I’m becoming a grandmother. Next Month. His name is Arthur,
and never has a baby been so wanted or loved or eagerly anticipated. And that’s
just me, imagine how his parents feel.
When I was 18, a close friend gave me a book called Grandmother
Remembers. At the time, I thought this was a strange gift- grandmotherhood seemed
a long way off. When I asked her about it, she said, “I have the best grandmothers,
they are awesome. I want to be just like them.”
Now this I understood. I too had awesome grandmothers, and
great-grandmothers, who all lived in the same city as me. I was so well loved
by these amazing women, and I knew it. I could list all the things they taught
me- how to bake anything, how to weed a garden, sew on a button, name
wildflowers- but what they really taught me, simply by being with me, was that
I was loved and valued and important.
But I didn’t understand how I would feel, when I was the
grandmother. I feel different. I have a new awareness of myself, of who I am,
how I am, of where I am in my life, which has nothing to do with turning 50.
This is about Arthur.
Arthur lives 2800 miles away from me. I won’t be there to
hear his first words. I won’t see his first preschool concert or attend his
soccer games. I won’t be able to bring him 7up, a Dairy Milk and an Archie
comic when he is home sick. I won’t be able to rush over and help him when his
first pie crust is falling apart.
I will have to learn to be a different kind of grandmother. Sometimes,
before I fall asleep, I picture Arthur nestled snuggly in his mother’s womb,
warmly, gently, growing. I send him love, and imagine his sweet little face,
and count the kisses I will cover his soft little cheeks with.
I will encourage my son to show him my picture daily so he
recognizes me when I visit. His mother is a photographer so I am betting I will
get to see lots of pictures of him. I plan to Skype with him weekly, and he’ll
probably know how to use a tablet by the age of 3, so then he can call me.
When I visit in the summer, I will encourage his parents to
take a break, take some time for themselves, go on a well-deserved holiday,
while I take care of Arthur. I will walk with him, and he will show me the
wonders of his neighbourhood, his warm fingers tucked into mine. I will take
him to the zoo, where he will show me his favourite animals. I will spoil him
handsomely by patiently answering his endless questions and showing him how to
dip ripe strawberries into sweetened yogurt or chocolate or both. We will sit
on the steps in the sunlight and spit watermelon seeds across the lawn, and lay
on our backs and tell each other cloud stories. We will sit on the steps at
night with a blanket on our knees and count the stars and share the mysteries
of the cosmos. We will share books and play copious games of Go Fish and Kings’
Korners.
I will tell him tales of his father as a boy, and how his
parents met, and he will know his place in the family. He will feel loved and
valued and important.
And when it is time for me to go, I will tell him not to
miss me, because I am always with him, and he is always with me. I will tell
him to be happy and play and laugh and enjoy every moment of every day, because
that is what I will be thinking, when I think about him, which will be always.
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