Special Request

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A while ago I visited with The Three Magical Creatures. I read The Oldest Magical Creature a couple of my stories which were specific to her or her mom or her sisters. I wanted her editorial input as she is seven now and has opinions on things.

She seemed more or less pleased to be one of the topics I write about on a regular, however she asked that one day I write a story just about her.

And I have to tell you, I’ve put it off for awhile simply because the emotions involved with writing about your first born grandchild are so completely difficult to express. You want to get the words just so — so the rest of world can fully comprehend The Magic that they are.

So here it is. My go at that. And just know — whatever I put down here — multiply it by 1000 million and you might just have an inkling of how amazing this kiddo truly is.

She is The First.

She is The Magic that created “Real Nana”. The night her mother called me to tell me she had been born, I sat on the edge of my bed and cried uncontrollably. Relief, joy, love, happiness — so many emotions mixing together in a giant swirl in my heart — bubbling up and making me into someone I had never been before. A Grandmother. Just. Like. That.

She is tender heart and quiet moments. She is wild fits of joy running madly with her sisters. She intuitive insights and wise words. She is innocent eyes looking at the world brand new. She changes nearly daily. Growing, learning, mastering her life.

She is a mini version of her mother, who was my miniature when she was a child. Its like looking at a carbon copy slightly remade. But better. Like someone took all your best parts and built a copy but then took all the best parts of that copy and made something so utterly fantastic you just stand in awe of it. And you only have the vaguest notion it could have started with your raw material.

The thing I love most is talking to her. Usually over coloring books or Lego sets. I have found this to be the most profound experience. To sit causally at the kitchen table or on the floor, side by side, just us. The conversation roams gently through her life. I learn so much about her and the way she processes the world. I hear about her days, her fears, her loves, her losses. Neutral ground. Safe space. She honors me with her trust and love.

She is seven now. I have become accustomed to her voice and manner. She is in school and has her own life, distinct likes, dislikes and opinions on things. She is learning to be human, a whole complete person right before my very eyes.

She runs to hug me when I walk in the door and clings to me when I take my leave at our good byes. She is getting a bit too big for me to pick up — but not quite. I can still lift her. And I do.

She is kindness wrapped around a soul of hidden fierce. She knows justice from injustice — versed well by her parents in the ways of love for her sisters, her friends, the greater world. And even at her young age, takes a stand for the underdogs in her world.

She’s a writer. Given a journal by her other grandmother, she writes about her special times in it. The thought makes me happier than I can share in mere words. There is no adequate verbage in our language to describe this sort of emotion. Everything about her brings me joy.

The last time I watched her and her sisters, she came down with a stomach bug. I nursed her back to health one teaspoon of water at time over the course of a couple days, spoon feeding her clear liquids every two hours. It reminded me of earlier days when the spoons held applesauce and pureed carrots. Where had the time gone?

I’m sure the next seven years will go by just as fast. And I will be here for her. Enjoying every chance to sit with her and be. And listen. And hold space, just for her.

I hope she knows — always — that from the moment she came into existence — that moment her mother and father shared the news of her coming with us — I loved her. And that is all she or her sisters ever have to do. Simply exist and they own my heart.

But she was The First. She who made me — Real Nana.




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