I have never been one of those mothers who kept asking when she was going to be a grandmother. But I have always wanted my daughter to know the incredible experience of being a mother.
There is nothing like holding that baby for the first time. Counting all the fingers and toes, then looking into that precious little face and realizing the responsibility that comes with it.
I knew nothing about raising a child. My own parents, bless them, didn’t either. Nor had I ever babysat. So I knew I would make mistakes and boy, I’m sure I did. But I loved that baby from the moment I knew I was carrying her.
Last week my baby gave birth to her baby. I’ve been crying tears of joy pretty much off and on since the call that she was pregnant. She and her husband had been trying for the last four years and we’d all pretty much accepted that they wouldn’t be having any children.
It’s been an emotional, incredibly stressful time for this grandma. My daughter is thirty-eight so that was a concern. But she breezed through the pregnancy. The birth took a while. More than twenty-four hours – the longest of my life.
But at about two in the morning on the 16th, I got the call. A healthy, beautiful baby girl named Estelle Burton after her grandmothers. (My middle name and my father’s is Burton. Her other grandmother passed away just before Christmas.)
When I saw that first picture of course I broke down. I had wanted this for her for so long. Seeing her holding her own baby girl was everything I could ask for her.
Now I’m a grandmother for the seventh time. I’ve been blessed with six other amazing grandchildren in our wonderfully combined family. Each one is unique and special.
It is so heartwarming to see this cycle of life and know that long after I’m gone, things will go on and that maybe I played a little part in it.