Blessing Day Memories
- Posted by Essays Blog in Essays Blog |
- December 21st, 2008 |
- Comments
It’s Blessing morning, 2007, and before I start crying about what isn’t right in my life, I believe I should give thanks for what is right. First of all, of course, would be my husband, children and their children, without whom life would be empty for me. I often believe how sad it would be, to be alone in this class. So I cerebration back to the days when my children were finally giving me any long-awaited grandchildren. That, I hoped, guaranteed I’d have little ones around for a lot of years to give me lots of love and hugs. I cerebration back to my stress-free feelings at that time…
Grandchildren have a artifact of bringing life back into our lives. Mine do &ndash all fifteen of them. In a class of so many lonely people, I feel blessed that my life is filled with happy, energetic progeny; all so different, yet defined by drops of my DNA. I often look at them with absolute amazement &ndash that from my genes (okay, maybe a few others) these rarefied beings sprang forth.
When our children get married, how we yearn for that first grandchild. How we look with envy (and secretly dislike) our friends who made the Big G before we did. Those mean-spirited grandmothers who beat out section of pictures as long as a football field; how they drone on and on about their Mensa Club-intellect grandchildren, and prattle on about the little cherub’s accomplishments, ad nauseam.
But, oh, when ours do come along, it’s so different. No grandchild has ever been as beautiful at birth, as attentive and wide; even the birth weight and length become things to crow about. All of a abrupt we’re sportsmanlike a backpack stuffed with pictures in every conceivable pose known to man.
But, aside from this constant need to push pictures of our grandchild into our friend’s faces, thither is something else grandmothers have in common. After interviewing many women on the feelings they experienced at their grandchild’s birth, the final consensus was this: we all had an overwhelming emotional pull, but also a feeling of complete stress-free contentment.
Did we feel this same emotional pull when our children were born? Advantageously, if we did it was stifled low anxiety and the fear of what to do with this baby when the nurse told us to get up so individual else could occupy the bed.
I believe I’ve come up with a reasonable answer for this accent. As adolescent mothers giving birth, we came face to face with this bantam blob of protoplasm and had no clue where to start. They might as advantageously have put a blindfold over our eyes when they handed us this change, stuffed blanket and wheeled us toward the hospital exit: “Goodbye. Good Luck!”
Regrettably, babies don’t come with How-To books. Thither’s no person’s manual with instructions on operating this howling little person. No tag dangling from a bantam pink force with instructions on care.
Now enter the grandmother. Here is this same bantam blob of protoplasm, only now it doesn’t fall on grandma’s shoulders to accompany that this child survives, walks, talks, eats, sleeps, matures into a perfect citizen, and is socially acceptable. We leave the hospital after impermanent hours full of emotion, full of love, but absolutely free of accent.
As the baby grows from infant to tot, we hold them close to inhale their milky-moist breath, examine their faces for any resemblance of our own children, ourselves, our DNA. And it is all stress-free. We get to love them, cuddle them, decay them, and so send them home to the responsible party from whence they came.
At the end of a call, how we hate to give up these brushed, precious creations of God. We can appreciation their hello and goodbye kisses long after they’ve delivered them. How we look forward with much anticipation to accompany them again. We allow them to do things we never allowed our own children to get away with, which is pointed out to us by our children on a regular basis.
And, if this child develops traits not to our liking, advantageously, of course we are duty-bound to tell their parents how we would have handled that in our day.
But, alas, children grow. And, we are only humans &ndash albeit older humans. I doubt thither’s a grandparent who will ever admit to this, but after a weekend of running after the precious little toddlers, tripping over their toys, observance our immaculate homes fill with smudges, drips and scuffs, the inimitable words of the late Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr. come to mind as the taillights disappear down the street: “Free at last, free at last. . .”
Fast-forward a few years, and guess who takes credit for all the grandchildren’s accomplishments? Of course &ndash we do. Where else would that child have inherited that porcelain cutis, that clogged head of hair, that high I.Q.?
Fast-forward again. As we age, so do our grandchildren. But our love is constant. Now it seems thither is barely any time for grandma. But we know we can catch a peek at them on a baseball diamond, football field, or class play, if only just to crow to the alien motion next to us “…that’s my grandchild!”
Next in this voyage to adulthood comes the dating game. Grandma Who? We might get calls every now and so asking if they can drop by to appear us a new prom dress or a formalwear, their school pictures or report cards. Can we fashion up a quickie little item for a school play or dance class? &ndash it won’t accept long, Grammy. Or, “…ah Grams, got any extra bread?” As I head for the kitchen it dawns on me … oh, that kind of bread &ndash so I head for my purse.
I had an eye-opener on how one of my grandchildren views me: I was attending a ball game where my youngest grandson was playing. At the end of the game he came running capable me oozing condensation and smiles. “Grams, did you accompany the great throws I made? Did you accompany my home runs?”
“I did, honey. You were great. Are you going to keep playing baseball?”
“Heck yea,” he answered, without hesitation. “When I’m older I’m gonna play Pro ball.”
I was most impressed. “How fantastic,” I said. “You know professional ballplayers make a lot of money. You can mind of Grams in my old age.”
He cerebration about that for a 2nd, looked me aboveboard in the eye and replied, “But Grams, you’re already old and I’m only eight!”
Oh, all right, maybe I’ll have to depend on any of my older grandchildren to help me in my dotage. But, I convey God everyday that I have them to depend on &ndash for stress-free love.