I remember something remarkable about my grandmother. She was raised in the South and had a tough life. She ran a dairy farm by herself after my grandfather left and raised five children. She was cool as a cucumber but tough as nails. As she aged, this miraculous thing happened to her – she began opening up and getting more girlish and you could almost see her enjoying herself.
Sometimes, when I see T jumping up and down like a pogo stick because she’s happy, I can see the child she was. The one her mother said used to go out into the woods near their house and play for hours and come home so dirty that her nickname Pipi Long Stocking actually became Pipi Dirty Stocking. I see this child in her that is part of her stubborn face, her happy face, and her loving face.
She tells me all the time that I’m like a child. Really I say? Well, that’s quite an accomplishment given the fact that it was hard to be a child when I was mothering my own mother. For me, childhood was something I ran out of as fast as I could. If today, T sees me smile like my six year old photo where I’m grinning to beat the band, or if she sees me carefree and happy like a child, then I’ve come to a place I’ve always wanted – I’ve waited nearly half a century to enjoy my childhood. Better late than never.