~:: Milestones 2012 ::~

Last weekend, this person and I jetted down to Santa Fe for a special occasion: the eighth birthday and subsequent baptism of our very first grandchild.

I don’t think I ever really saw myself with grandchildren – not till they happened.  Till Max happened. For that matter, I really don’t think I ever saw myself with children. I think the sum total of my young future visions stopped with the fairytale formula: finding the prince/best friend/soul mate and living happily ever after. Not that I didn’t assume there would inevitably be children and a house and domestic chaos; even if I had been born in a barn (which is a possibility—my mother asked me about that often enough) I’d have picked up on those elements.

I just never visualized myself with them. And I never hankered after them. The brutal truth is that I hated babysitting. H-a-t-e-d it. Only the money seduced me into it. Let me warn you: do not hire me to watch your children (have I written this before?).

Nobody warned me what it would be like. Oh – they will always warn you about noise and brattyness and bedlam; people who tend to live on coasts and make mass media about families without actually having one are always very clear on these points.

I simply had no idea how fiercely I would love my children. How they would drive me crazy in a million ways—love, worry, hope, empathy. People who love to talk about education never talk about this: how the child is the school, and the parent the learner.  That I would be so swallowed up, I’d brave pregnancy a second time, then a third and a fourth, just for the privilege of waiting at the gate with a baseball glove on both hands, wondering who would get tossed into my arms this time.

Small children are the hardest for me: I love looking at them.  I love talking to them. Mostly when their parents are around though. I am still not a babysitter. I am more willing to teach them writing and trigonometry than I am to fill hours will blocks and tiny pretends and sub-English communication. This makes me a lousy grandmother, I think. Not like Kathy, Gin’s other mother, who is warm and patient and willing to do any and all selfless things. Around her, I am a squib. I felt that way about being a mommy, too.

But I invested everything in my children. The hours, the passion, the work, the heart. Children are the hardest, most magnificent and creative work I ever did, will ever have done. And every minute, both the wonderful ones and the pure slog—utterly, eternally worth it. I raised up unto myself friends who will last forever. The grandchildren are simply an amazing fringe benefit.

And then – here we are, observing fat, backyard rabbits at my kid’s house.

And filling our arms with this person.

These people.

We were treated to a fine guitar concert.  You will note that this is a nylon string guitar, and that this child is playing classical guitar.

He and his dad both, learning the finer skills, weaving strings of individual notes together into a baroque miracle.

Some of us listened.

Some of us played our own things.

This light was so warm, so glowing.

The next morning, I was brought awake violently.  Just through the wall of my room, some people were listening to VERY loud, busy music, underscored by this weird, unending noise – as if they were making hundreds and hundreds of smoothies in hundreds and hundreds of blenders.  This, I learned, is the sound of “spinning.”  If you look, you will see the “trainers” under the back wheels of the bikes. These allow a rider to go very fast for miles and miles and miles without ever leaving his house.

By the time I dragged myself out of bed, these two must have done ten miles, easy.  I came out of the room, carrying things I could throw at them. But they were so cute, I couldn’t do it.

You will note that the miles were wearing Max down a bit.

Yep.  Wearin’ him right out.

Out.

But in a surprising moment of bravery and character, up he popped and on he went.

And the next day, we were off to church for the big moment.

The three men, all dressed up and ready to go.

The little family – a terrible shot taken in the hallway before the moment.

A better shot, taken inside the room.  All ready to go.

Every time I tried to shoot the proud mother, the unconcerned younger brother managed to express himself.

Finally, and wonderfully – before a crowd of earnest young friends and loving older ones.  And it was done.  The father blessing his oldest son.  Beautiful words said.  Beautiful songs sung.  Mama played a flute duet with a buddy. Dear friends were there in all good heart.

Then it was time for the grandparents to go home.  The funnest part of this is that all us grandfolks got to come at the same time in the same plane.  We drove through a terrible snow storm at five in the morning to get to the airport so we could come to this (freeways not even plowed), and then through sixty degree sunshine on our way home from that same airport.  We had a great time together, all of us.  We always do.

But sometimes, I guess we wear out little ears . . . 

Here is a true thing: when you are with a child, especially outside, you will hear birds you’d forgotten were there, hear the bark of a dog three blocks away, know an airplane is flying miles above your head, see color.  You will remember your own big moments – what it was like when the milestones happened in your life.  I have always thought of myself as the children’s life-tour guide, but it is not so; the children showed me the wonder of now, here, this place.

I think they taught me to be alive.