Weaving a brave new future with a miracleI may not know how the scene will play out, but I know it will be grand.
By: Maria Lockwood, Superior Telegram
I may not know how the scene will play out, but I know it will be grand. It will probably be at the hospital and include an egg timer, just to make sure we all get a turn. My daughter will be there, that’s for sure. And someone else, someone we’ve been expecting for nearly nine months.
Our family is waiting for a tiny baby with miniature fingers and toes; a small bald person to pour a lifetime of love into and the best part of the entire set up is I don’t have to give birth to him. I just need to love this tiny miracle and read him plenty of Dr. Seuss books. Can I tell you a secret? I’m going to be a grandmother.
It’s weird to see your daughter as a mom. In my mind’s eye, she is still the wiggling baby who was born with a mop of long, golden brown hair. She’s the butterfly child flitting from friend to friend at elementary school, bestowing hugs and chattering nonstop. She’s the kid who knows the name of every dog in a five-block radius and makes new best friends with a single “Hi.” She is the sunshine child who “faked” bad eyesight to get glasses like the rest of us; a peacemaker who eats, laughs and lives with gusto.
For now, I’m coming to grips with the fact that this sparkling, messy child is on her own. She has an apartment, a boyfriend, a dog, and oh yeah, a baby on the way. And I wonder how my husband and I … and our 6-year-old caboose … will fit into her new life. For a while after the move, she was still working in Superior. She’d stop by after work to raid the fridge for leftovers. Seeing a used bowl in the sink, or an empty container that once held fajitas or ravioli would put a silly smile on my face. “She came home,” my mind would whisper. “She loves you.” For one shining moment, her modus operandi — leaving things helter-skelter in her wake became an asset.
These days, I don’t see her much. The only bowls in my sink can be linked to my husband, me, the 6-year-old or the timing out of fuzzy “meatcake” leftovers. She was the last of the “original” batch to leave. As they wandered out, each left a little hole in the time-space continuum that we call home. And man, is it getting drafty in here. I tried to send packages and cards, stalk them on Facebook and Skype, even loft an occasional phone call to their time zones. But I’ve gotten lazy, I’m afraid. Perhaps this new little person is an excuse to try again. Can we pick up these unraveled strands of home — now weaving their own patterns — and reconnect them?
It’s hard to think of my daughter as a mom. She’s a novice cook, a bit of a lead foot and has a penchant for soap opera programs like “Gilmore Girls.” But she’s also wonderful, determined and oh, so dear. Miracles do happen, they say. In fact, we’re counting on one within the next few weeks.
So we will wait, and hope, and pick up the dropped threads one by one.
Somehow, I know she’s going to be a grand mom.
And so will I.