I just met my first grandchild. Holding my daughter’s son was transcendent. My little girl has grown this beautiful, perfect little boy in her body, gave birth to him and is now completely enraptured with him, as I was with her.
I think the Peeper looks like her…and sure, her husband, too—I think I saw a flash of a dimple. But the Peeper looks like himself, too, different and special and so cute you can hardly stand it.
Seeing him that first time…I just wanted to stare at him, drink him in. That perfect skin. The smell of his head, that dear soft spot. His sweet mouth and little nose. Eyelashes so new they’re nearly clear (but curly, like his mama’s). I held him, the sweet little burrito baby with dark hair, breathing noisily, making scrunchy faces, and smiling in his dreams. His forehead crinkled, his mouth opened and closed and pursed. I kissed his forehead and cheeks, and they are so soft! He has giant eyes, though I didn’t see them open, since he was conked out from leaving the hospital.
And then there is my daughter, glowing with happiness and responsibility, so beautiful, this girl who was just a bride last summer. Adulthood has come charging at her—college, graduate school, career, marriage, homeownership, and now motherhood without a pause in between. This little girl who used to finger-paint on herself, who loved nothing more than a bubble bath in the kitchen sink, the little girl who would go on the swing and say, “Push me much higher, Mama!” This young woman, now a mama herself.
“What a beautiful person you made!” I told her.
“Thanks, Mommy,” she said. “He’s perfect, isn’t he?”
And he is, as she was to me at that age, as her husband was to his parents. She has asked us not to post pictures of him, and I think that’s completely right. No baby needs to be on Instagram being viewed by strangers. At least, that's what she and her husband think, and I agree.
A few weeks ago, I took a photo of her and me and stood it on the desk in our great room. For luck, you know? That her baby would bring her as much joy as she's brought me. In the photo, she's just a few weeks old, snoozing on my shoulder, and my face was the same as hers is these days—lit up from inside, loving more than you ever knew you could, feeling more love than you knew was in the world, that fierce protectiveness and blissful, gentle adoration we moms have for our little ones.
My baby’s baby. What a gift from God he is. What a gift from God she has always been.
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