I don’t know if actual statistics bear out my recent impression, but it seems like there is a bit of a baby boom taking place. Or, at least a grandparent boom.
In the last week, I’ve had several conversations with other grandmothers— some quite new, like my sister-in-law, Chris, who is the enamored “gramma” of baby Isabelle, a bright blue-eyed little almost-10-month-old. My cousin, Valita, is a new grandma too—two times over. Within the last few months, she welcomed Logan John, who is now 3 months old, and then little Jeremiah (formerly known as Tadpole) on Jan 20.
But in recent days, I’ve been bumping into grandmothers I’m not related to—such as Nadine Brown and Linda Peterson. When our conversation turned to the grandkids, they both lit up with that very special smile that only the lucky people in the grandparent club wear.
So, I am hopeful for our community, with its dwindling school population. There are lots of potential students out there. But for now, grandparents are just enjoying those grandbabies. We all agree that grandkids are much more fun than our children.
It’s not that our children weren’t good kids or that we don’t love them with every fiber of our being. It’s just that when our kids were growing up, it was their job to test their limits. Our own kids wore us out with their day-in and day-out bickering, breaking, and being loud. On top of that, we were busy taking them places, cleaning up after them—all while earning a living.
It’s like our grandchildren give us a chance to do things over. Most grandparents have reached the stage in life where they can be more flexible—well, in vocation; perhaps not in body—and can take the time to really appreciate these wonderful creatures. We stop everything when the grandkids come. Who cares if the house is a mess? Who cares if the lawn needs mowing? We have grandbabies to play with!
We do silly things like finger painting and Play-Doh shaping. We buy glow stick bracelets and lots of candy. We get caught up on the latest Disney movies. We read Put Me in the Zoo and The Monster at the End of This Book over and over and over again and we don’t mind at all.
I think grandparents are finally mature enough to realize what really counts. A while back my son, Gideon— the dad of three of my five beautiful grandchildren—asked a philosophical question. “What would you do if you learned you only had 24 hours to live?”
I couldn’t think of an answer right away. But then, we had a family gathering. It was someone’s birthday. I think it might have been mine. Everyone showed up at our house—all five grandkids and their harried parents. And we had an amazing, chaotic, silly, cuddly time. And I realized this was my answer. If I had only 24 hours to live—the time would be best spent with those wonderful people.
The answer hit home again as we traveled to Indiana at the end of June to attend the funeral of my husband Chuck’s oldest brother, Mike. It was hard to say goodbye to Mike, but his memorial service was a very special one. In the eulogy, we were reminded of Mike’s gentle spirit, his willingness to put others’ needs ahead of his own, and his wish that his family was happy. There were beautiful photos of Mike with his two baby great-grandchildren. I know that despite his dreaded illness, he savored the moments with those grandbabies.
Coming home from Indiana, we transitioned from heartbreak to the wild and crazy world of Wisconsin Dells. We spent two days in the frenetic tourist town with—who else?—the grandkids. And at one point in our hectic day at a waterpark, I ended up on a sunny park bench, holding grandbaby Eloise, just 9 months old, while the rest of the family went adventuring on bumper cars.
Eloise smiled and laughed at people around us. She babbled a bit and fussed a bit and finally fell asleep in my arms. As I sat there, snuggling that baby—smelling her sweet baby smell, rubbing my cheek on her downy soft hair, listening to her gentle breathing, I had my answer again. This is how I would spend my last 24 hours. This is what life is all about. The simplest toy, one which even the youngest child can operate, is called a grandparent.
Sam Levenson
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