BEING A MOM IS A GIFT: BECOMING A GRAND MOTHER IS A CHOICE

On her first time sleep-over at my house more than a year ago, I

Public domain photograph.

felt overwhelmed by the electronic gadgets her mom had sent along for the visit.  I didn’t feel I could completely trust the baby monitor that would supposedly allow me to have a worry free night in my room on the second floor while my precious granddaughter snoozed in her crib on the lower level.  So I slept folded into the loveseat in the room adjacent to hers.  This time, however - having practiced with each setting to make sure I could hear every sound from the nursery -  I was comfortable in my own bed upstairs.  Of course the fact that, at 2, she could call out my name if she needed me, helped considerably.

But, a little case of the sniffles (with the monitor turned up high – I could hear every one) and the sweet voice calling my name (what a brilliant child, to remember where she is in the middle of the night!), brought me to the side of her crib.  The Dr. Spockishness of the 70’s would have encouraged me to walk away and let her “tough it out.”  The joy of connecting with (and in) another generation, allowed me to scoop her up in my arms and plunk down in the closest thing I have to Nana’s rocker.  There in the wee hours of the morning, I compared my recollections of similar situations with my own daughters, where my frantic rocking in a fancy “Bentwood” had a goal – to get them back to sleep.  I knew that the extra hours devoted to a single runny nose would have taken their toll on the all of us the next day.  I distinctly remember my prayer: “God, if you really love me you’ll let me sleep through one night!”

This evening, happily, I indulged myself as I never had time to do with my own babies (four in six years is a lot).   I’m transported back two more generations, and, as Madi and I sit there snuggling and dozing and humming, I find myself sitting once more on my own grandmother’s lap.  I recall distinctly a night when I was about three, sitting, rocking, and somehow knowing that I would want to emblazon this moment on my thought - freeze it in time - forever.  And I did.

I don’t remember a lot.  There must be as many differences as there are similarities.  I know my little head must have rested gently in the same safe sport just inside her shoulder, nestled near her collar bone.  I know she was rounder and softer than I.  Her spare time was spent making cookies for me, rather than power-walking with an iPod.  She could sing the most beautifully strange German songs.  I still know the words to ……… although they’ve probably morphed into something unrecognizable to a real German as these five decades have disappeared into a dream.  Madi seems happier with her own rendition of “Twinkle, twinkle.”

Nana made me hot chocolate before I “scrubbed” my teeth with the funny tasting tooth powder she and Grandpa still liked to use. That sleepy-time beverage was made of whole milk – the kind you needed to shake up before you poured it out of its glass bottle – simmered on the stove in a pan where she magically added powdered cocoa and scoops of sugar.  And we got to make it into a tea party, eating her homemade sugar cookies off a pretty china plate that my mom used as a baby.  It had a picture of a baby animal in the middle, a special place for the spoon and the fork on each side, and a gold band painted around the outside edge.  I think maybe my great aunt Elsa painted it.  Madi and I had enjoyed some instant “no sugar added” hot chocolate straight from the microwave along with a banana on my new, black Pier I plates before reading our bedtime story.  (I can’t remember the last time there was a cookie in this house.)

Nana and I had sat together in a caned rocking chair with gently bowled indentations where her father had cracked walnuts as a boy.  Madi and I were sitting in my retro green naugahyde rocker.

Tonight we couldn’t look out into the sparkling Florida night sky through the big glass jalousies of “my” bedroom at Nana’s house.  But we can enjoy the stars thrown onto the ceiling of the nursery by the electric turtle shell Madi’s mom sent - along with a humidifier the size of a giant globe, a plug-in vaporizer night light, a jar of instant noodles and chicken, 7 pacifiers, and enough clothes to stay for a week.

Tonight we don’t hear the sound of crickets wafting into the room, celebrating a warm southern evening.  But we have our favorite “nature sounds” CD on the portable DVD player on this Chicago winter night.  (And, of course, the breeze of the humidifier.)

She’s back asleep soundly in her crib now.  Looking ahead to breakfast, I’m sad to say that I can’t produce fresh squeezed orange juice from the tree outside my childhood window.  And I am ashamed to admit I won’t attempt a breakfast of Nana’s cinnamon toast, made under the over broiler with great care (because it used to burn easily – what with using real sugar, rather than Splenda®).  Madi and I will enjoy our brand new, frozen mini pancakes right out of the microwave.  Our fruit course will be Smuckers spreadable preserves (no syrup here).  I’m sure we’ll love it just as much…because we have each other.

With all the differences, I am particularly struck by the great over-arching sameness of timeless love we can actually choose to share with our grandchildren – and it is a choice.  Unlike the flexibility in timing that my grandmother had, I have a full time job. Carving out precious moments with a precious little person isn’t always easy or as frequent as I would like.  But I can’t imagine anything being more worthy of the effort.  As I sat there last night enfolding this dear one in my arms, I felt, with absolute certainty that Nana was enveloping us both.

Christie Clarke