For years I smiled, tolerantly, as friends rambled on about the virtues of their grandchildren. I bit my lower lip and endured endless reports on their intelligence, their creativity, and their reactions to Big Bird and potty training.
I couldn’t relate. I didn’t have grandchildren, and that was fine. My life was full and I didn’t need grandchildren to feel complete. I wasn’t interested in the prospect of changing messy diapers, or comforting cries in the middle of the night. I was past the age of mashing ripe bananas, wiping tiny fingerprints from mirrors and aspirating noses. And, I certainly had better things to do than knit a layette.
Then she came into the world. Shari Lynne. A tiny, velvety pink package, swaddled in a soft white receiving blanket. I could hardly catch my breath. I had given birth to three children of my own, but the wonder of it all seemed magnified and even more extraordinary than it had back then. All I could think was that my baby had had a baby. My son — my flesh and blood — had joined with his wife in creating a miracle and I, in some unobtrusive way, was an important and necessary component.
My heart had never known such fullness. I had a little baby with whom to play and, hopefully, be a positive role model. I wandered gleefully, through infant and toy departments purchasing baby things because it made me happy. I held innocent people captive and showed them baby pictures.
The depth of my love grew in proportion to her response to me. And before long, I had fallen madly in love with a pint sized human being with her very own mind and personality.
Soon Shari was old enough to join me on outings to pet shops, parks and book stores. I sat her in a high chair in a Chinese restaurant and smiled as she dipped crispy “nu-nuz” into duck sauce and ate wontons with her fingers. We enjoyed ice cream as she held my finger tightly and we walked through malls.
A second grandchild came along; a beautiful boy. And son number two bestowed upon me the privilege of being present during his wife’s agonizing labor, as he wiped her brow and cried.
I was further honored by being invited into the hospital nursery just moments after Dylon James’ entrance into the world. I observed the nurse as she gently placed him on his back under warm lights and I watched his tiny arms thrashing helplessly as she performed her necessary, but invasive, procedures on his defenseless little body.
I winced and imagined what he must be feeling after the trauma of being pulled from the warmth and security of the womb and laid on a hard surface; vulnerable and robbed of protection, certainty, and dignity.
Distance prevents me from seeing my grandchildren frequently, but when I do it is often in the role of babysitter, with extended quality hours together.
Recently Dylon stayed with me for several days while his parents took a much deserved vacation. We threw a ball, and pushed toy trucks along the floor. We went down sliding boards, sat on swings, built sand castles and crawled through makeshift tunnels. We made circles on the ceiling with flashlights, in a pitch dark room, and played hide and seek behind the armchair, under the bed, and in the closet. I reread stories so often I have them memorized. I removed my coffee table from my living room to make more space for toys and for play.
After he’d been bathed and tucked into bed, I looked around and saw the clutter and disorder. Being a neat-freak by nature, my instinctive reaction was one of emotional discomfort. Suddenly, a change of thinking put everything into perspective. Dylon did not care that Mema’s house was disorderly. He wouldn’t even remember it. Nor would he someday thank her for her great housekeeping skills. More than likely he would only recall warm feelings of us having a wonderful time together.
For a brief moment my heart ached. I wished that I could have had such insight when my children were growing up. But, back then I thought that being a good wife and mother meant doing everything perfectly; daily dusting and vacuuming, cooking gourmet meals, polishing white Striderite baby shoes, combing neat parts and Shirley Temple curls, ironing fresh creases in toddlers overalls — all things that I now realize were of no real importance.
My third grandchild arrived four months ago. I don’t really know him yet. Steven Wayne just lies in his crib, or sits propped up in his car seat looking like a bobble-head doll and Humpty Dumpty rolled into one. Compliant, affable, trusting, helpless, he is totally at the mercy of those who love him and knock themselves out to meet his needs. And all they ask for in return, is a smile and an occasional burp.
For a brief moment I concerned myself over whether I had enough love left to give this precious bundle. Then he looked directly into my eyes and grinned from ear to ear and my concerns vanished.
I like to think that grandchildren are our children’s way of thanking us.
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