Grandpa

My grandfather — my last living grandparent — passed away late yesterday afternoon.

I remember when I was in college trying to tell him what I was planning to do with my life. Journalism was never an acceptable venture in my grandfather’s mind. I could always be a waitress, “if you’re good at it you can make good tips ya know,” or even an onion farmer — anything but a “journalist.”

When I told him I was getting married and introduced him to my then fiancé, he said something along the lines of "Oh, that's nice" and proceeded to tell my husband all about the government and how my husband's job at DFAS actually works, as opposed to how my husband explained it to him.

To be blunt, my grandfather was a narcissistic bastard, a trait that only got worse with age. He was opinionated about everything. And lord knows he loved to pick fight. 

But in addition to all of that, he was also there for every play, every concert. He proudly took photos of my high school graduation, though no one ever saw them — I suspect the film is still in the camera wherever that ended up. He nursed me through countless ear infections and stomach bugs. He told me funny stories about his youth and fought with me over the black olives at Easter dinner.  He made me pancakes for supper and taught me how to play golf. When I was young, he did everything a grandfather should do, and for a girl with four grandmothers he was the only “grandpa” I felt fit the role. 

Simply put, I loved him. Despite everything, every negative comment or action, I loved him, and I know that he loved me in his own way— and perhaps that was enough.

Baby smiles

Almost a week into month four of parenting and I am utterly exhausted. And while the notable lack of sleep is the main culprit, my husband and I are starting to suspect a more direct drain point — whenever we feel the most tired, the most sapped, we look over and see our child giggling and flailing around with the vigor of a fish just dropped on shore. When we see her so happy, so energized, we’ve come to the conclusion she’s taken the ebullience directly from us.

And this in combination with the screaming at random, the bottomless tummy, the dirty diapers, the projectile spit-up, the head-butts and hair pulls make us glad for the moments of peace when a loving grandparent spirits her away for a couple of hours. 

But if there’s one thing (thus far) that makes it all worth it, it’s her smile. 

Some time between 5 and 7 a.m. she’ll whimper her declaration of “I am awake incase anyone is interested.” Invariably my husband or myself will grudgingly drag ourselves from our chairs or bed to retrieve her. When I enter the darkened room and turn on the crib side lamp, she flinches away from the light. Once she again opens her eyes the first thing she focuses on is my face, and she smiles. She smiles as if to say “Oh hi! You came back. Love me mama!” And I scoop her up in my arms and cuddle her within an inch of her tiny life, because I can’t believe I’ve ever been mad or frustrated with this helpless little thing that beams up at me with such utter adoration. 

The way my child loves us and wants us is worth more than gold, and I feel privileged to be loved by her.

(please note that the photo is a stock image, not a picture of our actual child, however the expression is just about perfect)