone lately, but… it’s not something you ought to burden on your own. We all love you Mrs. Wickerbottom, and… well… I have been working on something for you. It was everyone’s idea though.”
Wicker watched with apprehensive eyes as Wilson slowly placed a glass bottle into her hands. “And what would this be?...”
Wilson beamed and rubbed the back of his neck, as was a habit of his. “Well, we know you have trouble sleeping, and it’s not like there’s any kind of pharmaceutical shop around, so… We fixed you up a medication for you to get a good night’s sleep. That way you can have good dreams and all that… you deserve to rest.”
The older woman felt her heart burst inside, absolutely overwhelmed from everyone’s kindness. Not once since Dorothy’s passing had she ever experienced a night of truly good sleep. She felt her eyes slowly welling up, and tried to hide it by sliding off her fogging glasses, but it took hardly any time for the others to close in around her: first the little ones around her legs and hips, then the others with their arms around her, comforting her with the most love she’d felt since she sat on that shag carpet in liverpool with the little boys and girls asking her if she’d read that last story just once more before she had to go.
For the first time it occurred to her what being a grandmother actually meant. It wasn’t about keeping things orderly, doing chores around the place, or even disciplining the children. Being a grandmother was about reading to the little ones, or joking about the place she and Maxwell both happened to grow up in. Being a grandmother was about hearing every little thing her loved ones were happy about and sharing the joy with them, and sharing with them her very own joy. Being a grandmother was about the love she shared with her newfound family, forever and ever.
And Wickerbottom had the most wonderful dreams she ever dreamt that night, and this time she didn’t have to dream about the hole missing from her late lover’s passing.
That hole had been filled one hundred million times over.