It’s not what it sounds like. I know what you’re thinking: “What kind of ageist nonsense is that?!” Let me explain …

I grew up in Flatbush, in an apartment building on the first floor. My maternal grandparents lived on the second floor.

Very often, I would run away from home, up one flight of stairs (I was a “flight risk”!) to the safe, warm haven that was my Grandma and Grandpa’s apartment.

My paternal grandparents, Bubbie and Zaide, lived a 40-minute trek over the Brooklyn Bridge, and up the FDR Drive, in Washington Heights. We would go there to join them for meals in the YU sukkah, or for Thanksgiving dinner, Purim seudah, and on the occasional Sunday night for a dinner of Ables & Hyman deli.

My Grandma would go to the “beauty parlor” once a week to have her hair set and sprayed. Her hairdo didn’t move until her next appointment.

My Bubbie’s hair was soft, white as a cloud, short, and unadorned.

My Grandma baked sugar cookies with me and used to hide cash in her freezer in a Folger’s Coffee can. She worked in the admissions office of a nursing home in Cobble Hill.

My Bubbie used to baste a turkey with a needle and thread and could whip egg whites to a “snow” by hand, with a fork. She worked alongside my Zaide and reupholstered furniture.

Grandma would show me old photos, and we’d play cards and Rummikub.

I don’t remember playing much with Bubbie, but I do remember the hard fruity sucking candies with the soft centers in glass dishes on her coffee table. Maybe we were doing a puzzle together? The memory is as faded as those old photos.

I loved my grandmothers, but looking back on those times, my grandmothers seemed old. Those descriptions sound old. Those were grandmothers of yore. Those are not the grandmothers of today.

In my current work as a Mommy & Me music teacher, I often have the pleasure of having grandmothers attend my classes with their grandchildren. Sometimes, it’s a recurring weekly routine—their special time with their grandchild, either because their daughter or daughter-in- law is at work, or just to give them a break. Other times, it’s a visiting grandma who comes to class once in a while. My favorite is when four generations attend my classes together: baby, mom, grandmother and great-grandmother. Those times are the best. I get so much pleasure seeing the joy each one has from the other. Those are the days that I feel even more blessed and lucky that I get to do what I do.

But these grandmothers that come to my classes are nothing like my grandmothers were.

These grandmothers have cool monikers like “MiMi” or “Gigi,” “Mooma,” “Grammy,” “Savti” or “Susu.” These grandmothers sit cross-legged on the floor with egg shakers and dance with colorful scarves. These grandmothers lower and raise rainbow parachutes. They have no reservations about looking silly. They jump, they sing, they don’t look at their phones. They are in the moment. They are solely focused on their prize: that is their grandchild.

These “glam-mas” don’t go to the beauty parlor for an Aqua Net helmet. They get highlights and blow outs, and they take Pilates. This breed of grandmothers is youthful and energetic, and I’m here for it. We know it takes a village to raise children and when these village elders are the grandparents, there is no greater reward.

After class, as I watch these grandmothers leaving with their precious little ones, I am always struck by one thing: They walk really slowly.

“Look! An earthworm.” “Let’s count how many blue cars we see?” “Sure! We can stand and watch the digger for an hour.”

Looking back on my early days as a mom with young children, it seems I was always rushing. My days seemed like a race: How was I going to get from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m.? Feeding them, dressing them, doing errands, making sure they napped, doctors’ appointments, food shopping, cooking. My needs came last; I catered to their every whim. Rush, rush, rush.

“Let’s go!” I’d chide when it was taking too long to get into the car. I’d scoop them up and tuck them into their car seats, clicking the straps myself—it was taking too long for them to do it by themselves.

These grandmothers walk slowly.

They don’t scoop; they don’t click.

There’s no rush. They’re not racing to the finish line that is bedtime. They’re doing the opposite—they are trying to slow down time. Enjoying every minute.

These grandmothers have Pinterest boards titled “Grandchildren,” pinned with recipes for scented Slime and home-made Play-Doh. These grandmas know all the “Paw Patrol” characters’ names. They know what days the library has programming, and which parks have open splash pads in the summer. These grandmas use technology to FaceTime with their remote grandbabies. These grandmas take their kiddos to pet stores to look at puppies, and to Krispy Kreme to see the doughnuts on the conveyor belt. They take their sweet time.

And what’s sweeter than a “do over”? Grandchildren bring another opportunity to do things the way you might have wished you had done them the first time. Now you have more wisdom, more patience, maybe even more money than you did when you were raising your grandchildren’s parents.

Now you have more energy and vitality. Aside from waking up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, you can pretty much get your nightly seven hours of sleep, not needing to wake up for newborn feedings, or to cuddle away nightmares or soothe fevers. Being rested makes a big difference.

There’s also a lot less pressure. Grandparents don’t have to make any decisions. They don’t have to agonize about potential mistakes. They are the supporting actors in this movie. They get to be the fun adventurers, not bogged down with gravitas about the plight of their children’s future. Most importantly, grandparents have the return option. When grandparents have had enough, they can return the children to their parents.

Grandparents have privileges, not rights.

And what a privilege it is, to just be unconditional love for those little guys.

I remember speaking at my grandmother’s funeral, and I reflected on the idea that now that she was gone, no one in the world would love me like that again. A grandparent’s love is so pure. It is not transactional. There are no expectations. It’s just this warm, selfless glow of understanding and acceptance, with no judgment.

My grandmother would praise me and tell me that I had “golden hands.” She would stand over my shoulder and marvel over how, when I fried my blintzes and laid them on a paper towel to drain, I lined them up so perfectly, she said, “like soldiers.” She called me the “chairman of the board” of my family. She made me feel special and accomplished even when I was doing the most mundane kitchen tasks.

Though I do not have grandchildren of my own, I imagine it must feel great to extend love in that way. To express a more relaxed love, untethered by hopes and aspirations the way we often had/have for our own children. I suppose the separation between generations frees us from our own egos a bit. Our grandchildren are not a direct reflection of ourselves. Grandchildren are easier to allow to be their own selves. I guess we need to stop rushing in order to get to that place.

Until the day I walk slower, I live vicariously through my friends, my sisters-in-law, and the grandmas who come to my classes, whom I deeply admire and respect. These days, my pace is still pretty brisk, but I can’t wait to slow down.

“Miss Lisa” teaches Mommy & Me classes for Bugle Babies/KreativeKidz in Teaneck, Bergenfield and Englewood. For more information please WhatsApp 862-414-9409. Grandmothers are most welcome.