Joys of Grandparenting
Luane Castle’s seven month old grandson Hudson.
My Baby Grandson by Luanne Castle
My baby grandson’s smile is a mirror
that insists I practice my smile,
though my old cheeks crack each time
with years of limited use.
He smiles more when I smile back
and then he laughs to show his glee
to teach me over and over again
to be joyful with each small moment.
My baby grandson rolls back and forth,
rocks on hands and knees, and curls
to sitting. When I demonstrate crawling
he laughs again. Grandma is so silly.
His tiny eyebrows raise and face puckers
in surprise as he studies Grandma
try to get up off the !@#%& floor
with her hip, knee, and back arthritis.
My baby grandson’s eyelids droop
and he rubs them with his hand back.
He snuggles into my arms to sleep
as if we’ve always had each other.
My baby grandson’s smile is a mirror
that insists I practice my smile,
though my old cheeks crack each time
with years of limited use.
He smiles more when I smile back
and then he laughs to show his glee
to teach me over and over again
to be joyful with each small moment.
My baby grandson rolls back and forth,
rocks on hands and knees, and curls
to sitting. When I demonstrate crawling
he laughs again. Grandma is so silly.
His tiny eyebrows raise and face puckers
in surprise as he studies Grandma
try to get up off the !@#%& floor
with her hip, knee, and back arthritis.
My baby grandson’s eyelids droop
and he rubs them with his hand back.
He snuggles into my arms to sleep
as if we’ve always had each other.
Lullaby by Rose Mary Boehm
I hold her in the crook of my arms,
sing ‘Twinkle, twinkle little star…’
Hear her sigh of contentment and a little boredom.
I travelled half-way around the world.
We are separated by 10158 kilometers
or 6312 miles
or 5485 nautical miles -
just googled it and don’t like the result.
The nautical miles sound better.
I am shy around things I love,
I try and think to them, just as I do to plants,
hoping for telepathic connections. But
she wants a story, a voice, lulling and reassuring.
You’re so new, and we only met last year.
From the first minute after ‘landing’ you knew.
I saw it in your eyes. You knew and you accepted.
Your choice, little person, and so very welcome here.
What will you bring us?
Yep, I’m not your mum. Don’t smell quite right,
but I’m your mum’s mum. One removed.
And you’ve known me from then,
when all of you fitted onto my chest, breathing me.
5485 nautical miles and over 70 years
separate us, small newcomer, and yet it’s now
and here and everywhere and
your mother will be stricter than I used to be.
I hold her in the crook of my arms,
sing ‘Twinkle, twinkle little star…’
Hear her sigh of contentment and a little boredom.
I travelled half-way around the world.
We are separated by 10158 kilometers
or 6312 miles
or 5485 nautical miles -
just googled it and don’t like the result.
The nautical miles sound better.
I am shy around things I love,
I try and think to them, just as I do to plants,
hoping for telepathic connections. But
she wants a story, a voice, lulling and reassuring.
You’re so new, and we only met last year.
From the first minute after ‘landing’ you knew.
I saw it in your eyes. You knew and you accepted.
Your choice, little person, and so very welcome here.
What will you bring us?
Yep, I’m not your mum. Don’t smell quite right,
but I’m your mum’s mum. One removed.
And you’ve known me from then,
when all of you fitted onto my chest, breathing me.
5485 nautical miles and over 70 years
separate us, small newcomer, and yet it’s now
and here and everywhere and
your mother will be stricter than I used to be.
Joe Cottonwood and baby grandson
Two poems by Joe Cottonwood
Some Day, Grandson
Infant of painful belly
sleeps only when held upright,
gently bounced,
seeking skin contact,
the family scent, family touch,
flesh to flesh.
My daughter, so tired,
new mother, must rest.
Men need to do things. At least, I do.
The porch rail remains half-built,
the truck idles roughly,
not this evening’s chore.
Just as I once rocked my daughter, now
her babe sleeps with warm little cheek
against my stubbly old,
hot puffs of breath
on my grainy neck.
Some day, grandson, you may wear
my scent of sweat, sawdust, motor oil.
For now you smell of milk, mommy, peace.
Life is so basic with a baby:
doing nothing, giving comfort,
the work of love.
First appeared in Dove Tales
Some Day, Grandson
Infant of painful belly
sleeps only when held upright,
gently bounced,
seeking skin contact,
the family scent, family touch,
flesh to flesh.
My daughter, so tired,
new mother, must rest.
Men need to do things. At least, I do.
The porch rail remains half-built,
the truck idles roughly,
not this evening’s chore.
Just as I once rocked my daughter, now
her babe sleeps with warm little cheek
against my stubbly old,
hot puffs of breath
on my grainy neck.
Some day, grandson, you may wear
my scent of sweat, sawdust, motor oil.
For now you smell of milk, mommy, peace.
Life is so basic with a baby:
doing nothing, giving comfort,
the work of love.
First appeared in Dove Tales
The La-la of Life
Grandson,
unlike most of humanity
enjoys the sound of my singing,
so together we make up songs.
He at ten weeks
with green eyes, jug ears
and the occasional goofy smile
is an honest audience, a toothless critic
who enjoys lengthy vowel sounds:
ooo ooobie
and
gree-een eyes, green eyes,
gree-een eyes, green.
He frowns upon hard consonants.
Did Beethoven sing to babies?
Did Buddha?
He shoulda.
I compose, grandson edits,
new melodies fill the room.
Don’t listen.
First Appeared in Verse-Virtual
Grandson,
unlike most of humanity
enjoys the sound of my singing,
so together we make up songs.
He at ten weeks
with green eyes, jug ears
and the occasional goofy smile
is an honest audience, a toothless critic
who enjoys lengthy vowel sounds:
ooo ooobie
and
gree-een eyes, green eyes,
gree-een eyes, green.
He frowns upon hard consonants.
Did Beethoven sing to babies?
Did Buddha?
He shoulda.
I compose, grandson edits,
new melodies fill the room.
Don’t listen.
First Appeared in Verse-Virtual
He’s just tall enough to reach the knob
and giggly with the power
to close the door in grandma’s face.
“Where’s the baby? Where’s he hiding?”
I ask as if I can’t see his little fingers
pulling the door ajar—checking
with one blue eye if I am still in the hallway,
watching. The game requires an audience.
A grandma willing to sit on the blue carpet,
legs spread in a V, ready to be ambushed
over and over by a laughing whirlwind,
clad in a neon yellow sleeper. The fleece fabric,
soft as his wispy blonde hair, tickles my cheek
as he tumbles into my arms for a quick hug,
before charging back behind the door to play again.
I want a picture. But my phone is downstairs
and I don’t dare break the mood, trying to capture
a moment which will never return, except in this poem,
where his laughter will never stop bubbling from his belly
and his busy legs will never be too big for footed jammies.
Originally published in Up! Magazine
Sawyer
and Reid Carroll-Allan
Two poems by Judith Waller Carroll
Zee
The geese from the nature preserve
fly past our house, their piping
a cross between hounds after a fox
and boisterous boys that taunt and tease.
Our grandson, barely a year
and right on the edge of speech,
points at the window and says, Zee,
his word for everything—the kitchen lights,
the spider plant, and these geese
forming a V as they gain height,
their cries now drowned out
by the roar and rattle of the garbage truck
as it lifts our recycle bin up in an arc
then returns it to the curb with a thump,
earning an excited Zee! from the highchair,
from this sweet boy, the son of our son,
his eyes wide at this world
he doesn’t yet have the words to describe.
From Ordinary Splendor
The Three-Year–Old Solves the World’s Problems
You have to take all the bad guys
and put them in a B-I-G pile
and then you have to surround
them with all your cars,
even the garbage truck,
and then when they get died
you bring in the ambulance
and the ambulance takes the cars
and the bad guys to the hospital.
And then they all get better.
Playing “Go Fish” with My Three-Year-Old Granddaughter by Joanne Durham
She admires the purple cats on the cards’ backs,
no matter her whole hand collapses into our sight.
She knows numbers, suits, upside down
faces of kings and queens,
but can’t keep their secrets. My eyes study the rug
to avoid the moral dilemma
of claiming the red Jack on fire in her hand.
We try hard to teach her this first play
of honest deception,
but isn’t her open hand what charms us?
My son distracts her to pull the 4 she needs
to the top of the pile,
where her joy in going fishing
will lead to a delicious catch.
What do the cards hold for her?
When her friends drive their cars too fast
around the curves, will she follow suit?
When first love crumbles, will she still believe
the deck is stacked in her favor?
Who will teach her when to fold
and when to stay in the game?
Lori Levy’s grandchildren Moriah and Isaiah
SECOND CHANCE by Lori Levy
Just when we’re beginning to forget how to play,
how to gaze at the world with awe,
little hands come to lead us back
to wonder and make-believe.
My husband, watching me in the yard,
says he can’t decide if I’m babysitting or
becoming one of them,
running, digging, squatting by the sandbox.
Girl/woman, woman/girl, I don’t know who I am.
Who can think of bills or debts, dishes, laundry,
when a grandson is lighting up at a fire truck
flashing down the street? Or when he dons fire hat
and water tank with hose and shouts for help
to put out the flames raging in the bushes.
Who remembers a mother-in-law in a nursing home bed
when a granddaughter rushes to stick her hands through the fence
to pet the neighbor’s golden retriever passing by?
What is more tender than her eager squeal:
Hi doggie! Hi! Hi!
Or the sweet sound of a child calling Savta, Grandma.
Somewhere beyond the gate at the end of the driveway,
people are killing each other, hating each other,
but on the grass with my grandchildren
life is an amusement park—
every bug and bud, every scurrying
squirrel and leaf-blowing gardener
a pure and simple marvel.
My Granddaughter Reads to a Cat by Abha Das Sarma
Sweetie you can turn the book to you,
he doesn’t need to look at it,
I said.
You must be kidding-
growls the mom therapist.
Her cat could be mistaken for an owl
of a fiercer face!
As we step into the Los Altos library
late Sunday afternoon,
a large number of therapy dogs make way
into the back hall alongside their handlers.
Big and small, eager faces
let the little hands caress them
as the words and stories began to float
from the little rugs spread in front.
It is a reading with a difference,
an ambiance of special camaraderie.
My granddaughter had always wanted to read to a cat
and we were fortunate to have found Alcot
albeit the grouchy duo of him and his handler
shooed the love away.
She chose a little dog next; Lucy was her name
And she listened to her read the alphabets.
It was an afternoon of delight,
of beautiful connections.
Sweetie you can turn the book to you,
he doesn’t need to look at it,
I said.
You must be kidding-
growls the mom therapist.
Her cat could be mistaken for an owl
of a fiercer face!
As we step into the Los Altos library
late Sunday afternoon,
a large number of therapy dogs make way
into the back hall alongside their handlers.
Big and small, eager faces
let the little hands caress them
as the words and stories began to float
from the little rugs spread in front.
It is a reading with a difference,
an ambiance of special camaraderie.
My granddaughter had always wanted to read to a cat
and we were fortunate to have found Alcot
albeit the grouchy duo of him and his handler
shooed the love away.
She chose a little dog next; Lucy was her name
And she listened to her read the alphabets.
It was an afternoon of delight,
of beautiful connections.
Sharon Waller Knutson in Tucson in 2001 with grandchildren Zach and Zoie
Children and Canyons are Grand by Sharon Waller Knutson
They were nine and eleven
and had never ventured
past the Salt Lake City limits
when they flew by themselves
on a Boeing jet to Tucson
to visit us for the first time.
I was worried the plane
would crash but there
they were our precious
cargo chattering
about flying among
the clouds like world travelers.
When we stayed in motels
on family reunions,
their grandfather had taught
them to swim so we couldn’t
keep them out of the pool
except when lightning flashed
and thunder crashed. Then
they would stand next
to the house enjoying
the warm shower wash
over their bodies.
We watched gunfights,
can can dancers and ate
corn dogs and cotton candy
at Old Tucson Studio,
saw Siberian tigers,
zebras and wildebeest
at the Tucson zoo
and cooled off in the caves.
When the summer was over,
they didn’t want to go home.
We drove to pick them up
the next summer so we could
bring their four-year-old sister
who was still too young to fly.
I’m going to Arizona to visit
my grandparents, she told
everyone but she had never
been away from her mother
so we expected to ride around
the block and take her home.
But she was mesmerized
by the rock formations
springing up in the scenery,
a herd of buffalo stopping traffic
and the beauty and wonder
of Hoover Dam
and the Grand Canyon
that she made it all the way
to Arizona holding my hand.
By that time we were living
in our earth home my husband
had built near Phoenix. Despite
the rattlesnake and her baby
and the killer bees taking over
the garage, the kids saw it
as a great adventure, as they
climbed mountains and walls,
rode roller coasters and bumper cars,
watched The Attack of the Clones
and ate popcorn, pizza and tacos.
But the favorite activity
of the youngest was to stand
at the window and watch
the wildlife. She was the first
to spot the baby coyote
between its mother’s legs
and the crows feeding worms
to babies barely out of the nest.
When the two oldest were teenagers
and opted to stay home, we drove
the youngest and her cousin
also 11 visiting from Washington
to Arizona via the Grand Canyon
where they lounged on giant
rocks under a sparkly sky.
When we got home, they waded
through water in the washes,
panned for gold dust and grandpa
taught them to play guitar.
They were nine and eleven
and had never ventured
past the Salt Lake City limits
when they flew by themselves
on a Boeing jet to Tucson
to visit us for the first time.
I was worried the plane
would crash but there
they were our precious
cargo chattering
about flying among
the clouds like world travelers.
When we stayed in motels
on family reunions,
their grandfather had taught
them to swim so we couldn’t
keep them out of the pool
except when lightning flashed
and thunder crashed. Then
they would stand next
to the house enjoying
the warm shower wash
over their bodies.
We watched gunfights,
can can dancers and ate
corn dogs and cotton candy
at Old Tucson Studio,
saw Siberian tigers,
zebras and wildebeest
at the Tucson zoo
and cooled off in the caves.
When the summer was over,
they didn’t want to go home.
We drove to pick them up
the next summer so we could
bring their four-year-old sister
who was still too young to fly.
I’m going to Arizona to visit
my grandparents, she told
everyone but she had never
been away from her mother
so we expected to ride around
the block and take her home.
But she was mesmerized
by the rock formations
springing up in the scenery,
a herd of buffalo stopping traffic
and the beauty and wonder
of Hoover Dam
and the Grand Canyon
that she made it all the way
to Arizona holding my hand.
By that time we were living
in our earth home my husband
had built near Phoenix. Despite
the rattlesnake and her baby
and the killer bees taking over
the garage, the kids saw it
as a great adventure, as they
climbed mountains and walls,
rode roller coasters and bumper cars,
watched The Attack of the Clones
and ate popcorn, pizza and tacos.
But the favorite activity
of the youngest was to stand
at the window and watch
the wildlife. She was the first
to spot the baby coyote
between its mother’s legs
and the crows feeding worms
to babies barely out of the nest.
When the two oldest were teenagers
and opted to stay home, we drove
the youngest and her cousin
also 11 visiting from Washington
to Arizona via the Grand Canyon
where they lounged on giant
rocks under a sparkly sky.
When we got home, they waded
through water in the washes,
panned for gold dust and grandpa
taught them to play guitar.
Sharon at Grand Canyon with Grandkids Tori and Dylan in 2009
Without our grandkids accompanying
us on vacations, we never would have
seen skeletons of Tyrannosaurus rex
at Dinosaur Hall in Mesa, fed a bottle
to a baby bear at Yellowstone Bear
World in Idaho, pet a stingray
in Utah. ridden a camel in Scottsdale,
or rescued the tortoise on the way
to Tortilla Flats and Canyon Lake
where we shopped, swam and picnicked.
Now they are all in their twenties
and thirties with kids of their own
but they still remember the Arizona days.
Are you still playing acoustical guitar?
They ask grandpa. Are the calves
still running in front of your car?
Sometimes I wake up at midnight
thinking I hear a child’s voice
from the empty bedrooms calling for me
and weep and smile at the same time.
Note: At 55, our daughter is now grandparenting eight grandchildren from newborn to 14 years.
us on vacations, we never would have
seen skeletons of Tyrannosaurus rex
at Dinosaur Hall in Mesa, fed a bottle
to a baby bear at Yellowstone Bear
World in Idaho, pet a stingray
in Utah. ridden a camel in Scottsdale,
or rescued the tortoise on the way
to Tortilla Flats and Canyon Lake
where we shopped, swam and picnicked.
Now they are all in their twenties
and thirties with kids of their own
but they still remember the Arizona days.
Are you still playing acoustical guitar?
They ask grandpa. Are the calves
still running in front of your car?
Sometimes I wake up at midnight
thinking I hear a child’s voice
from the empty bedrooms calling for me
and weep and smile at the same time.
Note: At 55, our daughter is now grandparenting eight grandchildren from newborn to 14 years.
Three poems by Mary Ellen Talley
Grandma Seuss
She will come by daylight,
she will come by moonlight,
she will come by flashlight,
even by miles of cellphone light,
reading books to you
she read to your mama years ago.
That must be Johnny Appleseed
eating applesauce and waiting to converse
with all the Kindergarten students
in Bremerton, Pemberton, Boise and Boston.
Dr. Seuss eats breakfast
aboard the little engine that could.
The rainbow fish shares shiny scales
with dolls and toys on the train
after wise octopus gives advice
not to think twice before being nice.
Dr. Seuss asks Grandma to bring
Peter's chair for him to sit on.
But it is snowing, so she brings
both a chair and an icicle umbrella,
so they can read about Peter’s snowy day.
Peter plays long, his mittens get wet,
then he comes inside where the mother of
three little kittens stands scolding her children.
Even after pie, so many dessert books to read.
Grandma opens up the Brother’s Grimm:
where it can be such a hassle
if you live in a castle, where it is unwise
to walk in the forest
without a fescue of rescue,
where a bobble of cobblers
entice a wife to stitch little britches.
Oh, close those taunting haunting pages.
Soon Fritz and Clara in The Nutcracker
guess that Uncle Drosselmeier
has a secret as he sits on top of the clock.
Dr. Seuss knows clocks tick their tock,
The Three Bears walk their walk,
Curious George saves the day,
and after Grandma finishes reading,
more stories snuggle struggle bubble up
under the covers and into the dreams
of jillions of children with eyes following words
heard, absurd, mystical magical words
ready to rhyme anytime ears jiggling and tingling
inside the nest of a child
on the mound, mountain, fountain of books.
Shh... all is quiet, it is truly a riot,
you could never buy it, this island of quiet,
except for the pillow,
where the child finally lies sleeping.
Grandma Seuss
She will come by daylight,
she will come by moonlight,
she will come by flashlight,
even by miles of cellphone light,
reading books to you
she read to your mama years ago.
That must be Johnny Appleseed
eating applesauce and waiting to converse
with all the Kindergarten students
in Bremerton, Pemberton, Boise and Boston.
Dr. Seuss eats breakfast
aboard the little engine that could.
The rainbow fish shares shiny scales
with dolls and toys on the train
after wise octopus gives advice
not to think twice before being nice.
Dr. Seuss asks Grandma to bring
Peter's chair for him to sit on.
But it is snowing, so she brings
both a chair and an icicle umbrella,
so they can read about Peter’s snowy day.
Peter plays long, his mittens get wet,
then he comes inside where the mother of
three little kittens stands scolding her children.
Even after pie, so many dessert books to read.
Grandma opens up the Brother’s Grimm:
where it can be such a hassle
if you live in a castle, where it is unwise
to walk in the forest
without a fescue of rescue,
where a bobble of cobblers
entice a wife to stitch little britches.
Oh, close those taunting haunting pages.
Soon Fritz and Clara in The Nutcracker
guess that Uncle Drosselmeier
has a secret as he sits on top of the clock.
Dr. Seuss knows clocks tick their tock,
The Three Bears walk their walk,
Curious George saves the day,
and after Grandma finishes reading,
more stories snuggle struggle bubble up
under the covers and into the dreams
of jillions of children with eyes following words
heard, absurd, mystical magical words
ready to rhyme anytime ears jiggling and tingling
inside the nest of a child
on the mound, mountain, fountain of books.
Shh... all is quiet, it is truly a riot,
you could never buy it, this island of quiet,
except for the pillow,
where the child finally lies sleeping.
In the Months Before He Can Talk
He takes my hand
to lead me to the door
to go outside,
makes a noise
that means
whatever I guess
and we agree on,
selects a strawberry
when I hold the box
his mother sent
with a lunch assortment,
takes a strip
of string cheese
and offers me one,
chooses water
over milk,
lifts his foot
to show passengers
on the ferry
his brown boots
especially if they have
boots like him.
That’s always
a conversation starter.
He waves
at ferry workers
when we leave the boat,
plays peek-a-boo
and rolls his hands
for Wheels on the Bus.
With his chubby hands,
he signs drink and milk
and more.
His thread of single words
is narrow
and he cannot
stitch words
together yet.
He purses his lips
and leans his face
into his mom and dads’
for kisses.
He used to cry
when it was time
for grandparents to leave.
Now he smiles
and lifts the palm of his hand
to his mouth
to return the kiss we blow.
We take several volleys
back and forth
as we depart.
Aubrey Acrostic
Aubrey does not
Understand that
Bedtime backrubs and story
Reading are not meant to last for-
Ever, so she keeps asking for more while grandma
Yawns
He takes my hand
to lead me to the door
to go outside,
makes a noise
that means
whatever I guess
and we agree on,
selects a strawberry
when I hold the box
his mother sent
with a lunch assortment,
takes a strip
of string cheese
and offers me one,
chooses water
over milk,
lifts his foot
to show passengers
on the ferry
his brown boots
especially if they have
boots like him.
That’s always
a conversation starter.
He waves
at ferry workers
when we leave the boat,
plays peek-a-boo
and rolls his hands
for Wheels on the Bus.
With his chubby hands,
he signs drink and milk
and more.
His thread of single words
is narrow
and he cannot
stitch words
together yet.
He purses his lips
and leans his face
into his mom and dads’
for kisses.
He used to cry
when it was time
for grandparents to leave.
Now he smiles
and lifts the palm of his hand
to his mouth
to return the kiss we blow.
We take several volleys
back and forth
as we depart.
Aubrey Acrostic
Aubrey does not
Understand that
Bedtime backrubs and story
Reading are not meant to last for-
Ever, so she keeps asking for more while grandma
Yawns
reverberations of loss by j.lewis
on the sixth anniversary of the birth
and death of my grandson
for christian. never forgotten
it would be easy to blame
the repeated playing of a new
blues favorite. the tempo
a less common twelve-eight thing
that rocks what it touches
with a soft, but unrelenting hand
or if not the music, then what
when five previous anniversaries
of "tiny baby" passing through
my stoic heart on his way
to forever have caused only
a shadowed sadness and a wish
that things had been different
maybe it took so long because
six years marks the first full measure
of a song of grief in six-eight time
and the full weight of the beat
and the beating that my soul took
that day and so many days since
caught up with me. the indescribable
helplessness to change the outcome
of that "worst day ever" echoing,
until like jericho, the walls
that held a growing sorrow at bay
crumbled and fell, brought down
by the reverberations of loss
Such fun to read poems by many grandparents! Lori Levy's "in the grass with my grandchildren life is an amusement park," Sharon Knutson's AZ adventures, as well as all the others. Of course, tempered by Jim Lewis's poignant reminder of loss.
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