They are so tiny, two little bundles of human life, swaddled and snuggling next to each other, sleeping peacefully in the silent winter night.
They are my newest grandchildren, a boy and a girl, born a week before Thanksgiving.
My oldest granddaughter, Natalie, age 4 1/2, tugs at my sleeve. “Can you play Barbies with me, Grandma?”
I am the best adult Barbie doll player in the world—no argument. During the two weeks I’ve spent in St. Louis at my daughter’s house since the twins’ birth, I’ve played hours and hours of “Barbie” with Natalie. It’s one way I can help the little family adjust to two babies.
To amuse myself during the long hours in Barbie-world, I’ve turned my Barbie into a bigmouth with a penchant for life on the wild side, and I’m beginning to enjoy it.
But I’d like a break.
“How about graham crackers and milk first?” It’s a cheap shot at hoping she will forget.
“Yay,” she says with the full throttle enthusiasm of a fouryear old. “Then can we play Barbies?”
Happy that I’ve given myself a respite, however brief, I find the graham crackers and pour milk into our glasses. Then we sit at the kitchen table.
Breaking a cracker in half, I give Natalie her share and take mine; we dip them in the liquid and pop them into our mouths. Mmmm. Rich and flavorful.
Natalie chats about this and that. The television hums in the living room, my daughter and son-in-law enjoy a few moments of rest and quiet while the babies sleep.
The household basks in a peaceful, rare moment of contentment.
Yes, this is another grandma column, but a humble grandma column. I was thrilled beyond belief by Natalie’s birth four and a half years ago, but being a grandma of twins awes me.
As an experienced grandmother, I can chat with the best about swaddling, boppies and baby car seats, but that doesn’t matter any more. The twins were born healthy and we are together at this moment in time. That’s all I need.
When my daughter called last spring to tell of her twin pregnancy, the first thing I did was put my mother’s small silver cross necklace on. I wear it whenever someone in the family needs good fortune.
Throughout the pregnancy, I wore my mother’s cross. I was wearing it on the day Betsy called to say the babies were on the way. I clutched it when her husband called to say the babies were fine. I’m still wearing it as I eat the graham crackers.
Natalie and I share another cracker; we talk about her day at preschool. The rest of the household remains quiet.
Back home in Grand Marais, Christmas lights decorate lamp poles and business storefronts. Chunks of Lake Superior harbor ice crash noisily in the winter wind or freeze mirror-like if the day is calm.
Later during my nightly phone call home, Dick will tell me that Devil Track Lake is freezing and that Goldie the lab is lonesome for me.
I will feel tugs for home, but I belong here now.
Somewhere, an infant begins crying. I hear stirring as my daughter or her husband reach for the baby. Natalie swallows the last graham cracker crumb and says, “C’mon Grandma, let’s play Barbies.”
I pick up our dirty glasses, place them in the dishwasher and go play with my oldest granddaughter, counting my blessings and miracles.
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