11/21/24

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

It had to happen.

Without a doubt, I knew it was coming. But I wasn’t ready.

It just ushers in a whole new season. A whole new chapter. A whole new…EVERYTHING.

My 11-year old granddaughter is now taller than I am.

I mean, come on. I should have at least one more year of granddaughter smallness.

It happened last night. Grandgirl Maya Mae had her very first orchestra concert, where she plays the viola. I sat through a lovely rendition of “Hot Cross Buns”, which they called  the “Long Song”, and two others, and I kept my eyes trained on that girl, sitting in the front row, carefully and studiously moving her fingers and her bow across her instrument. Her intensity reminded me exactly of my daughter Olivia at that age. Olivia went on to play all through high school, and then, in college, since her school didn’t offer orchestra, she auditioned for a professional orchestra and played there for several years. She’s only recently put her violin down, as she works her way through grad school and internships, and all of that fun stuff.

But now, here I was again, sitting at a middle school orchestra concert.

So much lately has been making me feel old. But I really enjoyed this, and looked forward to watching another member of my family become immersed in music. I played the trumpet and sang in chorus at school, and now I’m taking piano lessons. My sons played the trumpet and drums, respectively, while my daughters played flute and violin. My three kids from my first marriage also took piano lessons, and Olivia has taken lessons in guitar and ukelele as well.

And now, little Grandgirl Maya Mae, with the viola.

So much for the little.

After the orchestra concert, we waited in the school cafeteria for Maya to make her appearance. I gave her a hug and a kiss and immediately noticed I was not reaching down. She walked past me to go hug her grandfather, my ex-husband from my first marriage, and as she did, I said, “Wait a minute.”

She looked at me.

“You’re looking me level in the eye,” I said.

She nodded and grinned.

“No, she’s not,” said my ex-husband. “She’s looking down at you.” (There’s a reason why we’re divorced.)

And there it was. My son told me that Maya has shot up 6 inches over the last several months.

For goodness sake, STOP!

I wasn’t even sure I wanted to be a grandmother. My vision of a grandmother was Grandma Walton from my favorite television show, The Waltons. I don’t bake cookies. I don’t wear aprons. When my oldest son got married, I wasn’t even fifty years old yet. I told him on his wedding day that if he made me a grandmother before I turned fifty, I would remove the apparatus that made me a grandmother before I was fifty.

I was fifty-four when Maya was born. My son is a good boy.

I actually saw Maya before she was born, when I was invited in to watch an ultrasound. And that’s all it took to wipe away any negative thoughts I had about being a grandmother. As I watched on the grainy screen, I saw that little face and she was already smiling. I melted. I might even have considered wearing an apron.

Well, no.

I was also present in the delivery room, and I watched Maya slide into this world. Oh, the glory of that moment. It’s not something I will ever forget.

I’m not your usual grandmother. And I think Maya is just fine with that. She’s not the usual grandkid. I relish being with her.

As she looked at me last night (or as she looked down at me, as the ex would say), it was like time stopped for a minute. And the thing I noticed was the evenness of her gaze. Steadfast. Strong. Level. And I gazed right back at her.

Heading into this uncertain world with its uncertain future, my granddaughter is growing up as a strong woman. She’s doing this because she is being raised as a much beloved child, a much beloved grandchild. I simply can’t imagine loving anyone more.

As we all separated last night and walked to our cars, and then drove away, I had a moment of feeling intensely bereft. Everyone else walked away with somebody. My son left with his wife and my granddaughter. My ex left with his wife. My daughter-in-law’s parents left with each other.

I walked alone.

Michael would have been there on this night, if he could. He attended more of Olivia’s concerts than I did, because I was often teaching on a night she performed. He called Maya “Flirt,” and from the moment he met her, he was in thrall. Three days before he died, Maya visited him in hospice. He leaned over the bed rail and said, “Flirt, you keep on being a great girl.”

She has. And she will. I could see all of that in that solid gaze.

Last year, when Maya was at our home, she and Michael began to make up a story about, of all things, a potato. It became a joke between them. When Michael was shopping for our Christmas celebration dinner, he bought Maya a potato, a real potato, and stuck it in her Christmas stocking.

I think it might have been her favorite present.

I think I will get Maya a potato for Christmas, and put a sticker on it that says, “To Flirt.”

I will be so happy to look up into those eyes when she opens it.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.