I think of my mother every single day. She died 22 years ago—January 4, 1998, to be exact. How can you ever forget that date? She had 31 grandchildren when she died. I was the last person to talk to her, telling her I suspected I was pregnant yet again with number 32, but I hadn’t confirmed it with a test. She said, “Marie, you’ve had three children. You know whether you are pregnant or not. Congratulations!”
In most of the years since she died, I have drawn from her wisdom as a mother and an extraordinary hostess. In the last seven years, it has taken a new turn as I have become a grandmother. I have three beautiful, bright, and very lively granddaughters ages 6, 4, and 2. They are the joy of my life. I always was amazed at how much my mom and dad loved my kids, after dozens of grandkids. Surely this grandchild thing was getting old by now? Nope. They oohed and aahed as much as they did with the first ones. But I get it now.
My granddaughters and I each share a unique relationship. My oldest is a people pleaser, so it was adorable when she explained to me in all innocence that Covid-19 means “we have to stay away from the old people. That’s you, Grand B, my other grandmother, and Aunt Becky.” The 4-year-old loves to tell me with unadulterated enthusiasm: “I love you, Rie-Rie.” And the 2-year-old made my day when, after weeks of separation, she ordered her daddy to get her car seat, followed by, “I get my shoes. I go to Rie-Rie’s house.” Who would think such simple things could tug your heart strings, but they do. I get it now, Mom.
