Going to Gran’s and Granddaddy’s house was both an outing ripe for exploration and cause for an eight-year-old to yawn and fidget. My time see-sawed between my clandestine attic and basement explorations looking for treasures and mind-numbing, endless adult conversations. But Gran and Granddaddy adored me, chuckling often at my antics and grabbing me for a squeeze. As I cartwheeled through the living room, Gran was always reminding me to be a little lady. “Ugh. Little Lady? How boring,” I protested. Well, that was who they were: well-intended with words that sounded like the cheerful chirping of a bird. And though they knew I was roaming the house, they pretended not to know— to let it be my secret. It was my world, and they left me alone to explore and dream about unseen treasures.

Gran and Granddaddy lived only 15 minutes away, so I enjoyed Sunday dinners and holidays with them. Summer gatherings were marked by Granddaddy and my father arguing over the baseball games on TV, Granddaddy being a White Sox Fan and my father a Cubs fan. Though their voices were loud and ferocious, I understood the bond between them. During these moments, my mother and Gran would be in the kitchen ignoring the men and preparing dinner. Fried chicken was the best! Kitchen talk, with Gran often taking my side in the occasional disagreements I had with my mother, reassured me that I always had an ally. When dinner was on the table, my father and Granddaddy usually reverted to a quiet détente. Later, when they departed, Gran, who knew I squirmed with face-kisses, always put a kiss in my hand to keep in my pocket until I wanted it.

Years went by, and then I became a mother. What an odyssey that is, bringing home a new baby girl and fussing over every detail of her existence: cuddling in soft blankets, securely holding a wiggly little body with silky soft skin. Later, I read books to her with the sing-song cadence that is the best and worst of times, never skipping a word or page because she would protest loudly. And then, along came my baby son, who was a gift to our family; he gave me a chance to snuggle a baby all over again and inhale his sweet baby aroma. As with my own Gran, I put a kiss in each of their hands before bed and at departures for them to “save in their pocket” until needed.

My parents were not alive to witness the miracle of their grandchildren’s lives, but my kids’ other Grandparents were, and though they were nearly 1000 miles away, they were ready to swoop in and love my children to pieces. In their minds, a baby should be cradled in the secure arms of a loved one at all times. Forget my idea of napping in the crib or other such mother-mantras! As my babies grew, Grandma and Papa became the adored, loving people that wrapped them up on their broad laps and murmured gentle words into their ears. Grandma was a quintessential, white-haired grandmother with blue eyes that matched my children’s. She was a natural when it came to rocking and soothing, and she was so incredibly patient with my children and with me, the young mother! Papa was a soft-spoken man who could melt a child with his eyes and speak from his heart in such a way that it became a whisper of wisdom such as, “Some days are hard, but you are always loved.”

As their mom, I was caught up in the details of the day, believing my authority to be supreme. But I soon realized that I was only the chief operating officer of the house, while the grandparents are actually the chief executive officers, modeling the unconditional love that every child deserves. Thriving in their pocket of love, my children delighted in their rocking, cuddling, whispered secrets, and encouragement that were ear candy for them. In their grandparents’ presence, my children were radiant with the soft glow of a lightning bug.

Oh whoops, my daughter spilled lotion all over the carpet. I squelched a yell, racing for the rags and rug cleaner, while Grandma reassured her that this was an accident. “Perhaps your little hands can’t hold a slippery lotion bottle, dear,” she purred. Message delivered–don’t try this again—but packaged in soft folds of caressing words.

Papa was always there with his words of endearment: “Such a sparkly little girl,” he’d say, or, “You have quite an imagination, grandson.” Playful and gentle, he was always there in the memory-card game to say, “Good job,” or to gently instruct: “Try again; you almost got it.” And later, “You, my dear grandchild, can be anything you want,” which for my daughter was to be a famous ice skater, and for my son, King Arthur. Plumping up the dreams of a child is in the job description for grandparents, it appears.

*****

Where did the years go, I wonder? Now I am the grandmother, known to this new baby as Meme [pronounced Me-me]. Like all grandparents, I am filled with unexpected joy every time I see my new grandchild. She was six weeks early but is catching up fast, now a plump baby with creases in her thighs and a curly-lip smile that catches my breath every time. My gaze is fixed on her dark blue eyes, and the two of us are suspended in our own space. Instinctively, I swaddle her in a soft, fuzzy blanket and snuggle her against me, vowing to protect this small being at all costs. I could never have imagined how my heart would squeak again with delight at a new baby trick, especially her first real smile. And then, the angst washes over me like a splash of ice-cold water as she struggles with refluxing her formula, gasping and crying in protest. Her little hands, softer than butter, squeeze my finger and then reach for my earring. Ouch! But I deliver a kiss on her whisper-soft cheek and pray that I will be the kind of grandmother this baby deserves. At least I had wonderful role models.

My mind floods with dreams of her future, knowing that it isn’t my job as her Meme to define the specifics; instead, I need only to ensure that I become the person to fill her heart with the love chirps that will sustain her through her life. I want to show her the same generosity and patience my grandparents had toward me, and Papa and Grandma had toward my children, reading the same stories over and over and over, and telling family stories.

Now my own granddaughter will endear me with her own sweet essence, wide-eyed and wiggly, flashing her toothless grin. I will read her the same stories repeatedly, and tell her tales of when I was a little girl searching for treasures or stories about her mother—my daughter—as a little girl, like when Papa would bring fresh-picked corn from Nebraska to Salt Lake City, prompting her to quip: “Papa, if you got the corn, I’ve got the butter.” And each time we part, I will put a kiss in the palm of my granddaughter’s little hand to hold until the next time.

*Adapted from an essay in Mousetraps: Tales of a Second Mouse [Holly Webster, 2019]

Holly Webster is the author of numerous medical articles and a recently published memoir, Mousetraps: Tales of a Second Mouse. A retired pediatric nurse practitioner, Holly is enjoying her life with two young granddaughters who live nearby, as she learns the role of a doting grandmother. “Grandparenting 101” is adapted from her memoir. Another essay will eventually be written for the book to include the second granddaughter. In the meantime, Holly is aging backwards as she runs to keep up with the girls, enjoying their belly laughs and shenanigans.

Do you have a personal essay or a poem on aging you'd like to share? If so, I'd love to read it. Send it my way!

Join the mailing list for info on upcoming workshops, writing prompts and blog updates.