A week ago, on New Year’s Day, DH, Lucy, and I finally were able to drive the 4.5 hours down to Connecticut to meet Amelie (and incidentally, have a small, late Christmas with Jon, Amanda, and Judy).
Getting away felt very fraught. Lucy returned from Minnesota at 3 AM. The temperature plummeted to -29° F. Even doing barn chores before dawn, I wasn’t sure how to manage the animals and the dogs in my twelve-hour absence . . . in the cold . . . on a holiday. After a month of worry at work, my stress-o-meter was maxed out. However our wonderful friends Alison and Tom stepped in to walk the dogs and take care of the sheep and cattle. “Go!” said Alison firmly. “We will be fine! You need to hold that baby!”
As usual, Alison was absolutely right.
As I examined Ami’s tiny perfect eyebrows and ears and hands — ten fingers, what a miracle! — I could feel all my tensions slipping away.
After a bottle of breast milk, Ami fell asleep.
I forced myself reluctantly to share the joy. Lucy is extremely excited to be an aunt.
Though equally excited to be a grandfather, DH is not a natural with tiny babies. He generally has an eager but slightly worried look.
When Ami burped up some milk, I had an excuse to swoop in.
This small scene felt so deeply familiar, I kept having the strange sense that somehow time had folded in on itself — that it was thirty years ago, DH was my father and I was my mother. Somewhere in a not-yet-unpacked box there is a photo of Dad eagerly, nervously holding newborn baby Jon, and one of my mother holding Jon, looking down, and beaming.
It is a great thing to be part of the wheel of time.
I simply love being a grandma.