There's this song I know from when I was little called "By the Beautiful Sea." I haven't thought about it in a long time, not until this past week when I was jumping a wave in the Atlantic Ocean and noticed the keen absence of my grandmother, who died a little over a year ago.
Paul was just the kind of grandfather a little girl wants. The goofy jokes, the songs sung to me, the big, strong paw of a hand gentle on my arm. When he and my grandmother retired to Florida, we would spend every vacation with them, and he would sit on the terrace for hours after dinner with a glass (or two, or more) of wine, looking out at the ocean.
Take care of yourself as a parent. Your kids are watching you. They need to see that life is worth living as an adult. It's hard for kids to be happy when their parents are sad.
You guys make me laugh all the time and I know you look at me as your infallible leader in goofiness, make-believe and storytelling. But right now I have to admit, I'm scared. There's a chance I might forget you one day.
Grandparents are often ready, willing and happy to attend school activities, but may fear overstepping their boundaries when it comes to helping out with educational matters.
The story began in July 1923 in Brooklyn, NY. A boy named Leonardo was born to a Sicilian father, Carmelo, and Italian mother, Rose. "Leo," as he was called, was later joined by six sisters and one brother.
It started with a chance meeting: Richard Donohue Long, a tall, good-looking American soldier from Syracuse, New York, walked down a village street in France, just as Leone Sicre threw open a pair of wooden shutters to shake out a duvet cover. He ducked; she slammed the shutters closed.
How many of your children or grandchildren walk home from school? How many children are obese because they don't play outdoors? How many of our children have been taught about their environment?
You loved them immensely and were only just beginning to fall into your groove as "Grandma" when you left us. Like an artist who passed away before completing a painting, your role in my life and my children's lives feels unfinished, yet revered for its ultimate intent. That ultimate intent was always the purest of intents -- love.
I am now a step-grandmother. When our daughter married a father with custody of his two children, I sought out the counsel of a very good friend (and therapist) who advised me that the two young children joining our family were now also our grandchildren.
My daughter turns 1 today which is cause for much celebration; not only is it her first birthday but it marks the fact that my husband and I have made it through the first year without divorcing. No mean feat when you consider that's 365 quarrels over who's the most tired.
I don't share my life, or my marriage, or my children, or my accomplishments, or my setbacks, or my fears, or my dreams with her.
I am a proud Baby Boomer, and believe our moniker is right on target. Our arrival caused a sonic boom in the population, our work ethic is both unsurpassed and bordering on maniacal, and we are hanging onto relevancy like a cat being pulled from a scratching post filled with catnip. We survive even when the Millennials wish we would die already so they could find a job.
We all have those "blah" mornings. Unlike some of my friends who are "night owls," I am a morning person. I usually wake up eager to look out our bedroom window, to welcome the world into my life.