A year and a half ago, I became a young grandmother for the first time.
I’ve been willingly spending a lot more time with my grandson than I ever thought I would, and I’ve figured out why.
To him, I’m perfect the way I am and he wouldn’t change me for the world. That’s not something I get to feel much these days.
When I walk into a room, his little face lights up brighter than decorations at Christmas. When we go out on excursions together, he trusts me to keep him from harm and he doesn’t care where we go as long as he has a hold of me. Whatever I give him to eat, he insists on sharing half of it with me. His favorite napping place is curled up under my arm.
Me wearing his big blue bucket on my head when we’re reading a story never fails to get a belly-laugh out of him. When it’s time for me to go home, he hurls himself at my legs, tries to climb me like I’m a tree, and does his dead-level best to get me to either stay or take him with me. 🙂
One day, he’ll be old enough to notice my shortcomings and medical problems. He’ll see and experience my limitations, and be in that group of loved ones in my life who are disappointed and let down by the things I can’t—or won’t—do.
But, until then, I’m going to enjoy being just perfect for as long as it lasts.
Manuscript. Head. Drawer. 