photo by Jane Bell Goldstein
The First Grandchild
by Judy Goddess
Tyler, my first grandchild, was one month old when his parents felt sufficiently comfortable to leave me alone with him. They explained that if he started to wake and whimper during those two hours they would be gone, I was to gently rub his back. Unless he sounded inconsolable, though, I was not to pick him up.
For over an hour, the house was silent while I read quietly in the living room. Then I heard a soft whimper.
Dimming the light, I silently entered Tyler’s room and began rubbing his back. When he stopped crying, I gently lifted him from his crib and carried him to the living room. Lying down on the sofa, I tenderly placed Tyler face down on my chest. Initially, Tyler’s breathing was faster than mine, but gradually I was able to bring it down closer to my own. And so we lay on that small sofa in the darkened room, the two of us breathing quietly.
At that moment I understood the meaning of life. Behind Tyler stood generations of strong, healthy men and women, creators, dreamers, atheists, believers, survivors. Their energy and love had flowed through me and was now part of Tyler, shielding him into a future of unknowable events and changes. And so the two of us lay dreaming.
When I heard his parents’ car, I gently returned Tyler to his crib.
It went well, Tyler didn’t wake, I explained. No, it wasn’t a burden; yes, I’d like to do it again.
For over an hour, the house was silent while I read quietly in the living room. Then I heard a soft whimper.
Dimming the light, I silently entered Tyler’s room and began rubbing his back. When he stopped crying, I gently lifted him from his crib and carried him to the living room. Lying down on the sofa, I tenderly placed Tyler face down on my chest. Initially, Tyler’s breathing was faster than mine, but gradually I was able to bring it down closer to my own. And so we lay on that small sofa in the darkened room, the two of us breathing quietly.
At that moment I understood the meaning of life. Behind Tyler stood generations of strong, healthy men and women, creators, dreamers, atheists, believers, survivors. Their energy and love had flowed through me and was now part of Tyler, shielding him into a future of unknowable events and changes. And so the two of us lay dreaming.
When I heard his parents’ car, I gently returned Tyler to his crib.
It went well, Tyler didn’t wake, I explained. No, it wasn’t a burden; yes, I’d like to do it again.