The Unusual Journey From Mother to Grandmother

“Dum dity, dum dity, dum dum dum” I said to Jonathan as we played in the floor. With bright eyes and determination, he scampered down the hall to find the familiar yellow book filled with monkeys. I looked across the room at the baby’s young mother. Not so many years ago I read the same book to her. 

I was consciously aware that in some sense, I had passed a baton to her. I was no longer a primary player in this mother-child relationship, and she was doing the job that I had done for years. The responsibility for Jonathan was hers. The comfortable role of mother that I loved dearly was also hers.

As Jonathan crawled into my lap with the book, I closed my eyes and tried to breath in the privilege of the moment. My busy one-year-old grandson snuggled close and waited with anticipation. Eager to join him in his wonder, I opened the Dr. Seuss classic.

One short year ago, Jonathan came home from the hospital with parents as new as his car seat and crib. I was there to offer my expert assistance. He was only a few days old when I desperately wanted to give him a pacifier. His mother said no. That first week home, I thought I would help bath him each morning. She and his daddy bathed him at night. While I enjoyed watching the new mother embrace her role, secretly, I felt a little left out. I answered her questions, helped where I could, and enjoyed my time with the new baby.  But I watched while she made the decisions that I used to make, and noticed that many were different than mine had been. Like a middle school girl, I wasn’t sure where I fit. So much for expert assistance. 

My struggle was in defining my new role. I felt caught somewhere between mother and grandmother and I didn’t know which direction to turn. I loved my grandchild as much as I had loved my own children, something I did not think was possible. My love for him had kicked in some crazy, maternal, automatic response from me that can only be compared to what had emerged in me at the birth of my two children.

However, as the weeks passed, I watched my daughter embody the role of mother with confidence and I saw that same maternal, automatic response coming from her, only better, and it was not crazy. It made perfect sense. God, who had given this child to her, had given her a mother’s heart as well. With understanding came another familiar feeling. A feeling of gratitude to God because He had allowed me the honor of being a part of this young woman’s life. He had given me a fresh reminder that the job I treasured, being a mother, was still mine.

It was the end of something, and while sadness vied for my emotions, the sadness could not compete with the tremendous pleasure I felt at the prospects of what was ahead. My primary role was “mother-to-a-mother” and the indescribable delight of being grandmother was all bonus.