More on the kind of grandmother I don't want to be...

11. The kind that sends  $5 check for birthdays and Christmas from the time the baby is born til the time they graduate from college, never acknowledging inflation or changing tastes.
12. Alternatively, the kind that only sends practical gifts.
13. The kind that says, "Grandkids are great because I can send them home!"
14. The kind that thinks they know better because they're old.
15. The kind that can't remember what it was like to be energetic 24/7.

Daddy's little girl

Em, like me, appreciates her Dad's insights and wisdom. One recent night they had a discussion about a father's feelings when a new baby is brought home. I learned something I'd never really acknowledged...fathers feel a little left out--displaced, I guess--when a newborn enters the picture. I can't remember much about it, but I hope I was sensitive to this when we brought Em home many years ago. I can't be sure. Mostly I just remember feeling dependent on him--for food, shelter and comfort--and this took a little getting used to for me since I've never liked that feeling. But in hindsight (and many years of it), I realize that life only works when we depend on each other, not in a stranglehold, but in an egalitarian way. "I need you," doesn't make me needy. It just makes me human.

Pictures say a lot

I love to take pictures, though I often forget my camera at the most opportune moments. I am a chronicler type of photographer, which means that I go more for the scrapbook moments than the art of it. Our daughter Emily, on the other hand, is a wonderful art photographer and has taken some astounding pictures over the years of such things as landscapes, architecture and, my favorite, food. We're all foodies at our house, and she has managed to immortalize the past several Thanksgiving feasts with magazine-worthy shots, course by course, that can make my mouth water--and I was there. But back to my pictures...As an example of my "type," I have many shots of Em as a little child that leave no doubt about the holiday or event that I was chronicling. Oh it must be Christmas: Em is all in red smiling in front of a decorated tree. Yes, it's Easter: Em is sitting primly on the grass with a stuffed rabbit and an overflowing basket. See what I mean? I leave nothing to the imagination or intelligence of the viewer. I go for the facts. For history. For truth. My Dad was a commercial artist, and much like Em (which is probably where her talent comes from) he always found the shot within the shot and elevated everyday life into something momentous. He took roll after roll of Em as a baby, perfectly capturing her sleep-heavy languidness just before nap, or her pure delight at the sandpaper tongue of a petting zoo lamb, or her intense wariness of a mall Santa. He never bothered with perfect hair or unruffled clothes or a centered background. He revealed her. And it just occurred to me that next Christmas I'll be photographing my 10-month old grandchild. I'll try something new. For Dad.

Making it my own

I ran into a friend of mine at the gym this morning, and she, too, is having a grandchild mid-February.We grandparents-to-be have created a kind of bond, sharing updates, stories and our thoughts and feelings about the whole grandchildren thing. For a time, there were seven of us expectant grandparents, but now we are six. One had a happy and healthy little girl just yesterday. Some of us are first timers, others are old hands. But the excitement seems just as true for those of us who've done this before as for us newbies. As I ponder this I am struck by the seasons of our lives. My friends and I  are all roughly within the same age bracket, give or take a few years, and we are reaching many of the same milestones at the same time. It seems we're ready to experience this new phase and make it our own, to leave some things behind and start some things new. Except baby boomers never do anything quietly or easily. We may have "grand" before our names, but we're not ready to let ourselves go gray, frumpy, lumpy or slack. We're getting advanced degrees, we're down-dogging our way to centeredness, we're still trying for that six pack and our hairdressers are the only ones who really know for sure. We're starting new careers and winding down old ones. We're finding love, and we think that's as it should be. We'll be active, engaged and amazing grandparents. We must.

A small but perfect village

Emily and Mark's baby is due mid-February, and the time is flying quickly. We're all busy buying things, ordering things, taking birthing classes and planning showers. But if I had one wish for Em--that money or time can't buy--it's for a cadre of women to talk to, share with and trust as she traverses those early months of motherhood. It makes me think of my sister Joanie, with whom I shared many hours on the phone when our children, born just weeks apart, were infants. Everything is so new to a NEW mother, including feelings that one might not have expected. Did I do the right thing? Am I good mother? Is it okay to wish for a few minutes to myself? Do I have to enjoy those 3 a.m. feedings every time? Will I ever catch up on my sleep...reading...work...exercise...you name it? Have you EVER seen a cuter baby?? I guess it's a kind of insecurity--the same insecurity that any new undertaking or adjustment engenders, be it a job, marriage or whatever. Especially when you want to do it well--better than anything you've ever done before. And Joanie is and always has been my hero, and I can only hope that I comforted her as much as she comforted and reassured me. So I'm happy that Em is going to mommy group meetings, taking classes and developing new mommy-to-be friends. It might take a village, but one best friend is pretty great.

Happy third trimester!

Em and Mark just left to return to RI after an extended Thanksgiving holiday. What a wonderful time we had talking, visiting, eating, touring Houston and getting to know baby. Em looks great, with her little bump adding a womanly dimension to what will always be--to me, at least--her youthful looks. And now that the wee one is well into his third trimester, we know that he can distinguish sounds. Mark makes it a point to talk to the baby, and she literally shifts in Em's belly to the sound of his voice. So of course, Nana-to-be had to try, too. I got up as close as I could, introducing myself in that tone that women use exclusively for babies. After a couple of tries, she gave a hearty kick and continued to do so every time I talked to her during the several days they were here. Curt says she kicked because I was annoying her, and he may be right. But I'll stay elated in my fantasy anyway.

Daddy misses baby

Em has been at our house in Texas for a little over a week, and her husband Mark is joining us all for the holiday weekend, arriving tomorrow. They talk almost every day, and Mark insists that Em hold the phone to her belly so he can talk to the baby, too. It never fails to get a reaction in the form of a kick or other movement. At 27 weeks, she has been reacting to sounds for a little while now, and definitely likes the tone of daddy's voice. Last night Mark sang his favorite Carole King song for kids of all ages, "Alligators All Around." This all makes me teary...must be sympathy hormones??

Time to Party

Yesterday was Em's baby shower given by her Houston friends Kelle and Tanya, with the wonderful assist of Kelle's mother Pam. The party began at 2 pm and we enjoyed two hours of fun, food, present openings, games and laughs. They'd even staged a craft, wherein we decorated baby clothes with decals of our own making. What fun. The party was held in Pam's home, and it was decorated beyond belief--owls everywhere, since Em has decided to make owls the theme of the baby's room. The time went by much too quickly, but we left feeling full of the happiness that only friendship can bring, not to mention sandwiches and cupcakes!

Embracing the crone

Em is staying with us for a short while before her husband Mark joins us for the Thanksgiving holidays. It's been such a happy time. As an overachieving nurturer, I am loving every bit of it, from feeling the baby kick to making sure there's enough milk in the house at all times. I sense a very definite passing of the torch as I watch her competently care for herself and her family, but I've not experienced any wistfulness--just lots of pride and joy in the opportunity to be a part of it all. And I feel grateful to be so looking forward to my crone-hood which, incidentally, originally had a positive connotation. A crone was the wise elder female of the tribe who was sought for her insights. Oh the pressure.

We're planning a party

We're getting into baby shower time. Em's close friend is planning one, to be held over the Thanksgiving holidays. Em's mother-in-law is planning one for December, and I'm planning one for January. The next few months will be busy, but what a great excuse to get together with old friends to celebrate something so wonderful. I've been busy making guest lists and deciding on some games, and it occurred to me that these ritual-type events are another way that women bond and create community.

Mr. Whoooo

So we went to the fabric store to pick out fabric for the baby's room. Without knowing the gender, this could have become complicated. But after much looking and discussing, Em found a beautiful designer fabric in shades of orange, brown and cream, with hints of fuschia. The central figure is an adorable owl sitting on a branch. She intends to mix this fabric with other complimentary ones to create the curtains, crib skirt and more. It was so much fun to be part of this excursion...though I think I offered to make the crib bumper, and I've been worried since that I might not get it right. Nana means well.

There's nothing like a baby

 Babies offer hope for our own future and that of the world. Babies let us dream. Babies bring people closer together and teach us that true happiness comes from giving. Babies make us confront ourselves with honesty and truth. Babies are a reason to celebrate, and they turn otherwise staid adults into something new and joyous. Babies remind us that there is always something to laugh about. Babies teach us that being yourself is always good enough. Babies don't expect anything, but get everything we have to give. Babies expand our limits to the edge, then just a little bit more. Babies show us the true depth of our ability to give love, expecting nothing in return. So little. So profound.

Babies, babies, everywhere

I've gone to three baby showers in the past few months. My precious daughter and adorable niece are pregnant, and so is the daughter of one of our neighbors. A niece on my husband's side of the family recently had a baby as well. These young women are all in their thirties, and they are established, confident and mature. I like the trend of older moms. They have lots to offer and have gained a measure of life wisdom that they bring to their families. They know what they want and stand up for it. Babies need that.

This has got to change

I recently heard from a reliable source that children laugh the most until the age of four, at which point their daily giggles begin to decline.

Lucky baby

I just got back from visiting Em and Mark in Rhode Island, and what a wonderful experience it was. Emily's belly is getting quite pronounced, and the baby is very busy...and I felt him moving. I can't begin to describe the excitement, not only because I can't wait to welcome this child into the world, but also because I see the absolute joy in the parents-to-be. I was also invited to accompany them to their regular doctor's visit, and I heard the heartbeat, thanks to the indulgence of the midwife and also, of course, to the kids for including me in this private moment. What a lucky baby. Mark is such an active participant and watches over Emily with love and concern and consciousness. Emily is so careful with her health, keeping a pristine diet and exercising regularly, all while staying happy and composed. It makes me so proud to know these two exceptional adults.

So what do I do?

I've been wondering what kind of a grandmother I'll be, and that's a role that will take shape as I step into it, I'm sure. I'm more certain about what kind of a grandmother I don't want to be...the kind that:

1. ...won't sit on the floor and play.
2. ...won't keep an occasional and inconsequential secret from Mom and Dad, like stretching the bedtime hour a little or eating ice cream for dinner.
3. ...expects a child to act like an adult.
4. ...is too busy.
5. ...can't remember what it was like to laugh til milk came out of my nose.
6. ...can't think of just one more story.
7. ...believes manners must be upheld at all times.
8. ...hates to get wrinkled/dirty/mussed from a sloppy, wet  hug and kiss.
9. ...thinks kids can be spoiled.
10...doesn't know that parents are for discipline, grandparents are not.

...more to come.

Naming names

Em and Mark are thinking about baby names. They've decided upon a lovely name for a girl, but haven't decided upon one yet for a boy. What a daunting task. It's not like choosing the perfect crib or the best diaper service. A name sticks with you forever, and in some ways I believe it even influences how others relate to you. So I guess I'd nix the stripper names and the cutesy spellings. Like so the names of old men (this is personal: I'd have trouble bouncing a "Milton" on my knee) and the names of cities (remember the trend of naming a child for the place he was conceived?). When Curt and I were expecting Em, we knew for certain that if we had a boy, we'd name him Christopher Ernest, so he'd have the same initials as my husband (and his middle name would be after my Dad). We had no clue what we would name a girl until I was well into my ninth month of pregnancy. We hadn't considered the name Emily before that, but when we finally did, we knew we'd found perfection. And I never liked the name Peoria anyway.

Denial

I ran into a woman, about my age, who is also expecting her first grandchild. She is completely set back by the prospect of grandmotherhood and refuses to even think about what the child will call her. I think this is hilarious. Like me, it's obvious that she left her twenties a while ago, and if the smile lines don't give it away, the ages of her children certainly will. One can only get by with "I had my children young," for so long. Maybe she figures if the grandchild calls her by her first name people will think they're siblings or something? Or maybe if the word grandmother is never uttered within ten feet of her, it will magically turn back time? I, on the other hand, am embracing my crone-hood with excitement and grace and, of course, sunscreen.

1-2 Punch

So not only is the baby making its presence known to his Mom, Em says that Mark can feel the baby's kicks when he touches her belly. What an incredible bonding experience for the three of them. And what a sturdy little grandchild we are having. I picture her exploring the boundaries of her environment with tiny little hands and feet, waiting somewhat impatiently to make her mark on the world.

At Em's recent ultrasound, it appears that all the baby's parts are perfectly in place, though he shyly kept his hands in front of his face through most of the event. And even if they'd wanted to know the gender, the baby didn't cooperate. I like that: strong, active and with a mind of her own.

Super saver

Sometimes I think I save way too many things, just because I am overly sentimental. Yesterday I took out the box marked, "Emily, 1977," so I could put it aside to show Em and Mark when they come to visit over the holidays. Inside was every card and letter we received congratulating us on her birth, as well as our wrist bands from the hospital and the little pink nameplate that was on her hospital basinet ("Baby Olson,") and one tiny baby shoe from the outfit we brought her home in. The rush of memories was well worth the storage of a few extra boxes of mementos, I've decided. It's not like I'm a hoarder or anything...

PS. This week the baby is the size of an heirloom tomato!!

Team sports

We went to a couples' baby shower for a friend last weekend. It's so funny how the women all cooed over the expectant mom, the baby gifts and the homemade gluten-free cake, while the men tried doubly hard to be manly, talking sports and loitering outside doing whatever it is that men do when they are together. Is a baby shower too much to ask of men? I sure hope not. I just think a man is much more apt to show his softer side when other men are not around.

I can't hug a photo

Em is emailing pictures of herself and her tummy development to her Dad and me. This last one we received is definite evidence of a baby on the way, since she's now well into her second trimester. She looks so great. At this stage, the baby is reacting to sounds, we've learned, so Em says she talks to her/him as she goes about her day. I can't wait to see her next month when I visit RI from TX. Pictures might say a thousand words, but I can't hug a photo. And I might have a few words to say to the baby, too.

Pick a pepper...

I subscribe to a website that emails me each week to tell me about the baby's development. It's so fascinating how much happens in the course of seven days and how quickly he/she is growing. From one week to the next, joints become moving parts, fingers and toes develop tiny little fingernails and toenails, the internal organs learn their jobs. I am fascinated and humbled by nature. But I find it interesting, and mildly funny, that the last bit of the email is always about weight and size--and it's always a food metaphor. A couple of weeks ago the baby was likened to a small avocado, then a turnip, now a ripened pepper. It's probably because there's a universal understanding about vegetables and fruits, thus making them the perfect international language of baby development. But when I picture my grandchild as produce, I have trouble imagining his or her perfect face without plug-in features like Mr. Potato Head. That's not right.

To be or not to be at school

I ran across a bunch of school papers of Em's as I continue to plod through the dastardly attic. There were themes running through them which made me laugh out loud. An early kindergarten paper queried about "Things I Like." Em listed me, her dad, Whiskers (her cat), her friends and days off from school. Another paper asked about a wish list. She wished for peace, for love, for happiness and for "school to be closed for two weeks." Her "favorite dreams" listed going to the beach, going on vacation with mom and dad, flying, and the school "falling down." There were more examples of her dislike of formal education, which really amused me, since she always did quite well in school and college. The mind of a little child is so uncluttered...so straight to the point. So truthful. What a great time to be sorting through all this--it makes me even more excited about welcoming another little brilliant, truthful and unfettered mind into the world.

Cake, anyone?

I'm going to make a diaper cake. No, it's not edible. Rather it's a cute little confection constructed from disposable diapers, trinkets and ribbon designed to look like a cake. It would make a great centerpiece for a baby shower, I think. So I bought teeny tiny newborn diapers and some pretty pastel ribbon, and I'll give it a shot the first opportunity I have. I'm not too good at this crafty kind of stuff, but the directions I found looked relatively easy. I don't like to knit, I don't know how to crochet and I gave up cross stitching because it made my fingers hurt. I once tried making homemade Christmas tree ornaments, but I inadvertantly hot glued a decoration to my leg that left a scar. You get the idea. So I'll make a non-biodegradable, inedible fake cake to satisfy my grandmas-should-know-how-to-make-things-for-baby mentality. And I'll do it with love and lots of humor. No glue guns required.

Hit me with your best shot

Now in her second trimester, Em is feeling the baby move. I was astounded when I felt those first flutters so many years ago, and it made me happy to be a female of the species. My whole pregnancy suddenly went from conceptual to interactive: I move, he/she moves...I rub, he/she settles down...sometimes...I hum, the baby is comforted. The world could fall apart, but I'd protect that squirming, punching, kicking, thumb-sucking little one inside me with everything I had because I felt her and I knew she was real. Me and baby. And now you.

Not fair game

I watched a perfect stranger walk up to a pregnant woman today and touch her belly without even asking, "May I please touch your belly even though I'm a perfect stranger?" I remembered how I disliked it when that happened to me. I also disliked all the unsolicited advice I got while pregnant with Em. "You're not getting big enough...you're getting too big...you're how far along?...don't drink skimmed milk; the baby needs fat!...your breasts will never be the same (maybe better??)..." and on and on. Sometimes it made me cry, probably because I didn't have the gumption to tell people to back off at the tender age of 22. I try to be very respectful of Em's body and her feelings, though I did catch myself a couple of times with hands midair heading straight for her tummy like it was community property. How dare I.  On the upside, strangers tend to be very polite with pregnant women, holding doors and offering their seats. That's nice.

When the student is ready...

Husband: I'm going to teach my grandchild to fish.
Me: I didn't know you knew how to fish.
Husband: I don't.
Me: So how's that gonna work?
Husband: Well, I guess he or she can teach me.

Life anew

Okay, so I'm still cleaning out the attic, and the last several boxes have unearthed some great baby toys circa 1977. It was like a trip through time, as I unwrapped a couple of My Pretty Ponies, the Cabbage Patch Kids (with birth certificates), and all the Fisher Price stuff. I was amazed how well they have withstood the test of a hot Houston attic, about 33 years and a couple of moves. My intention was to give everything to a local charity, but I've since had second thoughts. As I washed and re-packed the toys, I had a sweet vision of my grandchild playing with them when he/she comes to visit. I imagined my regaling the little one about the Cabbage Patch black market in the early 1980s or the time Em decided to sell the whole stable of her Pretty Ponies for 25 cents at a garage sale or how we used to have puppet shows with the Fisher Price little people stuck to the ends of our fingers. Best of all I had a glimpse of recognition as we settled on the floor in happy play.

Moms need play dates, too

We’d moved to Michigan just a few months before with a new baby and new employment for my husband. I was headlong into adjusting—to foreign surroundings, motherhood and a job that required Curt to be on the road for extended periods of time. I longed for familiarity and adult conversation. What I managed instead was a routine of feedings, naps and daily outings to remind me I was part of something beyond the walls of my home and the dullness of the ‘burbs. We were on such an outing when I heard the squeals of a child. I turned to see a beautiful little girl, arms flapping and legs, though confined by her stroller, purposefully propelling herself towards us. My own daughter turned toward the ruckus with a wary glance, and their eyes met in instant and happy recognition of their mutual baby-ness. One a towhead, the other a brunette, they cooed at one another as we adults introduced ourselves. The play date we arranged turned into a decades-long and singular friendship between the mothers that has withstood maturation, distance and the ambiguities of a long life. I still marvel at the essentialness of it. Perhaps this was a quirk of fate or simply the tenacity of a toddler. I prefer to believe in the magic of the universe, the perfect confluence of time and events that can neither be planned nor anticipated, but simply received.

I wish this for Em as she traverses the joys and challenges of motherhood.

Women are weavers

One of the things I seek in my life is expansion--in people I love, in experiences, in knowledge, in personal growth and in spiritual understanding. I think that's true for many women: life is like a tapestry that we weave from the moment we are born, each thread connecting to another. When one is added, the whole is enhanced. When one is pulled, all are amiss. The prospect of being a grandmother is like being offered a perfect and colorful thread.

We are family

Em and Mark are going on a big vacation. When I was pregnant with Em, Curt and I did the same thing, thinking that it would be our last trip by ourselves for a very long time. We drove to New Orleans from Rockford, Illinois, and spent a week in the French Quarter. It was the winter of 1977, and as the Northeast and Midwest got pummeled by record snowstorms, we were eating beignets and sipping strong coffee at outdoor cafes. We had a great time, but after Em was born we had many more great times. We found out that while it's fun to get away alone for a weekend here and there (and we did, thanks to my Mom and Dad), we defined ourselves differently once we had a child. We became a family, and our happiest times were spent together.

One at a time

When Em and Mark decided to get married a few years ago, I sent a small gift each month of their engagement to let them know that though I lived far away, my heart was with them. I sent things like personalized stationery, monogrammed towels (I embroidered them myself!) and champagne glasses for their wedding day toast. I've decided that I will do the same thing during this momentous time in their lives. I found a bonnet that my my husband's grandmother had made and embroidered, and I bought some cute onesies and a very fashionable maternity top, as well as a few other things like books and magazines. I wrapped them all up and intended to suggest they open one per month. But since I'm terrible at keeping surprises like this, I wanted Em and Mark to open them all while I was in town so I could see their faces. It reminds me of the reason I never start Christmas shopping early: when I buy something I am excited about, I don't have the self control to save it for the appropriate time. Perhaps I just think every day should be a celebration, so why wait?

What's that color?

There's discussion about the color of the nursery. Em likes orange. Mark doesn't. I suggested flying "orange" under the radar as "melon." My son-in-law is smart.

Let's talk

Em and I had so many wonderful conversations during my recent visit, and I am thrilled that she will one day share such moments with her own child. But these talks are nothing new, since we started them before she even developed language. I remember Em at less than a year old: she'd make very deliberate eye contact, don a serious let's-get-down-to-it expression, then chatter on and on, testing her newfound voice, experimenting with sounds and inflections and even a few hand gestures (thanks to the Mediterranean side of the family). I witnessed the beginnings of her amazing humor when she'd babble a bit then giggle at her own baby jokes. Her voice would rise in the shape of a question, and she'd await a reply from me. We'd converse like this for hours, like two old friends over a prolonged afternoon tea. I understood her every burble, and she, I'm sure, mine. Still.

You wear it well

I saw Em and Mark in person for the first time since their announcement. Em, who is beautiful and statuesque, is wearing her early pregnancy so well. Her gently rounded tummy is showing subtle hints of what’s to come, and though I’ve never really believed in the radiance that pregnant women are said to have, I may have to reconsider. Her glow seems to come from somewhere deep within, and Mark, too, appears somehow different. Perhaps their happy emotions are bubbling up for all to enjoy. Whatever it is, it looks good on them.  

Laugh or cry

Em and Mark visited the midwife a couple of days ago and heard their baby's heartbeat for the very first time. Mark video- and audio-taped the whole event, and we were able to share in this very intimate moment. Em said that the pregnancy suddenly became very real for her when she heard the first quick thumps, and I couldn't help remembering when I first heard my own child's heartbeat. All these years later I am still astounded by the profundity of it all. The urgency of the unmistakable sound assures me that this precious work in progress has lots to do and no time to waste.

Proof positive

Who knew that the prospect of a grandchild was such a great conversation starter? I've yet to mention Em and Mark's baby-to-be without being met with wallet-size photos, digital phone shots or a story or two about grandkids in general and theirs in particular. I smile politely, engage in conversation, ooh-and-ah over the pictures, and secretly understand that no other grandchild will be quite like mine. Just ask me.

Tell it like it is

Expecting, in a family way, preggers, with child, swallowed a watermelon seed, bun in the oven. Most of the euphemisms for "pregnant" seem patriarchal, sexually repressed or silly.

Tied in a bow

Occasionally I find myself a bit envious of all the great new things available to pregnant moms these days. I thought I was so modern when I had Em 33 years ago. I took Lamaze classes and opted for music in the delivery room and a warm bath for the baby given by her Dad immediately post delivery (supposed to be good for bonding). I read to the baby in utero and generally had a happy and very healthy pregnancy and quick delivery. I thought I was cutting edge. But, among other things, I kind of wish I could have had a doula or midwife--an understanding woman or two of my very own--to see me through. Back then, the concept seemed a little out there, and I got no encouragement from family or friends or the medical community, though I was technically part of the Our Bodies, Ourselves generation. What was I thinking? Midwives or the like have been delivering babies far longer than physicians, and who better than another female to get the job done. On a much lighter note, I really wish I had had cute clothes. I love the way mothers-to-be accentuate their baby bump with tighter-fitting styles. I was of the just-cover-it-up, add-a-bow-and-maybe-no-one-will-notice generation. I looked more like a gift-wrapped gnome than the womanly earth mother I felt inside. Pregnancy is hot. Wish I'd known.

Mother's love

Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.

             - Elizabeth Stone

Hats off to babies

I’m cleaning out the attic in very small stages, usually early morning, since the Houston heat keeps me from spending much time there. It hasn’t been bad. In fact, I feel like I’ve been on an archaeological dig, unearthing books, papers and other artifacts from the past, each requiring at least a moment of reminiscence before I cast them into the “save” or “dispose of” pile. The boxes have sat there, as undisturbed as a layer of rock, for over two decades, and that was fine with me. My hand was forced when we decided to downsize our home.

I’ve come across a number of boxes of baby clothes, which are of particular interest to me right now, and I find myself lingering over each. Yesterday I found Emily’s first Christmas outfits—a candy-cane-striped sleeper with matching elf hat (sorry, Em) and a red velvet dress and patent leather shoes. So tiny. I laughed at the scuffed knees of most of her pants, as I remembered her crawling furiously across the floor on her way to learning to walk. I even came across a note that my sister-in-law had enclosed with a box of clothes she’d sent after her daughters had outgrown them. I can only sort for so long, and the heat really isn’t to blame. Not sure what the emotion is…unbounded love, a sense of fleeting time, excitement over a new baby, pain at the realization (in just a few cases) of my bad taste in clothes, all of the above. I saved the hat.    

Room for more

Our daughter and son-in-law, Em and Mark, broke the news to my family yesterday. Since my husband and I live so far away in Texas, I was glad that their day was filled with people who love them to share in their joyous news. And I know that my extended family of sisters, brother-in-law and nephews and nieces will keep a watchful eye over our daughter when we cannot. Since we are of Greek descent, nothing is short and sweet, but rather, the longer the party the better. They gathered at my Mother’s house—the house where I grew up—and created yet another memory for those hallowed walls. The day started with the big news, then moved to celebrating with food and drinks, more relatives and picture taking, finally ending in the evening. This new baby will be my Mother's third great grandchild, and it seems to me that her love just keeps expanding with each.

Now three

Emily says her husband, Mark, kisses her, then kisses her belly every time he leaves the house. This really touches me.

A definite resemblance

I received the first photo of our baby in the mail today. It’s a lovely black-and-white shot from Emily’s first ultrasound, and the little one is in clear view. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was looking at—is that the crown or is that the bum?—but apparently I'm not the only who couldn't make heads or tails, since the picture has a helpful digital arrow pointing the way. Across the bottom of the photo, in machine type, it says, "Hi, Mommy and Daddy." How incredible: peering at generations of DNA waiting to burst forth this unique little creature, so safe inside his Mom. I put the picture on the refrigerator so I can pat it every time I walk by. “Hi, Baby.”

Naming names

Unlike other women I know, I have no problem with the label of grandmother. I welcome it as an exciting chapter in my life, and I feel proud that I've made it this far with so many good things to look forward to. But, surprisingly, terminology has become somewhat important at this juncture. What do you want to be called? our children ask. My husband's grandmothers were called Grandmother (a.k.a., "the pill") and Grandma, the former being the proper one around which children were to be seen and not heard. Grandma was the fun one who built snow forts and read bedtime stories. I had two Nanas, I guess to avoid confusion or maybe because we kids were a little slow in the vocabulary department. One was intellectual and as fun as she allowed herself to be, the other--my Greek grandma--offered a ready lap and hugs and kisses at all times. Though she knew just a handful of words in English, all of them sounded like love...or food. Most of my cousins called her Yia-Yia. Our daughter calls my mother Nana, and she called my husband's mother Grandma. So I pretty much have the whole gamut from which to choose...or, I guess, I can come up with something new. But there's always baggage: it's sort of like if you knew a girl in high school named Martha whom everyone disliked, you'd never call your kid Martha. So I guess I can't use Grandmother. And I really dislike colloquialisms like Maw-Maw and Pappy, though I'd pay a hundred bucks to call my husband Pappy just once. Baby talk is out, as are puffy ethnocentric names like Grandmere (who are we kidding?) and Yia-Yia. I'm really leaning toward Nana for two reasons: one, my mom, Nana, defines grandparenthood in the best of ways; and, two, I always loved the big, lovable, nursemaid dog of the same name in Peter Pan. I guess that says it all: I want to have the wisdom and caring of my Mom, with the vigilance, playfulness and big sloppy kisses of a St. Bernard.

Brand new, just like you

"Call me when you get home--on the speakerphone," our daughter said to my husband on his cell phone just last Thursday. We finished our errands, leisurely picked up the mail, then called her, just as she'd asked, having no idea what this might be about. I'd rehearsed the moment hundreds of times in my head, but there's nothing like hearing it in real time. Continuity and purpose and love: Learning that we are going to be grandparents melded life in an instant. And since that moment a few days ago, I've been at once (and out of character) a giddy woman, a Baby Gap addict, and a herald of good news to anyone who will listen. Thank you, very little one. We are all new, just like you.