My eldest son became a young father last fall, a challenge that he has risen to with beautiful grace that absolutely humbles me.
In a matter of months, this wild, reckless boy transformed into is a strong, fine man; an able, willing provider; a patient, loving partner; and a kind, gentle father.
As for me, I really didn't know what grandmotherhood was going to be about, but I guessed it would just mean that there would be a new child in our family to love.
I didn't predict that my love for my son was going to take on new dimensions. I didn't know it was possible to love him more or more deeply.
Nor did I predict that my love for my granddaughter would be filtered through-- inextricable from-- my love for my son and his love for his daughter. It's hard to describe.
I began to understand it the day my granddaughter was born. Of course, I was deeply moved by the arrival of this precious new being. But I was absolutely floored by the curve of my son's shoulder as he held the warm bundle of his daughter for the first time. And by the softness of his face as her tiny hand curled around his finger.
My son and his family visit me sometimes, and my dear little granddaughter, now eight months old, has just learned to crawl. It seems I need to vacuum more. And I need to do some rearranging to accommodate a little explorer in Grandma's house.
I love way my son and his girlfriend look at their baby girl, the way they hold her and the way they talk to her.
I love how my son won't let his daughter put a metal spoon in her mouth in case she might chip her two brand-new teeth.
I love the way he put leggings on her when her newfound crawling ability made her bare knees turn red from the carpet.
I love the way he tells her she's the prettiest girl in the world, second only to her mother, and her mother responds, "No, she's way prettier," and my son and his girlfriend give each other a little smile.