Chicken Soup for the Grandma's Soul (4 page)

Exploring is one of them. Growing things in the summer and chasing worms and ants, and playing with pebbles and dirt—we will find time for all of this, as well as sitting next to one another and just thinking. Or telling stories. Or sharing feelings. Ben and I can do that any time. I'll clear my schedule.

I don't want to rush Ben. But I have so much to share. A big porch with seashells on it. Rocking chairs eager to be filled. A first trip to the ocean. A walk through the sand. The search for sea glass.

I am not the only one waiting. My animal family waits. I have cats that will purr this baby to sleep and a dog that will wash his face with affection. My songbird will teach him beauty; the turtles, patience; the fish, serenity. I will show this child how animals love and give and share and take away loneliness. When he is old enough, we shall sleep in the big bed together. I will assure this new grandchild that when there is a nightmare floating around, the cats and the dog will chase it away.

There are limits to the things I can do. I cannot solve eating problems, sleeping problems, potty-training problems or disciplinary problems, except when they occur on my time and property. Instead, I shall concentrate my efforts on the really important matters in life. I shall make sure the outside birdfeeder is filled so Ben and I can watch the birds dine. I will make certain we have a full supply of coloring books and crayons. I shall always set aside time for the urgent business of sucking lollipops and slurping ice cream. And I shall try never to be too busy for a game of marbles, or too rigid to break a rule now and then.

Ben will remind me of the important matters in life, such as smiling and laughing and skipping and crawling and jumping and running and whispering special secrets to each other. We will explore winding roads and backyard mysteries, and each day will hold a new discovery.

For everything in this world, it will be his first time.

And a first time for me, again.

Harriet May Savitz

“Grandma, you play like you want to have kids
of your own someday.”

Reprinted by permission of Jonny Hawkins. ©2005.

What Will I Call You?

C
hildren are God's apostles, sent forth, day by
day, to preach love, and hope and peace.

James Russell Lowell

When he was seven years old Robbie came home with a sad little face and tear-stained cheeks.

“Honey, what's wrong?” I asked, gathering my son in my arms.

“Mom,” he wailed, “tomorrow at school we're gonna talk about grammas and grampas. Everybody's got ‘em but me. I wish I had some.”

“Why, sweetheart,” I said sympathetically, “you do have some. You have Mimi and Nonie, and Henni and Pa-Pa.” Just saying their names allowed me to realize Robbie's dilemma, but I forged ahead explaining, “You just don't call them Granny and Granddaddy like the other kids do.”

“Well, I wish I did,” he hiccupped, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

“I wish you did too. I guess they thought nicknames would be cuter and . . . sound younger.” Pulling him into the kitchen I continued, “I'll tell you what. Let's have some treats and we'll plan something really good for you to say about your grandparents tomorrow. But first I'll make you a promise. When you grow up and have your kids, I promise you they will call me Grandma and call your daddy Grandpa, okay?”

I'd always remembered that promise, but hadn't had the chance to keep it. Robbie grew into a good-looking hunk of a guy with a marvelous personality but didn't marry until after he was thirty and even then didn't have children of his own. His job put his name before the public and required personal appearances, so he was well known. We were very close, even though he lived in another state.

One evening right before Christmas, my husband took a long distance call from Rob. After they had talked quietly for a long time I heard Don say, “Okay, Rob, if you're sure, I'll tell Mom.”

I thought,
What's that about?

Later that evening Don told me a secret kept from me. When Rob was eighteen, during spring break, he spent one of those wild, uncontrollable weekends with a girl he didn't know. One night—no controls—and a child was the result. That had been twelve years ago. The girl, ashamed of the event, refused to divulge any name and made no demands for eight years. Eventually she needed financial assistance and consulted an agency. They insisted that the father be found to help with expenses. Rob had been contacted and notified to report for a DNA test. For the last four years he'd known about his son. He was supporting the boy financially and saw him from time to time when his job brought him to their area. Robbie told his secret to his dad when he first found out, but made him promise not to tell me. Later he would confide, “Mom, I wanted what you wanted for me; the center aisle of the church first, then the picket fence and then children. I hated to be such a disappointment to you.”

Incredibly, hearing that story was a Christmas present for me. Our grandchild lived in a small town not sixty miles from us. My first thought was how many years we'd all wasted and how deprived the child must feel. Of course I would accept and love him. I knew grandparents who had turned away from the identical situation. It was their loss.

“I can't wait to see him. Let's go tomorrow,” I said to my husband. “What must that poor child think of his absentee family?” What had he said when he was seven years old and it was time to talk about his grandparents?

After calling first, we drove over the next day. I was as excited as though a baby were on the way. We drove into their driveway and I jumped out of the car almost before it stopped. On the front porch was a young boy standing beside his bicycle. I kept telling myself,
Slow down, don't
smother him.

I smiled as I approached him, “Do you know who I am?”

He nodded. Then he moved a little closer to me, grinned and asked, “What will I call you?”

With tears in my heart I said, “Grandma. Please call me Grandma.”

And I opened my arms to him.

Ruth Hancock

Love at First Sight

I
n praising and loving a child, we love and
praise not that which is, but that which we hope
for.

Goethe

Renee was four years old when we adopted her. Cute, tiny, talkative and strong-willed are all words I used to describe our new daughter. “Prodigal” was not in my vocabulary.

But as the years passed, it became apparent that Renee had an insurmountable problem bonding. Her first four years of neglect had changed her irreversibly. I often wished I could have held her as a baby, rocking and singing her lullabies. Certainly she would know how to return love if she had been given love as a baby.

I often wondered what she had looked like as an infant. I knew she was an extremely tiny preemie, but did she have her same dark hair and olive complexion? I had no way to know; there were no pictures.

Most of all, I wondered how to cope with her refusal of our love, year after year after year. As a teenager Renee rebelled against all authority and eventually left home, calling only when she got into desperate trouble. Finally, I could no longer handle the pain of her coming and going, and our communication ceased.

So it was a surprise when Renee contacted me one December. She was married. She had a baby girl. She wanted to come home. How could I say no? Yet, knowing my daughter and our painful, tumultuous history, how could I say yes? I couldn't bear having a grandchild ripped from my heart, too, when Renee, tired of her present situation, would move on—her pattern of many years.

I tried to resist the urge to see her and the baby, feeling it was best for all of us, but something stirred in my heart. Maybe it was the Christmas spirit. Maybe it was my desire to hold the new baby. Maybe I just wanted to see my daughter again. All I know is I found myself telling Renee that she and the baby could come for a visit.

On the day they were to arrive, I grew apprehensive.
What if she doesn't come?
That wouldn't be a shock by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, it was the norm for Renee. Then I wondered,
What if she does come? What will I
do? Will we have anything to talk about? Anything in common?
The hours stretched by, and I kept myself busy with the multitudes of things I needed to do before Christmas.

Then the doorbell rang.

I opened the door. Renee stepped inside, clutching a wrapped bundle in her arms. She pulled the soft blanket away from the baby's face and placed Dyann into my arms. It was love at first sight. This tiny baby—my granddaughter— grabbed my heart, never to let it go. She had dark eyes and a head full of straight, black hair that begged for a lacy headband. In her features I saw her mother's lips, her cheeks and her slight build, and instantly knew I was looking at an incredible likeness of the baby I was never able to hold—my daughter.

Dyann wiggled and made sweet gurgling sounds as I cuddled her to my heart, knowing she would be there forever, no matter what happened in the future.

In those first years of my granddaughter's life, I bonded with her in a special way, offering the security and unconditional love that she so desperately needed in her unstable environment. I bought frilly dresses and lacey tights, and I took hundreds of pictures and hours of video of this effervescent child.

Dyann is now thirteen years old, and I cherish her with all my heart. And though her mother eventually deserted her, Dyann still keeps a sweet spirit and visits us often. On those summer and holiday visits I often mistakenly call her by my daughter's name. Dyann giggles and asks, “Grandmother, why do you keep calling me Renee?” I tell her the words she longs to hear as she snuggles into my embrace. “Because you look just like your mother, and I'll love you forever.”

Laura Lawson

Loving Lauren

B
ut Jesus said, “Let the little children come to
me, and do not forbid them; for of such is the
kingdom of heaven.”

Matthew 19:14

“This is my mother, and she's divorced.” The tiny blonde six-year-old smiled up at my son. Before he could reply, his own six-year-old daughter jumped in to tell the girl's mom, “This is my dad, and he's divorced, too!” Three months later I became a step-grandmother to Lauren.

I had never seen her first tooth or watched her first offbalance baby steps. I had never heard her first words or seen her struggle to tie her shoes. What I did see was a spoiled only child. Both sets of her grandparents spent lots of money buying her many gifts, and she came to me suggesting I buy her this or that expensive toy. I declined to enter her competition. The name “Jesus” was alien to Lauren. She had never ever been to Sunday school. She was a stranger to my world.

While her features and hair color fit in with my granddaughters', her personality didn't. She was easily offended. Minor teasing sent her sobbing into her room. I had roughhoused with my little tomboys since babyhood. Lauren cried if I even tickled her. It was easy to compare her to my granddaughters, and she always lost in the comparison. Wimpy. Touchy. Too sensitive. How could I love a child so alien, one I didn't even know?

The Lord whispered, “Rachel, Lauren needs your love.”

“How can I love her, Lord? Every sentence out of her mouth starts with ‘I want.' I can't even play with her. She cries over every little thing. I can't get close enough to love her.”

“How can she learn about me if you don't show her?”

“I don't know! I'm trying, Lord. But all I do is make her cry!”

“You don't want to love her.”

“Okay, you're right. I don't want to love her. I'm tired of tiptoeing around her feelings. But I am willing to see her with your eyes.”

The thought came unbidden. “She has to share her mother with two other little girls.”

He had me there. Lauren had not complained when she became the middle child after being the only child all her life. In fact, she was delighted to have ready-made playmates.

“She loves to help.”