Grandmothers

A Little Pink Sock^R7

Sally Schwartz Friedman

I found the sock under the den sofa. It was tiny—tinier than I could have imagined—and pink. So I knew it had to belong to Carly.

Something about the size of that sock—an anklet with ribbing—stopped me in my tracks. It reminded me of just how small and vulnerable this youngest granddaughter is—and of her relative scale in this big old world.

Carly is the baby of our family—the youngest grandchild who, at four, is constantly thrust into the larger world of her own big sister, a mighty five, and her assorted cousins. She gravitates towards Hannah, the presumably omnipotent oldest cousin who can save this little girl with the huge blue eyes from all peril.

When the grandkids are together for family parties and holidays, Carly somehow looks even smaller. She seems to disappear in the mêlée, trying desperately to keep up, and succeeding only some of the time. That's when she turns to Hannah, as supplicant.

What Carly doesn't say aloud is "Save me!" But something about the way she looks imploringly at her biggest cousin says it all.

I held that pink sock in my hand and started to remember how it felt to be small, vulnerable, and thrust into the world. I, too, was the baby of the family. I also was short—always the kid who was first in line when the line was based on height. I was the kid who had to strain to look over the head of the kid in front of me.

But back to Carly.

I suspect that her place in the extended family will have an impact on her personality and her sense of self. I suspect that less isn't always more when it comes to mingling with the "big guys," as this diminutive little girl calls her family confrères.

And how they treat this littlest one tells me a great deal about who these grandchildren are. Reactions to Carly range from tender to tough, with some of the boy cousins being a bit menacing, no doubt a reaction to their place in the world.

I wish I could save Carly from her fears—she is terrified of bees, large dogs and more recently, new places. When we took her to a gigantic stadium recently for a kiddie show, she froze when she saw the crowds, the lights and heard the din.

"I want to leave now!" she said emphatically, and not even her brave big sister could reassure her that all would be fine.

So Carly and I spent the first half of the show wandering the perimeter of the stadium. She clutched my hand every time she heard the distant roar of the crowd, and begged not to ever have to go into that "bad place" again.

How quickly we forget that the fears of the young are not rational, not reasonable and never predictable. Stages and phases come and go, bravery with them. What once was terrifying—the roller coaster, thunder, the ocean—can become thrilling. And what was thrilling can turn ho-hum.

Because we are so far from the stage of life when planet Earth seems a place inhabited by giants—when dogs and birds and even bugs can be menacing—it's sometimes tough to get into the heads of the very young among us. "This won't hurt you!" we attempt, but the words can't chase the demons. A hug may. A hasty retreat from the perceived danger may. And scooping up the fearful one in your arms almost always does the trick.

I'm planning to return Carly's sock to her the next time I see her—which can never be soon enough.

Meanwhile, I'm keeping it near me as a reminder of what we grandmothers owe our young.

Safety. A sense of being watched over. Loving arms.

And the awareness that every child deserves a hand on the long, tough journey to becoming a "big guy."

(652 words)