Fifteen years ago today, I became a grandmother. I could have phrased this differently: My beautiful, talented granddaughter is fifteen years old today. But this is my blog, so it’s all about me. As I was saying, I became a grandmother fifteen years ago today. I was much too young, of course, because grandmothers are supposed to be be old ladies. Wasn’t that how I thought of my grandmothers, pretty and perky though they were?
This grandbaby of mine was a tiny thing, less than five pounds when she was born. She arrived eight weeks early but was healthy, nonetheless, though she had to stay in the hospital for a few weeks before we could bring her home. I wouldn’t say her grandpa and I were gah-gah over her or anything, but she was the cutest, smartest little baby we (or anybody else in the world, for that matter) had ever seen. I am not saying this because I am her grandmother. I am merely stating a fact.
My memory might be a little foggy, though I think I’m quite accurate in this, but I distinctly remember she was walking by the time she was six months old and reading a couple of months after that, though it took her until she was nearly a year old before she could write more than a paragraph or two. By the time she was two, her vocabulary was so astounding, I had to carry a dictionary around with me so I could interpret what she was saying. Ubiquitous was her favorite word at that time, though it was out of fashion by the time she was three, replaced by efficacious.
And now she is fifteen. She will be driving in a year. Off to college in a little more than three. How does that happen? My heart is so full when I think about her (as well as her little sister, but that’s another story). She and I share this joke: I sometimes text her with the words, “Stop it!” The first time I did that, she texted back, “Stop what?” My reply was, “Stop whatever you are doing. You are a teenager, so you must be up to no good.” Now it’s just my way of letting her know I am thinking about her. If only she knew how much of my day is taken up thinking about her. The real joke, unbeknownst to her, is that when I text her to “Stop it,” I really mean for her to stop growing up. Stop turning into an adult. Stop getting ready to leave home.
I have no fear that she will stop feeling close to me or stop thinking I’m fun. I felt close to my grandmothers as long as I had them. There is a special bond between grandchildren and grandparents that time cannot erase. Besides, I’m a cool grandmother. I let my granddaughters do pretty much what they please, within reason (I put that in for my daughter’s benefit), a prerogative of grandparenthood.
So, fifteen years have passed since that spectacular, incredible baby was born, and I wouldn’t say that we are still gah-gah over her, but did you know that she has the singing voice of an angel, can speak several languages (does teen-speak and texting count?), and is smart enough to know that her Mimi and Papa are the luckiest grandparents on Earth?