Becoming a grandmother

Our first grandchild, a boy, arrived just after midnight, EST, today, two weeks earlier than expected. I wanted to be there in person to welcome him into the world and to be there for my daughter-in-law and son. But such as it is, we get to meet this new member of the family, on our screens, so close yet so far away.

I look at the photo of my hours-old grandson nestled safely on the bosom of his tired but smiling mother and I see life and the future amidst all the deaths and uncertainty in this time of pandemic.

I am now a grandmother. I think I know what it means but this new role is just starting to sink in. I imagine myself huddling together with my grandchildren reading Goodnight Moon, Where the Wild Things Are, A Very Hungry Caterpillar, and other favorite books that we've read over and over to our three boys when they were small. I have saved some of these books, waiting for the day when we can go silly again with words and pictures on pages.

 

Or maybe write and illustrate a children's book myself. I've always loved doodling and drawing and even dreamt of becoming an artist. These dreams die early on then reconsidered at a later stage in life when doing art feels less conflicting with having food on the table and a roof over one's head. 

I want to tell my grandson of false either-ors. Life is art. Live your dream in the ups and downs of time. Weave your dream into the nitty-gritty of everyday life. 

At 56 and becoming a new grandma, I want to tell that myself.