grandkids

by Sarah Abbott

Our family story would not be complete without this chapter. These two “littles” have brought to us what was missing. Thank you to their mother for expanding and enriching our world and also for sharing these words.

For all my life, there have been parts of my story I know, not because I remember them, but because those who came before me held the memories and passed them on to me. I know about the Kansas heat the summer I was born and the doctor singing the Sara Lee jingle when he learned my name. I know about the road trip to Colorado in my first weeks of life and the portable baby bed crafted out of a cardboard box.

It’s different with my children. When we first met in 2016, they already had lives and experiences which I cannot speak to. I do not hold their earliest memories, and these stories are not mine to share. The first time I met my son was in a conference room full of caseworkers where he anxiously paced the perimeter of the room, looking out the windows and listening to music on his toy. He was a bundle of movement, pacing the floors, drumming every surface and making music everywhere he went. I brought him home four days later.

He was so tiny that at seven years old, he could still easily fit in my lap or ride on my back while I completed chores and made dinner. The day I brought my son home, I spoke to my daughter for the first time. I called her to introduce myself and give her an update on her brother, and from our very first conversation I was struck by her incredible tenderness towards her siblings and her willingness to show me, a complete stranger, an abundance of grace. Our relationships happened individually and over time. I got to know my son over hours of pushing him on the swings at the park, taking walks, building forts, and carrying him in my arms and on my back. My daughter and I connected over weekend visits and family outings until she was no longer visiting, she was just home. Over a summer of jigsaw puzzles, camping trips, family dinners and evening tea we became a family of three.

Over the past seven years we have created our own shared family history, inside jokes, rituals and traditions. We often reminisce together: remember the Christmas we tried to go to the light show that had been sold out for weeks or the time we nearly burned down the porch with the ladybug firecracker? Remember when we went to the drive-in movie and Kiko took a bite out of the car’s steering wheel? There is the week we spent at the beach, seeing the ocean for the first time and the months of Covid spent baking and having movie marathons. There are years of collected memories now, many good, some hard, just like every family.

My kids are their own remarkable people filled with unique traits for which I can take no credit: My son’s silky, soft hair, long eyelashes and intricate drumming rhythms. My daughter’s beautiful skin, artistic talent and love of animals. None of this comes from me. Yet, over time, we have shared pieces of ourselves with each other. My daughter has inherited my mom’s pie baking skills. My son shares my dad’s love for nature and road trips.

My son is teaching me to appreciate hip hop music and be present in the here and now. My daughter is teaching me to be more emotionally honest and to approach life with curiosity. I know I don’t get to choose which traits of mine my kids will adopt. My hope is that my influence in their life doesn’t ever change who they are but encourages them to fully be themselves. My hope is that whatever else they take from me, first and foremost, they know they are loved unconditionally

Although I am not genetically related to my kids and the three of us are very unique individuals, we also share a lot of similarities. We share a love for soft blankets, cozy spaces and warm lighting. We share an appreciation for honest conversations and being together in silence. We share an understanding that there is value in our differences and communication is more than words. Over the years we have developed our own shorthand of whistles, clicks and quacks that communicate nothing specific but everything important. It means we listen to one another, both what is spoken and unspoken. It means we see one another both our uniqueness and similarities. It means we speak each other’s language. And when one of us calls, the others will answer.

We have 13 grandchildren ranging in age from 23 to 1. Sometimes that realization still shocks me – that we are the grandparents. Not the kids, not even the parents, but the grandparents. That role should be played by my mother or Paul’s mom and dad. But in truth, they are gone and the roles have been re-cast. The grandparenting has fallen to us.

So maybe it’s time to explain exactly how Paul became The Colonel.

Over twenty years ago we were having dinner with our oldest son Sean and his wife Marge. We visited about this and that through the salad and the main course and then came the reason for the invitation: “What do you want the grandkids to call you?” We were going to be grandparents!!!! Obviously we were over-the-moon excited. The speed with which we delivered our answers reflects our personalities. I blurted out as though I had been thinking about this forever and was just waiting for the opportunity to share it (which of course was true) “NANA! I want to be called Nana!!” Paul said, “I’ll have to think about it and get back to you.”

But he couldn’t decide. My nephew, who had been a grandparent for a couple of years already, went by Papa Nick which I always thought was kind of cool. I suggested Papa Paul. He rolled his eyes. “That sounds like I should wear a beret and have a cigarette holder.” Clearly that was not going to happen. “Well, there’s always Grandpa.” Nope. That wasn’t an option either.

My sister Lila was married to a man named Tony. But he never went by Tony. Lila called him Slim and his kids all called him Snads. The Slim I got. Snads? Who knows? But Paul liked it. Then there were our friends, Julius and Audrey. Audrey’s Dad went by Chief. His kids called him The Chief and his grandkids called him The Chief. And Paul really liked that one. A lot. I think he actually wanted to be called The Chief but that was taken. So somehow he settled on The Colonel. I’m not sure where it came from, but that’s what he decided. And now – a dozen grandchildren later – he is, indisputably and without a doubt, The Colonel. You will understand when I say that, along the way, this has created some interesting moments and some “issues”.

1. Here’s the first problem. Sean was in the Marine Corps for four years. Then he got out, went into the business world, got married, and had three kids. When Paul chose The Colonel as his name, he had no idea that Sean would re-enlist and be a Marine for the next 20 years. That we would be spending a lot of time on military bases. See where I’m going with this? It got a little awkward to be walking around a military base with a four old who is yelling at the top of his lungs, “Colonel! Colonel! Wait for me!” and watch all the young privates suffering whiplash from spinning around in circles looking for the officer they were supposed to salute.

2. When he chose the name, I’m sure he wasn’t thinking about a toddler’s vocabulary and how, when they are asked to pronounce a word that is unfamiliar to them, they will replace it with a similar sounding word that they recognize. Thus “Colonel” became “Turtle” for Jackson, the first born grandchild, and if our own kids had had anything to do with it, it would have stuck.

But to his credit, he held the line and by the time the next one came along, Turtle was in the rear-view mirror, and he was firmly entrenched as The Colonel. Ezra calls him Kerkel – but he is outnumbered by the seven older ones so I doubt it will gain any traction. If you can get them going in the right direction, the ones down the line just sort of seem to fall into step.

3. When he said he would be The Colonel I asked him what he was going to say when these kids grew up and asked him what war he fought in. “I’m going to tell them ‘you have no idea how many battles I’ve fought’.” Fair enough. After 40 years in ministry, I couldn’t really argue with that.

4.. But then there is. Nana and the Colonel sounds like a sit-com. Am I right? You can just hear the voice over now. “Next week on Nana and the Colonel.. . .”

But it is what it is and now all the bigs are used to it and the littles don’t know him as anything else and so Colonel it is. They could not love him any more if he were a General.