To all of my aging sisters with resistant gray. . .
I am the mother of three girly-girls. Actually they are women now. But all three wear their hair long, have perfected the smokey eye look with top shelf makeup, and have become fashionistas extraordinaire. At least in my humble opinion they are.
They don’t shave, they get waxed. And, if I’m not mistaken, they have their hair and nail stylists on retainer, and in the Top 5 speed dialed numbers.
My daughters are not vain, just well cared for. And, oh so feminine.
Whenever they are not at the hospital working as R.N.s. the girls have luncheon with their BFFs and talk Kardashian drama and What Not to Wear,
All three daughters are married; two have just had babies. BOY babies! Each of them exclaimed when the gender was revealed, “I don’t know nuthin’ bout raising BOY babies!”
And, of course, I am of little use, not having raised BOYS myself. I keep hoping they are not simply Very Small Men. Oy! THAT would be a disaster.
The disaster would look something like this:
A Very Small Man is lying in a crib, scratching his belly and yawning, calling out at the same time, “MaaaahhM! Get me another teat, would ya? The left one this time. And some teething biscuits while you’re at it.”
Or he’s in the tub, peeing . . . ON his rubber ducky’s face . . . because HE CAN.
Later, while putting away toys into his toy box he mimics Dad putting dishes in the dishwasher. “I’ll just shove a few more in and close the door quick before SHE sees the breakage. I only play with this limited edition G.I. Joe on special occasions anyway.”
I know I’m getting ahead of myself. Sarah’s Luke is only 2-1/2 months old; Sammy Jo’s Gavin is two days old. And I’m still in denial about being a grandmother. Grand. Mother. Grand Ma. Grandma.
I’m struggling with the terminology as if it’s a tight turtleneck sweater having to be matched up with my head and arms a couple of times first; then pulled, tugged and untwisted down over my defiant body, the neck staying outstretched over my mouth and nose, suffocating me.
But then we come up with an appealing term for my status, L’ma (a derivative of “Llama Mama”–my American Sign Language name sign), and I am no longer smothered. I am overwhelmed with awe. I have grandbabies. Grandsons. Baby BOYS who are not Very Small Men looking for a busty woman 24/7. (It’s more like 14/7.)
Each is an amazing combination of his mother and father. And, strangely each resembles extended family as well. Cousins, aunts, uncles, great grandparents appear in their newborn faces. My father and I can be seen when Luke is turned to a 45 degree angle; but for Gavin you can see me in his profile, while his own daddy is there when looking head-on face-to-face.
Halos hover over their soft fuzzy baby BOY heads. And they stretch, lenthening their footed pastel jammies to a full 20 inches. They coo quietly, dreamily sinking into mommy’s arms, knowing only warmth first inside and now outside of her body. They are fed and held and loved by mommy and daddy . . .
Until Grandma comes over. Then I hold them, sing to them, stare at them in wonder. I pat them and stroke them. I am in love. I am grateful they are healthy. I am grateful they are handsome.
But mostly, I am grateful they are not very small men.
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