Dear Shayna,
This is 1994. You are two years old, and I, your “Bubbe,” am embarking on an exciting journey of recording my thoughts about our relationship as I experience it—thoughts, feelings, or anything else I might choose.
I want you to know that I never thought I had it in me to feel so passionate about a baby! I hate to admit it, but it is true. I do not remember being so smitten with your mom or Uncle Johnny when they were babies. That was a long time ago. I was busy getting my degree, and time passed. They were babies no more. They grew up without me noticing.
Not with you, my love. I started bonding with you when you still were in your mother’s womb. Your mom named you Shayna way before your birth. I used to pat your mother’s stomach, talk to you, and watch you kick. You were an active little fetus! You kicked and kicked until you were good and ready to join us. I do not think you remember (ha-ha), but you gave your mom a real hard time. You were so big (I am not sure how much you weighed, but I know it was over nine pounds) that your head could not get through the “normal” channel, I mean the vagina, and they had to lift your chunky self out the “other” way, the caesarian way. I want you to know that I was outside your mother’s door (they would not let me watch your arrival; one person—your dad—was the only one permitted) waiting for your arrival.
When I first held you in my arms—I swear I am not making it up—you looked straight into my eyes, holding your gaze steadfast, and I was hooked on you forever.
Prior to your arrival, I was told by many of my contemporaries who had grandchildren, “Wait until you have a grandchild; there is nothing like it. You will love them to death!” What an awful expression, “love them to death.” I wonder where that came from. I did not want to hear this. I thought, “Please do not tell me how I’m going to feel,” all the time being concerned I might not be able to feel the way I am “supposed” to. Well, it was true for me, although I am sure not every grandparent feels that way; there is feeling and there is feeling. To tell you the truth, I do not give a “hoot” how other people feel. I am absolutely elated that I am capable to salivate each time I think of you. By the way, when you see me and your face lights up and you call me “Bubbe,” I know you share my joy of “specialness.” I’m not sure there is such a word, but it feels like a fit.
10-27-94. You slept over last night. We have to do it more often, now that you are willing to sleep in “Uncle Johnny’s bed.” I could not believe how you matured, how cooperative you have become. Six months ago when you slept over, you cried when I would put you to bed and cried if I suggested you sleep in “Uncle Johnny’s bed.” That night you slept with us and kicked me all night. No wonder I needed to recuperate and wait until you were more mature—just like you were last night! You ate dinner with us: ravioli, cottage cheese, and peaches. You let me change your clothes into your pajamas. We watched the “Ducky” video; we had chocolate yogurt, and watched part of Beverly Hills, 90210. Last night, watching those steaming love scenes, I, your Bubbe, was pondering what you thought about all this commotion. What you said was, “She is crying for her daddy; she goes to sleep with daddy.”
I wonder how your parents are going to restrict, or rather oversee, the programs you and your brother or brothers watch (your mom wants one more sibling for you—for herself, really—your father has perhaps other ideas) to make sure they are age appropriate. Every generation of parents goes through the same apprehensions; we all survive.
Back to last night: When I suggested going to sleep, you went willingly to Uncle Johnny’s bed, asked me to lie down with you, and went to sleep in no time. In the middle of the night, you called “Bubbe” only once. I lay next to you, fell asleep with you for a while, and left you asleep until the morning.
It was good having you with me. You are my absolute joy. I am thankful for you, for the feelings you elicit in me. I am a lucky woman. I look forward to our journey.