My husband was out of town for several days during the month of June (side note: by the end of a 9-day stretch, only God could have stood between me and the man/woman/mechanical airplane issue/weather-related delay that would have attempted to keep him from arriving home to me as scheduled). This situation in general sucked, first because I love him and he’s my best friend and I just plain miss him when he’s not around. But second, his role in making our family function effectively was noticeably absent. When one component of a system breaks down, either the entire operation comes to a halt or the other pieces have to work harder to compensate. I will say both of these happened on occasion while he was gone.
Enter Grandma and Grandpa (a.k.a. my son’s best friends over the last month, a.k.a. a blessed distraction from Daddy’s absence, a.k.a. my right hand, a.k.a. my saving grace). As they always do, my parents offered to help us out in any way they could, and we agreed they would come for a few days over one weekend to help me “break up the time.” I kept saying I’d be fine and it was up to them and it was really no big deal, but I am so glad they knew I was just being stubborn. And a little dumb.
Naturally, our four-month-old daughter selected this opportunity to embark on a sleep regression/growth spurt/strike of some sort. After several nights in a row of multiple wakings and fussiness culminating with an awful Friday night, I had reached my limit by Saturday. I had been under the weather all week and working every day, and I felt like a poor zombie excuse for a mother pieced together with some haphazardly applied make-up and bobby pins. I slogged through the morning and made sure everyone got lunch. When my mom suggested I lie down after I had put the baby down for a nap, it didn’t take much convincing to get me to go to bed.
My eyes opened at 2:30 in the afternoon to two distinct sounds. The first was the sound of my baby’s “waking up” cry. I knew she would be hungry, so I got out of bed and drowsily made my way to her bedroom. When I opened the door I was surprised to see my mom holding her. “Oh,” I said, “did she just wake up?” My mom glanced at the clock thoughtfully and said with a smile, “No…she first woke up about 45 minutes ago, and I’ve been rocking her ever since. I wanted you to get some rest.” She looked so happy to have had the opportunity.
The second sound I had heard when I woke up was the garage door opening. This struck me as slightly odd because my parents are from out of town and tend to not venture out much on their own when they visit. As I carried my daughter downstairs my dad was walking in the door. “I went to a couple places and found the part you need to fix this leaky faucet,” he said, motioning to the kitchen sink. “But, I think they’re charging too much so I’m going to find it cheaper for you online.” Dad was disappointed, not because he had wasted his own time trying to solve our problems, but because he wasn’t able to fix it for us that day himself.
I was utterly speechless. On any typical day, these two acts of kindness – holding my baby and trying to fix our blasted sink – seem nice enough and may make you smile in appreciation. However, in that moment, it was all I could do to keep from crying. Those small things that seemed so natural and insignificant to them meant more to me than I could express, and they came just at the right time. I needed a win, big time.
It was then I realized parents just keep giving to their kids. That week in particular I had been feeling the weight of my children’s demands on me alone – food, comfort, snuggles, baths, clean clothes –and after simply meeting what I consider their basic needs I had nothing left to give. As a mother of young children, I often feel that way. That I’m spending so much time caught up in the minutiae of daily routines that I can’t stop to think about anything else. But my parents had swooped in to joyfully fill the gaps. They helped get our system back up and running in my husband’s absence, and they induced many toddler and baby giggles in the process.
As I marvel at what I perceive as a sacrifice on their part, I am aware they do not view it that way at all. I dare say the fact that my three-year-old goes to the guest bedroom first thing in the morning when they are visiting is a blessing to all of us. Of course we will do whatever we can for family, and especially for our children. It’s more of a reaction than a choice. And it brings us joy.
Grandparents: heroes in the eyes of their grandchildren. And their own children. Thanks, Mom and Dad.
