I only got one look at that teeny, tiny, perfect little girl with ten fingers and ten toes and an angelic face before my world stopped.
Just twelve hours ago, I met her: my firstborn daughter’s born-too-early daughter, Layla. With a middle name just like mine, Lorraine. Sigh.
I can’t concentrate, I can’t read, I can’t sleep, and for goodness sakes, I just cannot focus on a presentation I’m set to give this coming Friday morning in NYC.
BECAUSE I’M A GRANDMA. (Granny? Gramma? Mama? Mimi? Mamie?)
AND SHE IS SO BEAUTIFUL. AND I CAN’T WAIT TO HOLD HER AND KISS HER AND LOVE HER AND SING TO HER AND READ TO HER AND FEED HER AND BURP HER AND TAKE HER SHOPPING AND POLISH HER NAILS AND DRESS BABY DOLLS AND GO SEE THE ELEPHANTS AT THE ZOO AND TAKE HER SWIMMING AND WATCH MOVIES AND SWING HER AFTER WE SHARE A CHOCOLATE ICE CREAM CONE THAT’S LEFT DRIPS STILL RUNNING DOWN HER CHEEK…
“Being a grandparent is AMAZING,” they said. “You just wait; it’s fantastic,” they said. “You can’t believe the love you will feel for that child—it’s indescribable,” I heard.
And I thought no way. Not possible.
I know how much I love my three children, and nothing will come close.
But something has.
“The Adventures of Mimi and Layla”—it’s got a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? And boy, will it be fun to write . . .