Tomorrow, my oldest grandson will be eleven. ELEVEN! The day before he was born, I had just got back into the country with my mother from our big trip to the UK. I called my daughter to let her know we were back. I was at my mother’s house and the next morning, around 4 a.m, she called me and said she was going to the hospital. I had left a good friend with my power of attorney for her since she was only 17 at the time, but she had one of her friends take her to the hospital and everything was over before anyone could notify her. Another phone call, and she was crying to me–a BOY! She had a son and I had a grandson.
After all the angst of the pregnancy, news of a boy was such a relief. This would have to be different. I didn’t know anything about boys, but I was willing to try. I would be home the next night and see her in the hospital.
Nothing prepared me for what happened when I went into the room and she uncovered the little scrap that lay in the bassinet next to her. All the love and joy and magic in the world flooded into me when I saw that mop of curly black hair under the tiny hospital hat.
They came home the next day, and lived with me under my roof for the next 18 months. During that time, this little boy stole my heart and I was happy to have him do it.
Now he’s going to be eleven. He’s sweet and funny, smart and perceptive. He’s overcome a speech problem (apraxia) with the most expressive face and hands. He keeps trying till he’s understood. He laughs at silly things and asks piercing questions. He’s gentle with animals and wants to learn how to make his gramma’s banana bread. He always wants a hug from me, wants to tell me what’s going on with him and his friends, loves basketball and Harry Potter. He’s just a few inches shorter than me. He’ll probably pass me by the time he’s 13. I can’t wait to see what he does with his life.
Happy Birthday, Bean, I love you forever.