Plenty of Comfy for Thomas
My husband and I are expecting grandchildren #9 and #10 this year. It feels like in the matter of a nanosecond, our family has bloomed beyond our wildest dreams. Our family as a whole is in total baby mode, and our grandparent arms just keep growing and growing.
Our grandson, Thomas is 3 ½. He is bright and clever and inquisitive. He’s at that age when questions flow from his curious mind like warmed syrup over a stack of pancakes. Recently, while Thomas and his family were over for dinner, he snuggled into my lap and then proceeded to ask, “Nona, do you have a baby in your belly?”
The crowd of adults around the table tried hard to contain their giggles, and I responded, “No Thomas, there’s definitely not a baby in Nona’s belly.” And then his eyebrows furrowed and he continued, “Then why is your belly so big?”
“THOMAS!” I heard my daughter-in-law say, trying to corral her son’s wonder in case I might be offended. I was certainly not offended. I smiled, and focused all my energies in connecting with sweet Thomas as I stifled my own laughter. I mean, what’s so wrong about a grandmother having, shall we say, a generous sized belly?
I explained to Thomas that by the time a Nona gets to be a Nona, a belly might become a bit squishy so that sitting on my lap might always be super comfortable. Or, maybe while watching a movie together during a Saturday night sleepover, a grandmother-kind of belly might mean he could rest his head on my lap and not even need a pillow. Or, maybe a bit of extra Nona might mean my hip could be a welcome place to rest when little legs get too tired to walk home from the park. We continued to work through the fact that in the world of his growing family, not every protruding belly has a baby growing inside.
The point is this. The relative size of my belly plus the tributaries of varicose veins lining my legs plus the fact that I have a pair of reading glasses sitting on my head at all times because my 63-year-old eyes are 63-year-old eyes are earned imperfections that I quite happily embrace. Once you become a grandparent, the realm of importance of physical tautness is replaced by the looseness of what real beauty embodies. Healthy living should always be the goal, but measuring health by inches is irrelevant according to Thomas and me. Beauty is manifested by attitude and a willingness to realize the expanding inches mean more space for love.
I have such memories of both my grandmothers. I remember one grandmother whose hands were worn and wrinkled, but made the best pound cake ever. Her touch felt like a blanket of love. And the other; her sweet smelling cheeks framed the twinkling bright blue eyes and matching smile. Their feel still resonates with me even after so many years since their passing. Grandmothers are all about the touch. Never would I have measured either of them by their physical imperfections. In my mind, they were perfect.
Beauty is redefined by grandchildren. I feel like my grandkids could care less how proportional I am or whether or not I embody any glamour whatsoever. What they love is the smile they see when they run through my kitchen door into my open arms. And I could care less if they have jelly on their cheeks or wearing two different socks. What I love is the fact that they simply love me. I’m pretty sure Thomas and I are all good in the world of big everything.