From Chicken Soup for the Grandparent's Soul


A good message will always find a messenger.

Amelia Barr

So many of our friends were becoming grandparents, and we kept hearing, “You’re going to love being grandparents. There’s nothing like it.”

These are the same people who have “Let Me Tell You About My Grandchildren” bumper stickers plastered all over their car bumpers. The same people who refer to themselves as “Evan’s grandmaw” or “Ashley’s grandpaw.”

I didn’t doubt for a minute that they relished their roles. But that wasn’t for John and me. We were entering the senior citizen’s discount stage of our lives, looking forward to the day when we might be able to actually get that motor home and do some traveling. I enjoy my quiet time, and John would truly love nothing more than to be able to wander off to his favorite fishing hole and linger awhile under the shade of a big ol’ magnolia tree with a cold adult beverage in hand.

Now we’ve raised two perfectly beautiful sons for whom the phrase “boys will be boys” was most certainly coined. There are no more messy diapers or cutting teeth or endless nights of worrying when one of them came down with a fever or the chicken pox. We wanted to trade our family car in for a spiffy little two-passenger candy apple red Corvette—no room for a car seat or diaper bags or any of the necessary gear one needs when taking a day trip to Disney.

Then, along comes Quinton—eight pounds, thirteen ounces of pure joy—double dimples and a smile that would melt your heart. A little bit of feistiness that comes from, well, several sources on his daddy’s side and a sweetness that is most assuredly a combination of his precious mommy and daddy.

Okay, you pals of mine—you tried to tell us and we half-listened. We never dreamed that the depth of love we could feel for such a tiny human being could run so deeply. Or that we can hardly wait to hear the phone ring and to be asked, “Can you come over and watch Quinton while we eat?”

Holding that sweet little bundle brings a sense of calm over me, the likes of which I can hardly believe. Even if he’s having a fussy spell, I still marvel at the softness of his features, the smell of that oh-so-soft baby skin. So, maybe I’ll just get used to the fact that my graying hair and wrinkled skin qualifies me for the role of someone’s grandmother.

Now, will someone please tell me where I can buy one of those silly “Let Me Tell You About My Grandchildren” bumper stickers?

Debby Stoner



Having spotted some acquaintances, Vera activates the Instant Grandchildren-Photo DisplayTM in her purse.

CLOSE TO HOME. ©John McPherson. Reprinted with permission of Universal Press Syndicate. All rights reserved.

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