Tossing and turning in my bed, I review my travel “to do” list. It is one o’clock in the morning. Tomorrow my St. Louis visit to my daughter and her family ends, and I am flying home.
As always, before traveling, my mind buzzes with thoughts….Where did I put my boarding pass? Did I remember tip money for curbside checkin?
After turning on the light and jotting down a few “to-do” notes, I finally relax, and pleasant memories take over my psyche.
I review the past few days of chuckling at Colin’s antics and admiring Natalie’s first grade reading skills and realize something.
I just might be maturing out of my “obnoxious grandma” phase. I’ve become “mellow.” Six-year-old Natalie and twoyear old Cami and Colin are still the cutest kids in the world- –it’s just that with the passing of time, I’ve become nonchalant about my grandma role.
During this trip, I never felt the urge to dash to a mall, grandchildren in hand, to show them off. I never planned an outing at the local playground where the twins could demonstrate their superior sliding and swinging skills. Mostly I hung out, became part of their daily routine and enjoyed their individual personalities.
I managed to experience grandma pride when I rode along with my daughter to pick up Natalie from a “Daisy” meeting. “Daisies” are a precursor to Brownies and didn’t exist during my parenting days.
This year’s order of Girl Scout cookies had arrived, and as I waited for my 20 boxes to be handed over, I noticed that the beauty and intelligence of my granddaughter outshone all the other little girls in the room. But with my new kinder-gentler grandma persona, I held it in check. Now with my visit almost over, filled with tranquil thoughts, my eyes become heavy with sleep. But before I can slip entirely into dreamland, the sound of a crying child wakes me.
It’s one of the twins. Sometimes the two-yearolds are restless at night, with nightmares or teething problems or whatever it is that disturbs the sleep of children. The sound continues. I listen, wondering when my daughter or son-in-law will wake and tend to the crying.
But something about the voice is different, and I listen more closely. The sound fills the darkness with high notes that slide to low notes. Sometimes the sound holds. Sometimes it moves on. The notes are pure and high and occasionally belted out. The little voice is not crying. It is singing. It is Cami, doing what she loves to do—sing. I lay, mesmerized, listening to the clear sweet voice of this little girl as she pours music into the dark night.
All my newly found matterof fact grandma persona disappears.
I fall asleep to the beautiful music of my granddaughter’s voice, thankful for the blessing of grandchildren and hoping never to really become blasé.
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