day 182: once upon a time....

Oh, goodness.

Tonight a bunch of things came colliding together for me.

Good things, yet things that can make my heart tinge with sadness a little.

At dinner, surrounded by the girls' great-grandparents and great-great-uncle, I realized one thing that I want so desperately for those kids: for them to not only appreciate their heritage, but to enjoy being with those other members of their extended family, and to enjoy being around them, and to know who/what they come from. Yes. That's it exactly.

You see, what was going to be a fairly quick stop at great-grandma's for my bday presents, just to pop in, chat, and then be on our way, turned in to the better part of the evening there. And as organized and regimented as I tend to be on school nights, I didn't mind one bit. (and, quite honestly, it doesn't take much arm twisting to stay and eat a meal cooked by grandma)

My girls were surrounded by their family's living heritage. Jim and Ruth, at almost 80, have lived through happenings my girls will know only from a history textbook, if they never take the chance to listen to them, talk to them, hear their stories. Uncle Jack, still as spry as ever at 92, came home from WWII with a slew of history of his own. Kennedy, who has always been enamored with Uncle Jack, just like her Daddy has always been, soaked up every minute of his presence tonight. When her two little sisters finished off their dinners to go back to Grandma's collection of almost-antique toys, K stayed behind at the dinner table, content to listen and talk. Even when the conversation moved to the comforts of the living room, she stayed. She discovered that although she had seen the Lincoln Memorial in D.C., Uncle Jack could do one better. He could still recite most of the Gettysburg Address.....at 92 (and, to her credit, so could Grandma)

Ah, what I wouldn't give for one more day with my own grandma, just to hear more stories, ask more questions, listen to more advice, find out her dreams and hopes for my children. And see, that's the part that brings on that tinge of sadness. The realization that they won't be there forever. I may not be the most sentimental person you've ever met, but just maybe one of the top five. It pains me to think of them not being around to enjoy my children growing, learning, discovering.

Sigh.

As the girls were cleaning up the piles of toys when I finally decided it was time to head home, I found McK smoothing over a blanket that was on a nearby bench. "Mom, I just want to do something really nice for Grandma." I'm not quite sure she completely understood my response.

"Kiddo, you already did something nice for her by coming here, eating her food, playing with her toys, and giving her hugs. That stuff means a lot to her."

In the car, all three girls agreed with each other that they wanted to spend more time with the "elders" of their family. I smiled to myself, wanting the same exact thing.

Then the line from a story I recently read that kept echoing through my mind (is that an English teacher thing, or is that normal? I don't know). It was a story about a teenage girl who goes to visit her great-great-great-grandmother, aged 102, in the nursing home, and comes away with the realization that she really needed to spend more time there, with her. All after the g-g-g-gma told her, "Once upon a time, I was your age once. How scary is that?" Good heavens. That is an immense thought. That Ruth lived through those days of being ragged and worn by taking care of her children and keeping up with her house. They were all our age, once. Same fears, same hopes, same dreams. And now, content with where they stand, with the families they've managed to establish. That is the stuff that gives me chills, folks.

Before we arrived home, the girls and I made plans. Like next week plans. In the midst of school and homework and packing lunches and soccer and laundry and small group meetings and the like. Plans to make Uncle Jack a cherry pie and take it to his house, just to name one.

Cause once upon a time, he was our age, once.