I have such a vivid memory of this. I was 15, and had a regular babysitting job for a family down the street: two little boys and a baby girl. One night the girl was sick, miserable and whiny. She couldn’t sleep, so I held her and walked her. She wasn’t tiny any more, probably close to two years old and getting heavy. She smelled of spit-up; she was sticky with sweat; she squirmed and fussed. I walked and patted. Slowly the squirming stopped. She went limp against my shoulder, and started a raspy snore.
Something electric went through my body. THIS! I WANT THIS! It was a revelation. I kept walking her, even though she was totally conked out. I couldn’t get over how wonderful it felt to be holding this stinky, sweaty, sour little creature and to have brought her comfort.
Ten years later, when the doctors told me a large growth was devouring one of my ovaries, I walked to the bus stop in the rain and literally shook my umbrella, in a rage, at God. I was less upset that it might be cancer than I was that it might mean I’d never have my own babies. “How can you do this to me!?!” I ranted. (My theology was juvenile but my rage was genuine). “How can you give me such a longing to be a Mom, and then take away my chance to do it?!?!”
It wasn’t cancer that time, “only” endometriosis, and it was another 13 years before I had to give up the other ovary and all hope with it. (More on that another time.)
But now, 45 years later, I am Gramma Sue to 9 little ones! I have known most of them since they were born; I’ve been able to watch their personalities emerge and it is every bit as captivating as I’d dreamed. I’ve heard them yell “Gramma Sue!” and run to me for a hug. I am known for my cookies. I’ve also been thrown up on, bashed in the eye by a careless elbow, screamed at and ignored. It is all precious.
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