Chicken Soup for the Grandma's Soul Read online

  There are limits to the things I can do. I cannot solve eating problems, sleeping problems, potty-training problems or disciplinary problems, except when they occur on my time and property. Instead, I shall concentrate my efforts on the really important matters in life. I shall make sure the outside birdfeeder is filled so Ben and I can watch the birds dine. I will make certain we have a full supply of coloring books and crayons. I shall always set aside time for the urgent business of sucking lollipops and slurping ice cream. And I shall try never to be too busy for a game of marbles, or too rigid to break a rule now and then.

  Ben will remind me of the important matters in life, such as smiling and laughing and skipping and crawling and jumping and running and whispering special secrets to each other. We will explore winding roads and backyard mysteries, and each day will hold a new discovery.

  For everything in this world, it will be his first time.

  And a first time for me, again.

  Harriet May Savitz

  “Grandma, you play like you want to have kids

  of your own someday.”

  Reprinted by permission of Jonny Hawkins. ©2005.

  What Will I Call You?

  Children are God’s apostles, sent forth, day by day, to preach love, and hope and peace.

  James Russell Lowell

  When he was seven years old Robbie came home with a sad little face and tear-stained cheeks.

  “Honey, what’s wrong?” I asked, gathering my son in my arms.

  “Mom,” he wailed, “tomorrow at school we’re gonna talk about grammas and grampas. Everybody’s got ‘em but me. I wish I had some.”

  “Why, sweetheart,” I said sympathetically, “you do have some. You have Mimi and Nonie, and Henni and Pa-Pa.” Just saying their names allowed me to realize Robbie’s dilemma, but I forged ahead explaining, “You just don’t call them Granny and Granddaddy like the other kids do.”

  “Well, I wish I did,” he hiccupped, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

  “I wish you did too. I guess they thought nicknames would be cuter and . . . sound younger.” Pulling him into the kitchen I continued, “I’ll tell you what. Let’s have some treats and we’ll plan something really good for you to say about your grandparents tomorrow. But first I’ll make you a promise. When you grow up and have your kids, I promise you they will call me Grandma and call your daddy Grandpa, okay?”

  I’d always remembered that promise, but hadn’t had the chance to keep it. Robbie grew into a good-looking hunk of a guy with a marvelous personality but didn’t marry until after he was thirty and even then didn’t have children of his own. His job put his name before the public and required personal appearances, so he was well known. We were very close, even though he lived in another state.

  One evening right before Christmas, my husband took a long distance call from Rob. After they had talked quietly for a long time I heard Don say, “Okay, Rob, if you’re sure, I’ll tell Mom.”

  I thought, What’s that about?

  Later that evening Don told me a secret kept from me. When Rob was eighteen, during spring break, he spent one of those wild, uncontrollable weekends with a girl he didn’t know. One night—no controls—and a child was the result. That had been twelve years ago. The girl, ashamed of the event, refused to divulge any name and made no demands for eight years. Eventually she needed financial assistance and consulted an agency. They insisted that the father be found to help with expenses. Rob had been contacted and notified to report for a DNA test. For the last four years he’d known about his son. He was supporting the boy financially and saw him from time to time when his job brought him to their area. Robbie told his secret to his dad when he first found out, but made him promise not to tell me. Later he would confide, “Mom, I wanted what you wanted for me; the center aisle of the church first, then the picket fence and then children. I hated to be such a disappointment to you.”

  Incredibly, hearing that story was a Christmas present for me. Our grandchild lived in a small town not sixty miles from us. My first thought was how many years we’d all wasted and how deprived the child must feel. Of course I would accept and love him. I knew grandparents who had turned away from the identical situation. It was their loss.

  “I can’t wait to see him. Let’s go tomorrow,” I said to my husband. “What must that poor child think of his absentee family?” What had he said when he was seven years old and it was time to talk about his grandparents?

  After calling first, we drove over the next day. I was as excited as though a baby were on the way. We drove into their driveway and I jumped out of the car almost before it stopped. On the front porch was a young boy standing beside his bicycle. I kept telling myself, Slow down, don’t smother him.

  I smiled as I approached him, “Do you know who I am?”

  He nodded. Then he moved a little closer to me, grinned and asked, “What will I call you?”

  With tears in my heart I said, “Grandma. Please call me Grandma.”

  And I opened my arms to him.

  Ruth Hancock

  Love at First Sight

  In praising and loving a child, we love and praise not that which is, but that which we hope for.

  Goethe

  Renee was four years old when we adopted her. Cute, tiny, talkative and strong-willed are all words I used to describe our new daughter. “Prodigal” was not in my vocabulary.

  But as the years passed, it became apparent that Renee had an insurmountable problem bonding. Her first four years of neglect had changed her irreversibly. I often wished I could have held her as a baby, rocking and singing her lullabies. Certainly she would know how to return love if she had been given love as a baby.

  I often wondered what she had looked like as an infant. I knew she was an extremely tiny preemie, but did she have her same dark hair and olive complexion? I had no way to know; there were no pictures.

  Most of all, I wondered how to cope with her refusal of our love, year after year after year. As a teenager Renee rebelled against all authority and eventually left home, calling only when she got into desperate trouble. Finally, I could no longer handle the pain of her coming and going, and our communication ceased.

  So it was a surprise when Renee contacted me one December. She was married. She had a baby girl. She wanted to come home. How could I say no? Yet, knowing my daughter and our painful, tumultuous history, how could I say yes? I couldn’t bear having a grandchild ripped from my heart, too, when Renee, tired of her present situation, would move on—her pattern of many years.

  I tried to resist the urge to see her and the baby, feeling it was best for all of us, but something stirred in my heart. Maybe it was the Christmas spirit. Maybe it was my desire to hold the new baby. Maybe I just wanted to see my daughter again. All I know is I found myself telling Renee that she and the baby could come for a visit.

  On the day they were to arrive, I grew apprehensive. What if she doesn’t come? That wouldn’t be a shock by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, it was the norm for Renee. Then I wondered, What if she does come? What will I do? Will we have anything to talk about? Anything in common? The hours stretched by, and I kept myself busy with the multitudes of things I needed to do before Christmas.

  Then the doorbell rang.

  I opened the door. Renee stepped inside, clutching a wrapped bundle in her arms. She pulled the soft blanket away from the baby’s face and placed Dyann into my arms. It was love at first sight. This tiny baby—my granddaughter— grabbed my heart, never to let it go. She had dark eyes and a head full of straight, black hair that begged for a lacy headband. In her features I saw her mother’s lips, her cheeks and her slight build, and instantly knew I was looking at an incredible likeness of the baby I was never able to hold—my daughter.

  Dyann wiggled and made sweet gurgling sounds as I cuddled her to my heart, knowing she would be there forever, no matter what happened in the future.

  In those first years of my granddaughter’s life,
I bonded with her in a special way, offering the security and unconditional love that she so desperately needed in her unstable environment. I bought frilly dresses and lacey tights, and I took hundreds of pictures and hours of video of this effervescent child.

  Dyann is now thirteen years old, and I cherish her with all my heart. And though her mother eventually deserted her, Dyann still keeps a sweet spirit and visits us often. On those summer and holiday visits I often mistakenly call her by my daughter’s name. Dyann giggles and asks, “Grandmother, why do you keep calling me Renee?” I tell her the words she longs to hear as she snuggles into my embrace. “Because you look just like your mother, and I’ll love you forever.”

  Laura Lawson

  Loving Lauren

  But Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not forbid them; for of such is the kingdom of heaven.”

  Matthew 19:14

  “This is my mother, and she’s divorced.” The tiny blonde six-year-old smiled up at my son. Before he could reply, his own six-year-old daughter jumped in to tell the girl’s mom, “This is my dad, and he’s divorced, too!” Three months later I became a step-grandmother to Lauren.

  I had never seen her first tooth or watched her first offbalance baby steps. I had never heard her first words or seen her struggle to tie her shoes. What I did see was a spoiled only child. Both sets of her grandparents spent lots of money buying her many gifts, and she came to me suggesting I buy her this or that expensive toy. I declined to enter her competition. The name “Jesus” was alien to Lauren. She had never ever been to Sunday school. She was a stranger to my world.

  While her features and hair color fit in with my granddaughters’, her personality didn’t. She was easily offended. Minor teasing sent her sobbing into her room. I had roughhoused with my little tomboys since babyhood. Lauren cried if I even tickled her. It was easy to compare her to my granddaughters, and she always lost in the comparison. Wimpy. Touchy. Too sensitive. How could I love a child so alien, one I didn’t even know?

  The Lord whispered, “Rachel, Lauren needs your love.”

  “How can I love her, Lord? Every sentence out of her mouth starts with ‘I want.’ I can’t even play with her. She cries over every little thing. I can’t get close enough to love her.”

  “How can she learn about me if you don’t show her?”

  “I don’t know! I’m trying, Lord. But all I do is make her cry!”

  “You don’t want to love her.”

  “Okay, you’re right. I don’t want to love her. I’m tired of tiptoeing around her feelings. But I am willing to see her with your eyes.”

  The thought came unbidden. “She has to share her mother with two other little girls.”

  He had me there. Lauren had not complained when she became the middle child after being the only child all her life. In fact, she was delighted to have ready-made playmates.

  “She loves to help.”

  I had to give God a nod on that one, too. Lauren loved to “cook” and set the table and even clean up. In fact, when dinner was over, my granddaughters vanished, while Lauren happily cleared the table and helped me rinse the dishes.

  A few weeks later my son called. Could I possibly watch Lauren overnight? My granddaughters were with their mother and he had won a weekend stay in a hotel. He and his bride had never had a honeymoon.

  Lauren arrived with her doll and pajamas. We spent the weekend playing dominoes, watching old Disney movies and eating popcorn. Lauren was enchanted. Spending time, not money, was a new and exciting concept. The weekend passed much too quickly. I began to see her in a new light. She was a loving child. As she became more comfortable with me, she blossomed, chattering about all kinds of subjects.

  Lauren’s seventh birthday arrived a few months later. I blinked twice and she was ten.

  The phone rang. “Hi, Grandma.”

  “Hi, Lauren. What’s up?”

  “Oh, nothing. I’m just kinda bored.”

  “Where are your sisters?”

  “With their mom.”

  “Isn’t this your weekend with your dad?”

  “Yeah, but he’s on a business trip.”

  “Are you lonely?”

  “Yeah. There’s no one to play with.” Lauren hadn’t been an only child for a long time.

  “Do you want me to come get you?”

  “Yes!”

  We stopped off at Target on our way back to the house.

  As we walked up and down the aisles of the housewares department, Lauren happily chirped, “My Grandmother Houston loves pretty china.” She pointed at the picture frame display. “My Grandmother Willy loves picture frames like those.”

  Grinning down at her I asked, “And what does this grandmother love?” I hoped she’d say “Jesus,” but she didn’t.

  Smiling shyly she answered in one word: “Me!”

  Rachel R. Patrick

  And Then There Was Hailey

  The future destiny of the child is always the work of the mother.

  Napoleon Bonaparte

  It was a hot summer afternoon just before my daughter Julia’s senior year in college when she called long distance.

  “Mom, I’m . . . I’m . . . pregnant.”

  Dumbstruck, I could barely breathe, let alone talk.

  My mind raced. She’d only been dating her latest boyfriend for six months. How could this happen? How would she ever finish college? I took a deep breath and listened to what Julia had to say through her tears.

  Her words tumbled out as if she were a defense attorney addressing a jury. “His mom thinks we should get married, but I’m just not ready for that. I really don’t know him well enough. I know we made a mistake and I’m very, very sorry, but. . .”

  Oh no, here it comes, I thought.

  “Mom, this is my baby. I am this child’s mother. I know it won’t be easy, but I know I can do it.”

  I sucked in a big gulp of air and whispered a prayer of thanks.

  But then I started to worry. How would Julia be able to finish college? How could she attend classes, work her two part-time jobs and take care of a baby?

  Julia loved college. She loved living in a big house off campus with five other girls. And most of all, she loved the parties and the social life. How could she possibly continue that lifestyle while she was pregnant?

  The answer came two months later, just before school started, when Julia and her boyfriend moved into a tiny apartment off campus. He explained, “I know this isn’t the ideal situation, but I have a responsibility to Julia and to the baby. I’m going to be here to help her through this pregnancy. I’ll work while she finishes school.”

  The following March I received a phone call that woke me from a deep sleep.

  “Hi, Grandma!” The words rattled through my brain like fireworks as I shot out of the bed. “Baby Hailey and Julia are doing fine.”

  Julia dropped out of college for two semesters to stay home and take care of Hailey full-time while her boyfriend worked at a lumberyard. During those carefree summer days Julia experienced the joy of motherhood.

  Her phone calls and letters to me sang tales about Hailey’s every little accomplishment, from rolling over to smiling, about their long walks with a borrowed stroller, and about rummage sales where Julia found “tons of great baby clothes and most of them are only a quarter or fifty cents!”

  That summer Julia developed a sense of calmness and organization that I’d never seen in my partying college coed. She had been transformed into a mom who was spending every one of her summer days simply cherishing her new baby daughter. Not once did I hear her mention that she missed the college parties or the shenanigans with her old friends.

  One day in September, after Julia started back to school to finish her senior year, she phoned. “Mom, there’s a conference for people all over the United States who are experts in my major. My professors really want me to go. The hotel where it’s at is just a few miles from your house.”

  Before sh
e could even ask, I shouted into the phone, “Yes! I’d love to watch Hailey!” It would be my first full day alone with my only grandchild. I could feel a giddy sense of joy bubbling up inside.

  As I watched my daughter prepare to leave her daughter the morning of the conference, I listened as she put the well-being and safety of her child ahead of anything else in her life. I nodded enthusiastically at Julia’s long list of things to do and how to do them for Hailey.

  That day was nonstop joy for me as I played with, strolled, talked to, laughed with, fed, took pictures of and rocked my baby granddaughter. I found myself just watching her sleep, as I had done so many times when my own children were tiny.

  A few weeks later Julia called me again in the middle of the day, bursting with news. “Mom, I had a long talk with the head of the department today at school. She said she can’t get over how different I am this semester. She said I’m so organized and my attitude is so positive and that the entire department is amazed at how much I’ve accomplished and how well I’m doing in my classes.”

  My mind and heart swelled with pride and awe at the way my daughter’s life was unfolding right before my eyes.

  When I look back to that summer day when my unmarried daughter told me she was pregnant, I knew our worlds were about to change drastically. But little did I know that Julia’s unselfish courage to give birth to her unplanned child, at a time in her life when motherhood was definitely not on her list of things to do, would be a new beginning for our family.

  I learned that one of the joys of being a grandmother comes from watching your daughter grow into a mother.

  Patricia Lorenz

  2

  GENERATIONS

  OF LOVE

  And now abide in faith, hope, and love, these three; but the greatest of these is love.

  1 Corinthians 13:13

  Oohoo