MY GRANDSON: MY  PRIDE AND JOY

by Mariane Holbrook 

Every grandmother needs a “Jackson,” a beautiful, sturdy, cocoon-wrapped neonate who rips off his flannel swaddling and dons his size 1 Spiderman outfit before anyone can say “diaper rash.”

I was one of the lucky ones. Our grandson, Jackson, hit the floor sprinting, leaving in his wake every Tonka truck, every animal book, every soggy graham cracker, every pendant from my jewelry box that he’d managed to toss into a three foot pile behind him. I thought he was the most extraordinary little boy to come dashing down the pike since my own sons forged a similar trail nearly thirty-five years earlier.

The first time he visited our home he fixed his over-sized blue eyes on mine and wouldn’t let go. He was an adult in a romper suit trying desperately to connect, to say he already knew me and loved me. The experience was other-worldly, almost paradisiacal in its application.

As he grew, we bragged about his precociousness, his Mensa I.Q., his curiosity. He wanted to name everything he saw, to learn every bit of minutiae he could, so it was natural that he taught himself to read by age 4 and was comfortably reading the newspapers at age 5. He was learning Spanish as soon as he could talk and knew the names of more birds than I have ever taken time to learn. Heather, his caring mother, took him to music appreciation classes when he was still an infant, believing as so many child experts do that Beethoven’s work is not limited to adults only.

I adore him practically to the point of worship. He embodies every characteristic that I hold dear in a child and I determined to save every piece of refrigerator art, every crayoned stick man that he scribbles for me, knowing posterity will one day thank me. He is destined for great things. When he becomes another Billy Graham or Secretary of State Jackson Holbrook, my memoirs about him will earn me millions. Except that I’ll likely be in heaven by then looking down on him with unabashed pride.

I insisted early on that Jackson call me “Grandma.” To me, it’s the single most endearing name a child can utter with the exception of Mama and Daddy. The first time he said it, I was beside myself with excitement. I wanted to hear it over and over. No “Nana”, “GamGam”, “MeeMoo” for me. When my daughter-in-law asked what I wanted my grandson to call me, I responded quickly, “’Grandma,’ just ‘Grandma’”. I have such loving memories of my own grandma that any other name would be unthinkable to me. (See my column, “Grandma Is Not A Four-Letter Word”)

When Jackson was three, he was preparing to return home with his parents after a weekend at our house. Slowly walking down the sidewalk to the car, he clutched his white stuffed bunny with one hand and his mommy’s hand with the other.

Suddenly, he turned and saw me standing on the porch, waving goodbye. His face quickly contorted into anguish as he sobbed loudly, “Come on, Grandma. Come on, Grandma.” Tears poured in rivulets down his face as he was placed in his car seat. And as they drove down the road, his little arms reached back to me while he continued crying, “Come on, Grandma. Come on, Grandma.”

That single, heart-wrenching event was lovingly woven into the fabric of my heart for all time, the honest, raw emotions of a darling three-year-old who couldn’t bear to part with a grandma he’d grown to love and desperately didn’t want to leave behind.

My earliest and fondest memories are of those warm summer days on my grandmother’s farm in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania. Her kindness in being there to provide an oasis, a place for me to lazily spin a gossamer web of childhood dreams, made her one of the most significant people in my life. My greatest hope is that Jackson will one day look back on me with the same degree of kindness and affection.

“The closest friends I have made all through life have been people who also grew up close to a loved and loving grandmother or grandfather.”

-Margaret Mead