We are dumbstruck, overwhelmed subjects of this tiny empress, and she seems to revel in the attention on this first day of her life.
This being, after all, the age of technology, the moments are dutifully recorded on video camera. Someday, we will watch—and laugh at our foolishness.
But for this day, it is totally acceptable to worship at the bedside of Hannah and to marvel at the new life that begins with the love of a man and a woman.
Despite all we enlightened moderns know of the biology of life—despite all the excesses of this Information Age— the wonder is the same. The awe remains undiminished.
A baby is born. The universal family of man—and our family—grows once again.
It is as old as time and as new as tomorrow’s dawn.
The dance of life goes on. The circle grows.
And a dazed, overwhelmed new grandmother tiptoes out of a room where a miracle has happened, wondering how she ever got to be so lucky.
Sally Friedman
The Longest Week
A sweet new blossom of humanity, fresh fallen from God’s own home, to flower the earth.
Gerald Massey
It was a wintry Saturday morning and I was still asleep when the phone rang, but the urgency in Matthew’s voice startled me awake.
“Esmaralda’s water broke,” my oldest son told me. “We think she’s in labor.”
I felt my heart sink. As a longtime childbirth educator and breastfeeding counselor, I knew all too well the potential risks and challenges of a baby born two months early.
We spent the next hours walking the halls of the hospital as Esmaralda’s contractions grew ever stronger. Finally, the midwife knelt in front of her, Matthew sat behind her supporting her back, and Esmaralda’s mother and I took our places, one on either side, holding her legs. In just a few pushes, the baby emerged—pink and healthy, a beautiful boy.
Beautiful, yes, but oh-so-incredibly tiny. Sebastian Rhys Pitman weighed just four pounds, six ounces.
Esmaralda’s face glowed with joy as she held him against her. But within minutes, his breathing began to falter. We could see him struggling to take in each breath, and newborn Sebastian was moved to the nursery and placed in an incubator.
I was a grandma! But although I’d been there to rejoice in his arrival, I had barely seen, let alone touched, my new grandson, and my heart ached with worry.
By midnight we had even more to worry about. His breathing had continued to deteriorate, and eventually the pediatrician decided Sebastian needed to be transferred to a larger hospital where he could be placed on a respirator. An ambulance arrived to take him away, and a team of health-care professionals put tubes down his nose and throat and hooked him up to monitors for the trip. It scared us all to see this tiny, scrawny baby with so much of his little body covered by tubes and wires.
There wasn’t room for my son in the ambulance, so I drove him to the hospital, an hour away. Matthew’s a foot taller than me, but he leaned his head against my shoulder and wept as we drove through the dark and snowy night.
We were fortunate there was a Ronald McDonald House next to this larger hospital, offering a place to stay for parents whose children had been admitted. It became Matthew and Esmaralda’s home for the next few weeks as Sebastian struggled to stay alive. They spent most of their time sitting alongside his incubator, talking and singing to him so he would know he was not alone.
The nurses encouraged his parents to participate in Sebastian’s care from the beginning. He was too frail to tolerate much handling and needed to be on the respirator to keep him breathing, but when his diapers needed changing or when he needed to come out of the incubator for a few minutes, Esmaralda and Matthew were the ones who changed and held him.
I longed to cuddle him just once, but I knew that it was far more important for his parents to have that connection with him. I remembered how hard it was for me, as a new mother, to hand over my baby to someone else. I didn’t want to steal even one minute of the precious time these new parents had to hold their son.
I could be patient. But my arms ached to hold him.
I was used to being the mother—the one who had that very intimate connection with the baby. I didn’t know yet how to be a grandmother, and it was hard feeling relegated to the sidelines. Maybe if I held him just once, I’d feel more like a real grandma.
But I could be patient. I saw the happiness in Esmaralda’s eyes as Sebastian responded to her touch and her voice, familiar to him from the months before he was born. I would wait.
After four days, he was growing stronger. He began to breathe on his own, and the respirator tube was removed and replaced with a smaller oxygen tube. The nurses began to feed him the breast milk Esmaralda had pumped, and she was able to hold him longer each day.
I continued to drive there daily to encourage them and to marvel in Sebastian’s progress. Sometimes, as Esmaralda cuddled him to her, I would stroke his tiny hand or gently touch a foot that peeked out from the blanket. But my arms ached to hold him.
When he was a week old, the nurses informed us that he was almost ready to return to the hospital in the small town where we lived and he had been born. Yes, he still needed to be kept warm and fed by a tube for a few more weeks before he could come home, but he no longer needed all the special equipment.
As we celebrated this good news with smiles and hugs, the nurse said, “Now that he can be out of the incubator longer, would Grandma like a turn holding him?”
Would I? Would I?! I’d dreamed of little else for the past seven days.
I settled myself in the rocking chair and the nurse handed him to me. He was so light in my arms . . . such a tiny bundle. But he nuzzled his face against me and snuggled close. I felt a rush of love and emotion surge through me, and the tears flowed down my cheeks. Here he was, my beautiful little grandson, in my arms at last, breathing on his own and healthy and one step closer to coming home. I couldn’t speak. All I could do was cry. My arms no longer ached as I held him near and took in the magic of the moment as I held him for the very first time.
Teresa Pitman
She Looks Just Like . . .
A man finds room in a few square inches of his face for the traits of all his ancestors; for the expression of all his history, and his wants.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
As I gazed in awe at my newborn granddaughter, all I could think about was the wonder of God’s handiwork— until I heard the words, “She’s all her mother, even her toes.” Each word was spoken with emphasis, followed by an echo, “Yes, even her toes,” as if that was the final word on the subject.
I stood outnumbered in a sea of in-laws. Gazing at the ten tiny pieces of evidence before the court of family opinion, I failed to see the referenced genetic code etched in such delicate pink appendages.
Can’t my son claim even one little toe for our family? I silently cried out.
I had no idea what it would be like to be a first-time grandma. All my friends said it was the most wonderful experience in the world. So far my experience wasn’t going too well.
Slowly, the in-laws’ convictions got to me. I left the hospital with one prevailing thought: I guess I’m a grandma of another family’s baby.
The personal grandma chamber in my heart closed up. After waiting thirty years, it had flowed with grandma’s blood for a brief thirty minutes only.
You need to pull yourself together, I thought as I climbed into the car. Suddenly, my first memories of the baby’s mother flashed before my mind—how her smile illuminated the sanctuary when she was a high-flying angel at the Crystal Cathedral, how her fingers performed an Irish jig when she signed for the deaf, how her blonde hair and flowered skirt blew in the wind of the spirit when she worship-danced. A rare beauty, within and without, she had stolen my heart.
Even if my son hadn’t married her, she would have been my friend for life. Of course it’s a privilege to have a grandchild who resembles her!
With excitement,
I hung out at the baby’s house the next day and the next. I watched and waited for my granddaughter to wake up so I could make early eye contact with that beautiful face. Days turned into weeks, but eventually the bluest eyes, rosiest cheeks, blondest hair and most radiant smile greeted me. I beamed back at her until my smiley muscles ached.
In another few months, her fingers, like precise pincers, held the tiniest of objects. I clapped my hands with amazement.
In a few more months, she toe-danced, twirled and reached for the sun. Overjoyed, I spun around and around with her.
She was just like her angel mother—her smile, her hair, her fingers and yes, even her toes.
The grandma chamber in my heart pumped with delight—until one startling day. I looked in her crib and saw a different child gazing back at me.
What is going on, God? You gave me a granddaughter who looks like her beautiful mother. Now you steal her out of the crib one night and replace her with a child who looks like my son?
“Yes, she has her father’s eyes and expressions,” the court of family opinion confirmed.
I conceded. When she looked at me I saw her father’s deep, contemplative eyes. When she said “uh-oh” as she picked up scraps from the floor, I realized she was a neatnik like her dad. When her legs grew off the doctor’s charts, I knew they were her daddy’s long legs. When she became strongly independent, I remembered, so was her dad.
My grandma’s heart thrived with this fresh supply of past and present memories, until it suffered a second shock, six months later.
“Your granddaughter looks just like you,” someone said to me. Family opinion voted affirmatively.
Oh, no, poor kid, I thought. I couldn’t believe that in less than two years she had gone through three distinct metamorphoses, from a look-alike of her mother, a stamp imprint of her father, to a picture of me! What was she—a child or a butterfly?
Curious, I did some research. I learned that if I were to look into a cocoon in the early stages, I would find a puddle of glop that contains imago cells with DNA-coded instructions for turning cream of insect soup into a delicate, winged creature.
That’s it! She’s a child with the power of glop! She will change her identity many times, each time emerging like a beautiful butterfly. Yet I will be proud that this everchanging display of beauty, in each stage of life, is my unique first granddaughter.
Margaret Lang
Someone’s Grandmother
Blessed be the hand that prepares a pleasure for a child, for there is no saying when and where it may bloom forth.
Douglas Jerrold
I was a frustrated wannabe grandmother. Every time I saw a small baby, I’d hear the ticking of the biological clock. All right, I admit that it wasn’t my clock. But our two adult daughters had healthy clocks that I could hear ticking, even if they couldn’t. That the younger one had just reached adulthood and that neither daughter was married were beside the point. I wanted to be someone’s grandmother.
One day Jennifer, our elder daughter, called with the news, “Mom, I’m getting married!” She followed this with more good news, “Chuck has custody of his two-year-old son. We plan to come home to Alaska for the wedding.”
I was ecstatic to be an instant grandma. Then I had a moment’s pause as I tried to figure out what to do with a grandson. We raised two daughters and I have a sister. It occurred to me that I had no idea how to entertain a small boy. Could I be his grandma? Would he accept me? Would Chuck let his son call me “Grandma”?
Jennifer, Chuck and Chase arrived in the spring, had a summer wedding and I officially became an instant grandmother. I tried to pace myself getting to know my young grandson. Over the summer we explored hiking trails along the Mendenhall Glacier and tide pools in Tee Harbor. We picked wild blueberries, watched tiny hummingbirds, baked cookies and had long talks in a child’s language that I’d long forgotten. All the while I fretted over losing touch with him when Jennifer and Chuck moved south again. I knew I had only a few short months with Chase.
In late fall, fate stepped in. My carpenter-husband Bob took a fall. He had a double compound fracture of his right arm and would be off work for at least nine months. Winter loomed ahead. With the heavy snowfall would come snow shoveling, snow plowing, keeping the furnace running and other winter tasks around the house. Jennifer and Chuck decided to postpone their trip south until the next year so they could help us through the winter. I had another nine months to spend with my new grandson.
Over the winter Chase and I watched Disney movies together, sang during baths about tiny frogs and bars of soap, danced the hoochie-koochie, read stories by Kipling and built snowmen. Spring was coming, and I knew that soon there would be talk of Jennifer, Chuck and Chase moving south again. They had been with us nearly a year, and I knew we weren’t the Waltons. It hadn’t been an easy winter and some days our big house felt small, yet I fought tears whenever I thought of them leaving.
Once again fate stepped in. An injury to my back required surgery and held me prisoner in our bedroom for nearly four months. Jennifer and Chuck delayed their departure again. Since Jennifer, Chuck and Bob were now working, Chase went to day care. I would wait in bed, listening for the sound of him coming through the back door and pounding his way upstairs to my bedroom. I delighted in listening to him as he sat on the end of the bed and told me about his busy day at “school.” He shared garbled stories of coloring, cutting and pasting construction paper.
That summer we watched and rewatched the Princess Bride, Zorro, Rikki-Tikki-Tavi and countless other favorite movies with heroes and villains. Chase was as content to read books and watch movies with me that long summer as he had been to berry pick and hike the summer before. Yet I knew that autumn weather would once again bring talk of a move south.
The day did come when Chuck gathered their belongings into the truck and left on the ferry, and a few days later Bob and I took Jennifer and Chase to the airport to join him. I blinked back hot tears as we checked them in for a flight to Seattle. They might as well be moving to the moon. I knew that we would be lucky to see each other once a year. Chase would turn four soon. I doubted that he’d even remember me in a couple of months. I was certain everyone in the airport could hear my heart breaking.
Our house was horribly quiet those first weeks after they left for Oklahoma. I spent time building a small photo album for Chase, hoping that he’d remember his instant grandma in Alaska. I called Oklahoma often, though it was difficult to have a long telephone conversation with a three-year-old. My heart broke as he asked, “Grandma, come see me now. When am I coming home to Alaska? How is Papa?” And, “Grandma, do you know that in Oklahoma you can’t even grow blueberries? Could you please send me blueberry bushes to grow?” I treasured each little chat we had.
The months passed and we got photos from Jennifer, a lot of e-mails and periodic phone calls from Chase. For his fourth birthday I sent him a video about a kangaroo in Australia. Chase loved the movie and hurried to ask Jennifer if he could have a kangaroo. After all, they had some acreage and enough room for a kangaroo. Jennifer wisely told him, “It’s okay with me, but go ask your dad.” A very disappointed Chase returned to the kitchen to tell Jennifer that his dad said “no.” Then his face lit with a great idea. In a small whisper he said to Jennifer, “Let’s call Grandma in Alaska. She’ll send us one!”
When Jennifer told me the kangaroo story, I knew that I’d made it. I was someone’s grandmother, not for an instant, but forever.
Valerie A. Horner
A Grandmother Again
Every child born into the world is a new thought of God, an ever-fresh and radiant possibility.
Kate Douglas Wiggin
Each time is like the first time. I’m a grandmother again.
Ryan was my first grandchild, and I thought nothing could surpass the feeling. He expanded my life the moment I felt his finger curl around mine. My world was never the same again.
Jenny blew in during a snowstorm, and
the moment she set her dark eyes upon mine, I was her prisoner.
Jake’s smile was in his eyes, and when he opened them during our introduction, I wondered how I could have thought life was complete without his presence.
And now my daughter-in-law Liz has given birth to Ben. I think of him as gentle Ben because, though his cry is gusty, his gaze is thoughtful and I sense a gentleness within his soul—one I can’t wait to share.
I will need time with this fourth grandchild, for we have important moments to fill and life to study. The clouds especially. I have much to say about clouds. I don’t think we pay enough attention to the sky. I want to look up with Ben and see what we can find up there. Raindrops can be interesting if you try to catch them in your mouth as they fall. Snowflakes can be just as enticing, especially when they add up to a snowman or a sleigh ride. And the wind—we can’t forget the wind blowing an autumn leaf from a tree. Perhaps we could follow it down the path. Ben and I have a lot to do together.
Exploring is one of them. Growing things in the summer and chasing worms and ants, and playing with pebbles and dirt—we will find time for all of this, as well as sitting next to one another and just thinking. Or telling stories. Or sharing feelings. Ben and I can do that any time. I’ll clear my schedule.
I don’t want to rush Ben. But I have so much to share. A big porch with seashells on it. Rocking chairs eager to be filled. A first trip to the ocean. A walk through the sand. The search for sea glass.
I am not the only one waiting. My animal family waits. I have cats that will purr this baby to sleep and a dog that will wash his face with affection. My songbird will teach him beauty; the turtles, patience; the fish, serenity. I will show this child how animals love and give and share and take away loneliness. When he is old enough, we shall sleep in the big bed together. I will assure this new grandchild that when there is a nightmare floating around, the cats and the dog will chase it away.