She’s taking her first, shaky steps, weaving toward the outstretched hands of her cheering family. To hear the racket, you’d think she was the only baby in the world who ever walked. A year ago, we huddled around her in the neonatal intensive care unit, staring at digital monitors and willing her to breathe. Now she’s the birthday girl, wreathed in smiles and chocolate frosting from a celebratory cupcake.
The day winds down, and she sleeps. Her big sister drifts off in a nearby bed. The grown-ups settle in the next room, and the story begins. Her parents need to tell it again tonight, how the worst week of their lives led to this: a summer evening in a house sweet with the breath of sleeping children. How dark it was then. How bright it is now. They talk about the lessons learned in the darkness, the unfathomable kindness of strangers, the solid rock of kin. He talks about her courage. She remembers his strength and calm. They praise each other for holding fast, coming through.
We listen and nod, the grandparents who are reputedly wise. I reach for the words to put it all in context, the frame that will keep the story intact for generations to come.
I’ve been at this for a decade, which should be time enough to acquire a certain level of expertise. The boy who made me a grandmother 10 years ago is about to top me on the height chart. The girls aren’t far behind. They’re all leaping forward, mastering baseball and acting and writing and gymnastics and computer apps I couldn’t figure out if my very life depended on it. They’re growing into themselves, sometimes at warp speed.
Me, I’m in the slow lane. I should be word perfect in my grandmother role by now, never stumbling over a thorny situation, never at a loss for the solution, the tried and true advice.
Growing up, I had two grandmothers. One was already ancient when I was born, and hard of hearing. During her infrequent visits, conversations consisted mostly of shouted pleasantries. Though I never doubted her kindness, I was not quite sure that she remembered my name.
My other grandmother was lively and deeply devout and wickedly funny. In addition to the gifts she always brought in her small leather suitcase, she carried with her a store of peace. Rooms changed when she entered them. People put on their best selves, smiled at the sight of her. The house felt safer when she was there.
She made a special breakfast each morning she was with us, lavishly buttered toast cut into thin strips called “dippies” and café au lait. I make it now for my grandchildren, although it will never measure up to the original version. I tell them about her, how we loved to see her come and hated to see her go. The 5-year-old studies me across the table. So you make this for us because you want to be just like her, she observes.
It’s true. But the bar is high, and after a decade, I’m still a rank beginner. When we rushed to the NICU a year ago to see our newest grandchild, I fumbled for the words to comfort her frightened parents. I tried to channel my grandmother, the quiet voice, the abiding serenity. In the end, I said very little. In those tiled rooms full of beeping equipment, it came to me that perhaps there were other gifts I could offer: listening, affirming. Showing up.
It’s late now, and we sit in silence, turning the story over in our minds. I get up to check on the children, placing my hand on each small chest, feeling the rise and fall. There are no words, only from somewhere nearby, the stirring of a familiar peace.
Stephanie Piper's At This Point examines the mystery, absurdity, and persistent beauty of daily life. She has been a newspaper reporter, editor, and award-winning columnist for more than 30 years. Her Midpoint column appeared monthly in Metro Pulse from 1997 until 2014.
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