My grandmother loved babies.
When she had a baby in her arms, she was young again. You could see the hard years just erasing before your eyes. Her eyes twinkled when a child was in her lap. She loved singing and talking to her grandchildren, and playing "trot-a-little-horsey" with her great-grandchildren, before her knees gave out, that is.
My grandmother taught me how to change diapers. She showed me how to feed an infant it's first baby foods. I learned how to interact with these little beings that can wrap themselves around your heart. But most importantly, I learned what precious gifts our children are. I don't know how many times I heard her say ABOUT my children while OBSERVING my children, "Precious. Precious, precious child."
I will cherish the photos I have of her soft, tired, wrinkled hands holding my babies. I cherish the memory I have of my grandma's hands on my belly, feeling my first son kicking (and kicking and kicking!) when I was about seven months pregnant with him.
When my grandmother was hospitalized recovering from double knee replacement surgery, my family made a trip to Missouri to see her. She had not done well with the surgery and recovery. She'd been in the hospital for over a month. Mom would tell me that she just slept all day, she didn't want to do her therapy, she didn't want to eat, or even get up to use the restroom. So, upon our visit, I was a bit hesitant to let Grandma hold my baby daughter (who was a six-month-old roley poley at the time) because I knew how weak she was. But my daughter was likely the best medicine she'd received in that month's time. Grandma perked up. Her color came back. She cooed and talked and laughed at my daughter. And my daughter reciprocated. And in the days and weeks to follow, Grandma continued to improve and was eventually released from the hospital.
She loved babies. She loved MY babies. Oh how I miss her loving on my children.
