The Mother's Mother

Full disclosure.  I will be a first time grandmother in July, so when I recently witnessed the art of generational nurturing, I made heart notes.The restaurant had cushioned backseats meant for two people to sit side by side.  A young woman sat next to another woman, an older version of herself. Their noses sloped the same way, their skin reflected the olive tones of their Mediterranean heritage, and they chewed their foods the same, like violin bows in synchrony.  Lying between them propped by cushions and flanked by pillows was a baby boy happily playing with his toes and cooing in a language clearly understood by both women.  They seemed quite relaxed while enjoying their meal and conversing with one another all the while aware of the baby space between them. They alternated encouraging glances and loving touches.And then Matthew (of course I asked his name, oh yeah, and he was 9 months old) began to fuss.  The young mom shook the rattling toy in attempt to reset him in contentment.  It was his grandmother, however, that lifted him from his restlessness, rose from the cushioned backed chair, and began the baby strut; you know, the walk/bounce/serenade that mothers do to sooth an unhappy child.  I watched her worn and aged-spotted hands recall without effort the magic touch needed to redirect whimpers of discontent to happier sounds of comfort.  I suspect she remembered the same pacifying techniques used on her daughter so many years ago. Matthew fell asleep as she lullabied softly into his ear.Returning to her seat, the grandmother laid the baby on his back with gentleness that would still any babbling waters.  He slept, and the two mothers resumed their unhurried lunch.  There was nowhere else to go, as this fortunate child lay nestled between their seamless flow of love.  They returned to the business of eating and talking as they looked out beyond the table.  I wondered what they were both thinking.I remember the thoughts of young motherhood; meal times, naps, diaper changes and kisses.  The world was a concentrated version of itself, centered on the wellbeing of an infant who so easily fits into a mother’s embrace.  Young motherhood is a simple time, yet seldom feels that way.  I searched the eyes of the wise and knowing grandmother wondering if she thought about her daughter’s journey, far more vast than she could ever envision.   Wisdom knows that Matthew’s hand will not always fit safely his mother’s grasp.  Wisdom knows it is easier to wipe the tears from a skinned knee than it is to witness tears from a broken heart. Wisdom knows the path of motherhood will stretch the heart in ways never imagined, and joys and worries will take on whole new meanings.  Wisdom knows the rocky road, but also knows the power of love.

As Matthew stirred, both women were called to his presence. Matthew’s grandmother placed her hand on her daughter’s arm as if to say, “I’ve got it.” Without pause, she caressed his head and rubbed his belly settling him again towards the slumber of his dreams. All was well.

I think of my own daughter, and the pending transformation she will undergo one warm summer day in just a few months. I look forward to being privy as she charters her own territories as mom. Every once in a while, I also hope my weathered hands offer a touch that can console, and a walk that will reassure, not only the baby, but also my emerging mother of a daughter. I already smile in anticipation of the blossom of her love unleashed. And I look forward to suggesting from time to time that we do lunch together. I expect my heart to stretch in new ways too. I hear being a grandmother is the best.