When my youngest son told me I
was going to be a grandmother, I had just turned 51. I felt I was too young to be the oldest
ranking person in the room, but I had no choice. A baby was on the way and I was going to be a
grandmother.
Memaw, Nana, Mimi, Oma – I tried
them all on, and decided I wanted to be known as Grandma. It was simple and descriptive.
That little baby boy awakened in
me a warm, strong, memory that I did not know I missed. He reminded me of a time
when my own children were young, a time that slipped past too quickly because I
was distracted with work and home and a difficult marriage.
Being around this little boy allowed
me to relive those moments; this time with a wisdom based on knowledge and
appreciation.
His little brother followed seven
years later, and then we went through a baby boom. My daughter gifted me with
two step-children and two more babies all within three years. My youngest married a second time and I soon
had another step-son and two more grandbabies.
Then last summer, my oldest had a precious baby girl.
Ten beautiful grandbabies; all in
a matter of fourteen years, and my husband’s two sons have not begun to add to their
families yet, so there may be more.
People think I love my grandchildren
more than my children. No, that is not
true. I love them each differently. My children
and my grandbabies are my legacy, my step into the future once I am gone.
I have much to be grateful but my
grandchildren are a blessing that fills my heart with joy.
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