Last week I took Dee Dee and Sylvia to Colorado to visit my parents at their home near Tabernash. Although neither Don's nor my parents live nearby, I am determined my children will know their grandparents. Don's parents are a long day's drive away, so we see them several times a year. To visit Baba and Mimi (the names Clayton gave my parents when he was the age the girls are now) takes more doing. But despite the three hour plane ride I'd have to endure with two squirming, over-tired toddlers, I'd been looking forward to the trip for weeks: the gorgeous mountain views, my mother's gourmet meals, the respite from the mid-Atlantic heat wave, the rare chance to spend some quality time alone with the girls. In all of those respects, I was not disappointed. Always the early riser and still on Eastern time, Sylvia was up before six most mornings. And although I hated to abandon the coziness of my bed-- ah, the vacations of yesteryear, lounging beneath the covers with a novel, watching the sun creep up the mist-shrouded mountains-- it was nice to have a couple of hours alone with my youngest child, before the strength of her sister's personality nudged her ever so slightly to the side.
Thousands of miles from the relentless demands of our quotidian life-- the dishwasher to unload, the floor to mop, the vegetables to harvest from the garden--my focus as a mom shifted. Without a household to run, I found myself able to engage with the girls more fully. With my parents at the helm, preparing meals and doing laundry, I let responsibility lapse. Instead, I stacked blocks and read books and had repetitive, endearing conversations with my daughters.
"Baba?"
"Baba's upstairs."
"Baba?"
"Baba's still sleeping."
"Baba?"
"You'll see Baba soon."
"Mimi?"
"Mimi's upstairs, too."
"Mimi?"
"Mimi will be down soon."
"Mimi?"
Pouring water from cup to cup in the kiddie pool, ad infinitum, while Dee Dee announced, "La-la! La-la! La-la!" again and again, I found that I felt peaceful, not bored. I watched my daughters play and gazed at the mountains; there was nothing else I should be doing, and Mimi would come out soon to check on us and chat. Even the usual, tired venues-- the playground, the library, the grocery store-- felt novel with Mimi or Baba along. It is not hard for me to delight in my daughter's experiences, but to share that pleasure with my parents, who love those girls as I do but who see them with fresh eyes, that was a delight, indeed. Watching Sylvia go wild with joy at every passing dog, or Dee Dee devour her ice-cream cone with her signature gusto-- never had the twins seemed quite so cute, so lovable, so dear.
And yet, the thing that struck me the most from our time there, I had not anticipated. I already knew what wonderful grandparents my parents are. I had heard my mom sing song after song after song to Clayton, had seen my dad take Dee Dee on his back to water the garden, pull Sylvia to his lap for patty-cake. But this time, I saw it all differently. Watching my parents with my baby girls, I thought, "This is how they were with us! This is why I loved them so!" When Mom stroked Dee Dee's chest and sang to her-- "This is the way we stroke your chest..."-- Dee Dee, who is ceaselessly on the move, barreling through life and furniture, stood still for long moments, gazing at her grandmother in rapture and begging for more. Little Sylvia is in love with her new baby doll, hugging her tightly to her chest and rocking her in her arms. Within minutes of our arrival, Mom had given her a tea towel as a baby blanket and helped her put the baby to bed in the block box. "Shhhh!" they would both say, fingers to their lips.
Dad pulled the girls to his lap after meals, pushed a cranky Sylvia in the stroller until she fell asleep, stocked the fridge with baby yogurt, bought them ice-cream cones at the beach...
"Baba!" they announced delightedly when he came down in the mornings.
"The one and only!" he told them. "Aren't you cute, little girlie fru-frus?"
Of course, I don't remember my parents when I was nineteen months old. I have no memories of my childhood at all until quite a few years later. But as early as I can remember, I remember loving them both desperately. I was also fiercely proud that they were my mom and dad. In fact, for years and years, I remember believing so adamantly that I had the best parents and the best family, I was shocked when I eventually realized that it was possible for other moms and dads to be good parents, too, that other kids might be equally proud of their own families.
Watching my parents with my daughters, I felt like I was time-travelling. I could imagine myself in Dee Dee and Sylvia, experiencing my parents the way they did, the way my sister and brother and I must have when we were small. "This is what it is was like!" I thought. No wonder I loved them so! How lucky I was! And how lucky I still am. Thank you, Mom and Dad, for then, and for now.
