Grandmothers

Ready for Stardust^R7

Terri Elders

I don't think of myself as a crybaby, though I've whimpered at weddings. Oh, all right, I've sobbed at funerals, and sniveled at graduations. Who doesn't? And, of course, everybody cries at sad movies. Why, I recall once dispatching an annoyed boyfriend to the restroom for tissues when I couldn't stop bawling at the conclusion of Carousel.

But when tears trickled down my cheeks in the foyer of St. John Romanian Orthodox Church, everybody in attendance cast a curious glance my way. I mean, who cries at christenings, aside from infants? I felt relieved when baby Kendra obliged with some howls when she was plunged into the baptismal basin, grateful that she'd diverted attention from me. I fished in my purse for a handkerchief to blot my cheeks dry. My step-granddaughter and I had wailed for different reasons. I suspect she just felt cold, while I felt  ... old.

I'd never expected to become a grandmother, least of all in my seventies. My son, an only child, while still in his teens had told me he didn't anticipate being a dad. A decade later he married a woman who shared his doubts about offspring. The two happily raised cats.

I'd adjusted to a grandchild-free life easily. As a therapist I'd worked for years with infants and toddlers so hadn't missed out on singing lullabies or reading Curious George. At high school reunions when former classmates shuffled through photos of grandchildren, I'd nodded politely as they bragged about how beautiful, brilliant and perfectly behaved all their descendants turned out to be. I'd talk about my dogs, and pretend not to see pity fill their eyes when they realized I had no grandchildren of my own.

Then, in my sixties, I met and married a man who had enough grandchildren to fill my calendar pages with birthday reminders. Unfortunately, they all lived half a continent away. I felt a few jealous pangs when girlfriends talked of taking their granddaughters to see The Nutcracker, or out for banana splits. Nonetheless, I admitted that babysitting grandkids probably wouldn't be something I'd really relish.

Occasionally we'd see the kids at a family gathering, a graduation or a wedding. My husband claimed he didn't know how to relate to the younger ones, though.

"I never know what to say when I see them," Ken complained. "I can play chess with the older ones, but what in the world do you say to a five-year-old?"

I laughed. "Just invite the child to tell you a story. A five-year-old always has a tale to tell, even if it's just a rehash of 'The Three Bears.' You'll see."

Ken looked doubtful. I noticed that the next time we saw his grandkids, one or two blinked up at him with shining eyes. He'd smile for a minute and then turn away. Still uncomfortable, he didn't ask them to tell stories. Maybe he wasn't interested in hearing about Goldilocks. Though the children called me Grandma Terri, they didn't linger near me for long. I guessed they figured I was just a granny-come-lately, not a real grandma at all.

Then Kendra came along. Ken's middle son, Rick, married in his forties, and his wife, Angela, gave birth last year just weeks after my husband succumbed to cancer. This blessed child was his namesake. At eight months she already had her grandpa's twinkling blue eyes and lopsided smile.

I traveled to Arizona for her christening. I couldn't stop grinning when Rick introduced me to the priest as the grandmother. It was just a few minutes later that it struck me that this baby would be my own bona fide grandchild. I started to plan how I'd get to play with her whenever I could get down to Arizona or lure her parents to Washington. I'd remember every birthday, every Christmas. That's when my grin turned into a grimace and I burst into tears. I'd suddenly realized I wouldn't live long enough to snivel as she graduated from high school. I wouldn't be around to whimper at Kendra's wedding.

I finally pulled myself together. I didn't need to worry about the distant future. I could seize each chance to "grandma" as it came. I could send toys and games and books and cards. I could post photos on my Facebook page. I could display the holiday cards I'd get addressed to "Grandma." I could bore my friends at high school reunions with tales of her antics.

After the christening, one of Ken's old friends approached.

"Were you crying because you missed Ken?"

"Yes," I admitted, crossing my fingers.

It was just a little fib, a little white lie. I missed my husband. Certainly I wish he'd been there with me. But in my heart I knew I cried for all those lost years when I'd never had a chance to sprinkle stardust over grandchildren's lives the way my own grandmothers had over mine.

She's just turned one, but Kendra better watch out. Stardust will be drifting her way soon. I'm prepared to babysit. So she'd better be prepared to see The Nutcracker and to eat banana splits. When she gets a little older, I'll rent a video of Carousel and we can sniffle together. In the meantime, she can tell me stories. After all, I've waited far too long to find out what happened to Goldilocks.

And though I'm not a crybaby, she shouldn't be surprised if I tear up a little when I give her a welcome hug  ... or more than a little when it's time to kiss her goodbye.

(962 words)