There is a little piece of me in Kansas, 1200 miles away. A little 30 lb piece, with big brown eyes like saucers, and long brown hair with a bounce of curls when you get it wet. A little girl who loves to snuggle up close and read books, and make play dough pizzas and hamburgers.
At times it can be hard to be a Grammy, because you have so much love for that child your heart hurts. Your heart overflows with love for the child that you created and the child that they created.
When you hear a hair-splitting scream over the phone and you know your grandbaby has been hurt…you want to be there, to bandage the wound, get the ice pack,to run to the ER. When you hear a body-wracking sob, and a “Grammy, I smashed my finger”…you want to be there to kiss away the tears and cuddle. When you hear her “talk back” in that naughty tone of voice, you want to be there, to get down eye to eye, tell her why that’s not nice and send her to time-out. When you hear a silly giggle, or shrieking with glee…you want to be there to laugh and giggle too.
When you hear the tone in mama’s voice that sounds “oh so tired”…you want to be there, to make supper, do laundry, give baths. Or receive the phone call that says, “mom, what do we do with chickenpocks?”…you want to be there to get out the cornstarch and rock your grandbaby.
It hurts. My heart breaks. I love them so. And, it’s not my place to be there all the time.
I’m not her mommy. The one God chose for her. I’m not her mommy. The one who carried her. I’m not her mommy. The one who is there to defend her, cuddle her, discipline her, encourage her, nurse her, teach her every day.
I am the Grammy. And I watch with joy as my baby loves and teaches her baby. I am always a phone call away, and I’ll always run to them when needed. But a Grammy has to let a mama be the mama.
A little piece of me is 1200 miles away, and a bigger piece of me is right there with her, right where she’s suppose to be…and I miss them both.