I am a grandmother of three beautiful children. I just spent 3 days with all three: oldest almost seven and his brother of one and half years, and their cousin who is six months old. Each one of them at a different stages of growth, yet all so similar. Each child ready for the adventure of life. I love the warmth of their bodies when they allow those hugs that Gramma craves and needs. I look at their perfect little hands and feet and my heart grows with love and my throat goes lumpy and my eyes mist up. I remember all these same emotions when my 3 children were babies. I love all that mushy stuff, but I also love the fun that children provide. Kids love silliness and I am more than happy to provide that.
It is those times when I am looking at my grandchildren and being totally blown away with their amazingness, that my mother comes to mind. Did she have those same feelings of wonder and awe when she first beheld me? Did she love snuggling with me, cooing or singing or making me laugh? Or was I just another mouth to feed; another person dependant on her for clothing and shelter and love?
I was the last child born to my mother and father, and the only girl. Yep, I had eight brothers, and nope, I wasn't spoiled. That is often the first comment that people make when they learn I was the youngest and the only girl. Regrettably, I would have to say that the opposite was true. My mother and father had no experience raising girls so I was the practice run. My brothers, who I believe were happy to have a sister, knew nothing about helping her be a girl. I remember often wishing I was a boy. Sadly, I also remembering my parents commenting that raising boys was much easier. Maybe, that was why I wished I was a boy so I could make their lives easier. They had enough hardships without this extra one thrown in. Yet, there was love; of that I am sure.
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