I have loved watching the relationship my kids have with their grandparents. When I was born, I had two living grandparents, and one died three months later. So while he got to hold his youngest grandchild (there were no more after me), I don’t remember him at all. The last remaining grandparent died when I was 11. I don’t mean this as a criticism in any way, but she was not a get-down-on-the-floor-and-play grandma. I loved her and I know she loved me, but it was just different.
So it’s been fun to watch my mom build things with blocks with Elias for hours, and to see Grandma Z play trucks and go check on the kitties at the farm next door while Grandpa Z hooted at their antics.
The boys don’t always know quite how to process the fact that two of their grandparents are gone. Elias, lying in bed with me this morning, told me that he wanted to die. “So you can see Gigi and Grandpa Z?” I asked. He nodded. We hugged and talked about it. (I wasn’t surprised; it seems like that’s fairly typical for someone his age.)
We’re managing. And one of the things we’re doing is making sure that visits to Grandma Z are a regular part of life. The boys love it. They love Grandma, and they love the junk that she feeds them, and they love going to see the kitties. It’s a beautiful thing.
So last night, when they were all piled in the truck getting ready to pull out, Paul wasn’t at all surprised that they were excited.
“I can’t WAIT to go!” Levi said, rubbing his hands together.
“Uh huh!” Elias joined in, bouncing in his seat.
“They’re so dear,” thought Paul. “I just love how much they love their grandma.” And then he pulled out and ran over the bubble wrap the boys had placed carefully behind the tires.
The boys shrieked with glee, and Paul laughed all the way to Grandma’s house.