I will eventually move on to a subject other than my so-sweet granddaughter, but for now, I pray, humor this new grandmother. . .
Sunday evening, I drove west on I-70. I was headed for my pillow-top mattress and feather pillow. That night would only be the eighth night out of the last eighteen that I would spend in the arms of their incomparable comfort.
It has been wonderful to be home these past few days: sleeping in my own bed and finding some kind of routine once again, but yesterday I found myself in a perpetual state of melancholy. It was a watch-the-clock day at work ("only six more hours . . . four more hours . . . two hours. I can do this . . . one hour . . . "). Finally, the work day ended. I headed home. At dinner, I told my husband that I had felt sad all day, but I had no idea why. He hugged me (good man that he is!) and gently asked, "are you having Brooklyn-withdrawals?"
Oh dear. Could it be? It didn't take long for me to realize the answer to his question was a profound and definite yes. As much as I crave routine and normalcy (and sleeping in my own bed), I'd trade it all in for more time with my new-found love. How can life ever go back to what has been normal for the past six years (since our official empty-nest-hood began)? How can that which was so important to me before compare to that which is important to me now? I thought my life was rich before: my husband, my children, my siblings, my friends, and my church family all saturate my heart with warmth and love. How could there be more?
Having a grandchild is similar to growing up a block from Ted Drews and thus enjoying it on a regular basis - you can never be truly satisfied with anything else. You've tasted the best and nothing less will do. Before I met Brooklyn, I was satisfied with my life. I liked my job. I liked hanging out with my friends and family. I enjoyed my book club and my writing group. Now I know there's more. That's not to say that I don't still enjoy those things, they just pale in comparison (no offense dearest friends, family, Rowdies, and writers!). I know my life must go on. I'm not Brooklyn's mother. Therefore my life will not have the drastic changes that will affect my daughter and son-in-law as new parents.
But that's just externally. Internally, this heart of mine that was so full before is undergoing a massive remodel-job. It's bulging, bursting at the seams. Room must be made in order to hold the relationships I have and add one more - one tiny little girl who takes up an incredible amount of room. The tricky thing with this particular remodeling project is that the simple adding-on of another room isn't sufficient because she refuses to be confined to one room. You see, she moves in and out of every room. She seeps through the walls that I thought were impenetrable. She shows up in the middle of business meetings. She peeks around corners when I'm trying desperately to pay attention to what my boss is saying (and it takes all my strength to not smile while he continues his discourse, completely unaware of the appearance of this little bundle!). Her sweet little face looks up at me in the middle of a conversation with a friend or co-worker. Her squiggles and wiggles and yawns and stretches appear out of nowhere. When I least expect it, there she is. So this expansion is over-all. Every room must be made just a little larger for she will be with me everywhere I go.
When you see me, you most likely won't notice this change. I look pretty much the same as I did three weeks ago, but if you dare to ask me, I won't hesitate to tell you all about it. I may even happen to have a picture or two. ;-)
Sunday evening, I drove west on I-70. I was headed for my pillow-top mattress and feather pillow. That night would only be the eighth night out of the last eighteen that I would spend in the arms of their incomparable comfort.
It has been wonderful to be home these past few days: sleeping in my own bed and finding some kind of routine once again, but yesterday I found myself in a perpetual state of melancholy. It was a watch-the-clock day at work ("only six more hours . . . four more hours . . . two hours. I can do this . . . one hour . . . "). Finally, the work day ended. I headed home. At dinner, I told my husband that I had felt sad all day, but I had no idea why. He hugged me (good man that he is!) and gently asked, "are you having Brooklyn-withdrawals?"
Oh dear. Could it be? It didn't take long for me to realize the answer to his question was a profound and definite yes. As much as I crave routine and normalcy (and sleeping in my own bed), I'd trade it all in for more time with my new-found love. How can life ever go back to what has been normal for the past six years (since our official empty-nest-hood began)? How can that which was so important to me before compare to that which is important to me now? I thought my life was rich before: my husband, my children, my siblings, my friends, and my church family all saturate my heart with warmth and love. How could there be more?
Having a grandchild is similar to growing up a block from Ted Drews and thus enjoying it on a regular basis - you can never be truly satisfied with anything else. You've tasted the best and nothing less will do. Before I met Brooklyn, I was satisfied with my life. I liked my job. I liked hanging out with my friends and family. I enjoyed my book club and my writing group. Now I know there's more. That's not to say that I don't still enjoy those things, they just pale in comparison (no offense dearest friends, family, Rowdies, and writers!). I know my life must go on. I'm not Brooklyn's mother. Therefore my life will not have the drastic changes that will affect my daughter and son-in-law as new parents.
But that's just externally. Internally, this heart of mine that was so full before is undergoing a massive remodel-job. It's bulging, bursting at the seams. Room must be made in order to hold the relationships I have and add one more - one tiny little girl who takes up an incredible amount of room. The tricky thing with this particular remodeling project is that the simple adding-on of another room isn't sufficient because she refuses to be confined to one room. You see, she moves in and out of every room. She seeps through the walls that I thought were impenetrable. She shows up in the middle of business meetings. She peeks around corners when I'm trying desperately to pay attention to what my boss is saying (and it takes all my strength to not smile while he continues his discourse, completely unaware of the appearance of this little bundle!). Her sweet little face looks up at me in the middle of a conversation with a friend or co-worker. Her squiggles and wiggles and yawns and stretches appear out of nowhere. When I least expect it, there she is. So this expansion is over-all. Every room must be made just a little larger for she will be with me everywhere I go.
When you see me, you most likely won't notice this change. I look pretty much the same as I did three weeks ago, but if you dare to ask me, I won't hesitate to tell you all about it. I may even happen to have a picture or two. ;-)
Perfectly stated & exactly how I felt when Madison (and Gia, Maddox, Ava & ZOEY) was born!😀💖
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