“If you want to civilize a man, begin with his grandmother.” – Victor Hugo
So, one moment you’re just a mother, and luckily, you’re done being tied down with your children’s troubles and demands. You think you can now relax and take it easy, then come the grandchildren.
All of a sudden, they hand back your youth in a fancy box and you’re starting all over again. You find yourself blinded once more by the needs of your grandchildren and their love.
I thought I had already forgotten how to hold a baby, but my arms remember. Gazing into the sweet, innocent face while grasping soft hands, so tiny and warm, it almost felt like a kitten in the shelter of your clasp.
Those gasps of astonishment and shrieks of pleasure, sighs of delight — lost a long time ago when my four girls grew wise and worldly — are suddenly back to you. In what seems to be same small hands that clutched you, they drag you from one excitement to another.
Rocking a tiny bundle of joy who is a loving extension of you is called a midlife ecstasy. It is the evidence of love in its most uncomplicated and trustworthy state, a blush-inducing love affair.
The moment a baby is born, a grandmother is born too. Suddenly, by no act of yours, you’ve become biologically related to a human being. It really seems quite crazy that your baby should be sitting with a baby of her own. Then you realize that all that joy of becoming a mother was simply a prelude to the elation of becoming a grandmother.
On one sweet Sunday, I cradled in my arms a 7 pound, 15-ounce baby girl named Eliana Milaina, aged 26 hours and four minutes. I wrapped my granddaughter so tightly so that nothing else in this world could get at her.
Where there is love, there is usually a little granddaughter nearby. She tries to show her independence by parading around in her mother’s shoes or slippers, and looks alluring in a bandana, dark glasses and yards of beads. She relishes in turning my daily routine topsy-turvy with her ardor and curiosity. She is the biggest thrill; her laughter is like a concert of little bells, shattering the morning sun, a present joy and the promise of the future.
Through the years, I’ve learned that there are 147 different ways to hold a baby, all of them right. By trade, I am used to asking questions, but found myself groping for words, through the years when confronted by puerile questions that defied logic and/or whose answers required another question:
“Why is God not married?”
“Did Jesus shave or did he go to a barbershop?”
“Is the sun hot?”
“Do flowers go to sleep?”
“Why is the sky blue?”
“Does the Easter bunny lay eggs?”
“Which cow gives chocolate milk?”
“How do birds fly?”
She is amusing and enchanting whether at 3, 6, or 13 years old. Now even when she is older, she has the power to raise spirits and expand my universe in the twinkle of her eye.
Together we learned names of plants, every tree, bird, insect and oddities. We drew cats, dogs, fathers, mothers and flowers. Her acts of kindness were what my mother taught me. The eldest had become my close confidante and best friend. And like grown-ups, she has started asking questions that can be answered.
My grandson, on the other hand, is a pint-sized bolt of lightning and has me wrapped around his fingers. He is bewitching, sprinkled with stardust. Sometimes his antics would uncurl my hair, call out to saints I know and don’t know.
As much as I want them to stay young forever, I know the cycle will continue. One day, all five of them will have their own children — and then someday, they will also be great grandparents!
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E-mail Mylah at [email protected]
