Loving Judah

When my daughter Abigail gave birth to my first grandchild, Judah, I knew I would be smitten.  Everyone I knew warned me that the well of love that comes with the birth of a grandchild is very deep.  “You will love being a grandmother!” they predicted.  “It’s more special than anything!” they encouraged me.  “You won’t believe how much you love him!” they assured me.

I knew they were right.  I just didn’t realize that the well is so deep it is bottomless.

Last weekend, Abby and her husband, Johnny went to a wedding and left Judah with me for the afternoon and evening.  I rose early and finished my normal weekend chores so I would have nothing to do but care for my little grand bundle.  At 1:30PM, the prince arrived, and armed with frozen packets of mother’s milk, flannel burp cloths and magic diapers that change color when they get wet, I settled in for an afternoon of cooing and cuddling.

We played judah sleepingPat-a-cake.  We sang songs.   We played with a rattle.  Judah woofed down a bottle, burped and spit up on the living room carpet, grinning with glee.  But shortly after a diaper change, his little face crumbled like the mask of a sad clown and he began to cry.  I gathered him close, stuck his pacifier into his mouth and gently stroked his head.   Within a moment or two his eyes closed and his little body relaxed in peaceful repose.

Afraid I might wake him (okay- that’s an excuse lie. The truth is, he was so warm and snuggly I didn’t want to put him down) I held Judah in my arms for the next hour and a half, moving him just long enough to occasionally kiss a wisp of hair on his little head.  While he slept, I pondered.  “Why is it I love this little guy so much?”

Often times we love people because of what they do.  We love them because they make us feel good. Because they whisper sweet nothings that brighten our days.  Because they make us feel proud. Or important.  Or warm and cozy.  Or needed.  But Judah doesn’t really do anything to earn this love.  He just is.

But what does that mean?  What is it about a grandchild that flips our heart upside down and makes us want to drop everything for a cuddle and kiss?  I decided to break down some of Judah’s qualities and see if I could make logical sense out of this.

  • Judah smells delicious.  I read somewhere that the most expensive perfume sold is Clive Christian #1 Imperial Majesty Perfume.  It sold for $12,721.89 an ounce. Clive-Christian-No.-1-Imperial-Majesty-Perfume-300x200  I can guarantee that its scent is no sweeter than a newborn baby’s downy head.   Sniffing Judah’s neck makes me somewhat euphoric.  And it’s free.
  • Judah thinks everyone loves him. This is probably true, since his experience is limited to family and friends.  But there’s a lot to be said for approaching the world with total confidence that everyone thinks you are wonderful.  When people smile at Judah, he mirrors those good vibes.
  • baby basketJudah reminds of us that life is about the basics. Getting enough food.  Staying warm and dry. Love.  There are a ton of products that advertisers will tell us we need for babies.  But babies don’t really care if their clothes are new, or if they are wearing hand-me-downs or thrift store finds.  Babies all over the world are pretty much the same, whether they sleep on a mat with their mothers, or in a $2,500 Egg Dodo Baby Basket. (No, I didn’t make this up.)   All they really care about is food, staying warm and dry, and love.  How do we so easily stray from these priorities?
  • Judah makes us laugh. We laugh when he splashes in the tub. We laugh at his funny faces. We laugh judah awakewhen he laughs.  Laughter lowers our blood pressure and sets off a small explosion of endorphins to increase our sense of well-being.  I’m convinced that if I took a ten minute “Judah break” every morning and afternoon, I’d be more productive and happier at work.  I just need to convince my boss and work out the logistics…
  • abby and judah 9.Judah is an extension of me. I watch Abigail- my first born- deftly tend to him and am in awe that this capable mother who is clearly this baby’s favorite person on earth was once my own helpless newborn.   I’m sure his other grandmother feels the same way when she looks at Judah and remembers his daddy as a little tyke.  The continuity of this life cycle is comforting and reassuring.
  • Judah has made two families one.  I thought this would happen when Abby and Johnny first got married, and while it did in theory, the relationship was more one of the head than of the heart.  But when Judah was born, we gathered together in one room, as one unit, to welcome him to the family.  We all love him- grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins- and as a family we will raise him to know this.
  • Lastly, but this speaks most loudly to me, Judah has my mother’s eyes. They are big and gray and serious, just like my mother’s.  They laugh easily, but sometimes I catch Judah’s eyes studying mine, as if he’s looking for what’s hidden deep inside my soul.  My mother’s eyes searched mine- when I was a child and wasn’t telling the truth, when I was a young woman sharing my hopes for the future, and in her final hours, when I held her hand and reminded her that the faith that guided her in this life would carry her to the next.  I look into the deep gray pools of Judah’s eyes and I see my judah eyespast and my future.  And somehow, for a few moments, everything is right in the world.
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Hello Judah. I’m Your Grandmother.

On June 21, 2014, I became a grandmother. Abby Johnny and Judah 1

My daughter Abigail gave birth to a beautiful little boy- Judah Gray Wallace. Shortly after his arrival, I rushed to the hospital and was handed a seven pound bundle.  I gently pulled the flannel away from his little face and tenderly kissed his forehead.  I was totally undone.

This morning, I looked into the mirror.  “I am a grandmother.”

grammieGrandmother.  The word evokes images of white haired wrinkly little ladies who dodder around and speak in shaky voices.  It is an image I am not yet ready to embrace, and here’s why.

I have never been a little lady.  I’m five feet eight-and-a-half inches.  Okay, so I’ve shrunk to five seven, but nobody will ever describe me as “little.”  Ever.

I do not dodder.  I stride.  At work I often get on a roll, taking long steps to get from one office to another.  My long arms swing with each step- sometimes so far that I painfully smack them on the door frame when taking a sharp turn to enter my office.  These are not the movements of a doddering old woman.

While I will admit I have more sags and wrinkles than I did thirty years ago, I do not have prune-like skin and jowls that flap when I laugh- at least not when I take off my glasses.  And I do not have white hair.  That gray streak that slowly appears at my part miraculously goes away whenever I visit my hairdresser.

Even though my days of singing in bars and coffee shops are far behind me, I can still carry the harmony to any song played on my car radio, and project across the courtroom when the judge asks CASA’s stand on an issue.

I am strong, and unafraid, and capable.  I come by this legally.

My grandmother did not dodder.  When I was in college she and I climbed the seawall near her apartment, walked a mile down the beach, and when the sand cooled and our shadows grew, walked back home, to enjoy tender pan-fried flounder and creamy potato salad.  My grandmother got her driver’s license at seventy-six.  She visited the shut-ins from her church when she was in her early nineties.  And although her voice shook at our last conversation, the eyes that held my gaze were steady and filled with love.

My children’s grandmother did not dodder. She dug in the soil until it burst with peas, squash and beans to feed the many mouths gathered at her table.  She swam in the ocean, letting icy waves crash over her head.  She read countless stories aloud, transforming ink and paper into living characters that danced through the imaginations of everyone who listened.  She watched basketball with my nephew.  She laughed at my brother-in-law’s slightly off-color jokes.  And although her voice shook, her arms were strong as she wrapped my Elizabeth in a loving embrace hours before she passed into the next life.

We_Can_Do_It!There are no doddering women in my heritage.  They were strong New England women- fearless, energetic, full of fun.  They were unafraid during thunderstorms and blizzards.  They kneaded bread with strong hands, and wiped away tears with soft ones.   They knit booties and sewed flannel pajamas.  They listened to twelve-year-old boys give play-by-play descriptions of football games, and gave equal ear to fifteen-year-old girls describe their back-to-school outfits.   They faced life with courage and enthusiasm, and they faced death with anticipation and confidence.

This is the kind of grandmother I want to be- the grandmother I will be.  Judah and I will ride waves together in the Atlantic Ocean.  We will make mud pies in spring and snowmen in winter. I will sew him flannel pajamas, and make him cookies to spoil his dinner.  I’ll read to him.  I’ll rock him to sleep.  I’ll listen to him complain that his parents don’t let him do anything his friends can do.  I’ll go to his soccer games and his music recitals and lie next to him in the grass to find pictures in the clouds.

We’ve only begun, but we are well on our way to a lasting friendship. He will not remember these first few days, but I judah close upwill. How he snuggles his head into the crook of my neck.  How his little body relaxes when I hold him close and rock him.  How his skin is velvety and his scent is like his mother’s when she was only days old.

Most likely, Judah will grow taller and stronger than I am.   He will think of me as old.  But he will never describe me as doddering, because I have a legacy to uphold.  I’ll be unafraid of thunderstorms and blizzards.  I’ll charge forward, head up, full steam ahead, like those who went before me.  Even if my voice shakes, my eyes will be steady and full of love.  I’ll face life with courage and enthusiasm, and someday, I’ll face death with anticipation and confidence.

Hello Judah.  I’m your grandmother.  Stick with me, kid. We’ll have a blast.

The Secret’s Out

When I was in sixth grade, my sister Martha-Jean and I agreed that we would reveal what we had gotten each other for Christmas before the big day.  We stole to our bedroom and she showed me a gold bracelet with an iridescent heart charm that dangled from one of the links.  I thought it was beautiful but some of the thrill was gone.  I realized that part of the fun of giving and receiving gifts is the anticipation and surprise and I vowed never to peek again.

baby cubSo when my daughter Abigail and her husband John announced that they were to find out the gender of their unborn child (AKA “the cub”) I had mixed feelings.  To me it seemed that the most exciting part of birth is when all eight months culminate in the gender announcement from the attending doctor or midwife.  The memory of those choruses from the doctors and nurses in the delivery room, followed by the cries of my newborns are among the sweetest songs I know.

Still, this is John’s and Abby’s pregnancy, and I’m glad to stand at the sidelines and let them call the shots.  They wanted to know, and because they wanted to know, I wanted to know.  So Monday morning, they had an ultrasound.  Abby called me on her way to work and told me the news.

“It’s a boy!”

Now, the truth is, I would have been equally thrilled if she had told me the baby is a girl.  I adored having children of both genders and I welcome any grandchild, no matter what sex, color, size or shape.  But hearing the announcement and subsequently seeing the ultrasound pictures, made it real. 

The cub is a boy.

sailor suitI told everyone in sight, and immediately started imagining my little grand-cub dressed in one piece sailor outfits and saddle shoes.  (Yes, I know it’s cliché clothing, but baby boys dressed like that are so darned cute!)

A short time later, Abby emailed me from her office:

“WHAT THE HECK AM I GOING TO DO WITH A BOY?????!!!!!!!!!!”

abby2Abby is my firstborn.  From the moment her little blond head and blue eyes appeared, she liked everything glittery and girly.  She loved sparkly jewelry, My Little Pony and ballet shoes.  She never drooled or made a mess, or got into trouble.  She waved like the queen and grinned at strangers who crossed the grocery store to shake her dimpled hand and tickle her blushing cheeks. 

And then I had Gabe.  From the beginning, he was different.  Abby had squeaked and murmured when she was hungry, and gently sipped at my breast, taking a break to gaze at my eyes and utter a ladylike little burp.  Gabegabe2 was like an industrial strength vacuum cleaner.  He roared with hunger, latched on like his life depended on it, and drained me in minutes, belching his grand finale to the feeding frenzy.  He constantly drooled, soaking his bibs, t-shirts and overalls.  He threw his rattles and screamed if he couldn’t find his pacifier.

So when I read Abby’s email, I chuckled, but I understood.  I remember that feeling of uncertainty, that first step into unfamiliar territory.  I remember bringing home my son from the hospital, how I wondered if he, his father, his sister and I would be able to become a family.  How I feared that I would not be able to relate to him.  And then I remembered the years that followed, and typed my reply:

“You will LOVE having a son.  Sons create balance our lives.  They keep us grounded and from buying too much pink.  He will be his daddy’s mini-me, and he’ll think you are beautiful when you cry because you don’t have the right clothes to wear or your belly sticks out more than you want.  He’ll make you jewelry from macaroni for Mother’s Day and boast that you are the best cook in the world.  He’ll want you to watch him flex his muscles and count while he stays underwater in the tub, and when he hugs your neck and kisses you on the cheeks, you will feel like the world could explode around you and you won’t care.”

Abby needn’t worry.  I know what she doesn’t yet known- that the moment the little cub arrives they will bond with a love stronger than she ever knew possible.  I know that she and Johnny will figure out what soothes him, what excites him, what makes him giggle with glee and what drives him to their arms for protection.  I know that the cub will grow up to be a companion who brings them a world filled with excitement, joy, and pride.  He will pull them to their fullest height and drive them to their knees. 

And as for me?  I will try to restrain myself from buying too many cute little hats, toosaddle shoes 2 many cuddly teddy bears and too many books about pirates and knights in shining armor.  I’ll bake him cookies and read him stories and snuggle him close, whispering secrets in his ear about the antics of his momma, aunt and uncle.

So the secret’s out.  The cub’s a boy, and I couldn’t be happier.

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