Joy inside my tears

Forty-four years ago my life was turned upside down. The trajectory actually started in August of 1973. In the womb of my 15-year-old body, a baby was conceived. I met this wee bairn on May 22, 1974, and then I said good-bye. Until Friday, December 21, 2018.

Ten days earlier an adoption angel contacted me. She asked me if I had found my son. You see, for the past 15 years, I had been registering on adoption websites to help my son be able to contact me if he so desired.

(If you are interested in reading the whole story about my pregnancy in high school, you can read it in this book, "The Spirit of Adoption.")

At first, I was skeptical. I don't believe everything I read or fall for any email scams. Talking it over with Wade, my husband, we concluded that there was nothing to lose by asking Amy, my angel, what the process was.

By the end of the next day, I had my son's name, last known address, phone number, confirmation of matching adoption files, and link to his Facebook page. His name is Brian Jones. He lives in Valencia, California.

An event that I never imagined would ever happen was now suddenly going to take place. I was going to make contact with my firstborn son.

My sweet angel advised me on how to construct a letter that would be an introduction. Amy suggested that I keep it short, giving him information about my family, and offering nothing more than medical information and family history.

Sending the letter in a UPS envelope would allow for tracking without requiring a signature.

With Wade and Amy's approval on the content of my letter, the packet was mailed on Tuesday, December 18.

As is my nature, my mind raced with all the potential outcomes. Struggling to overcome this mind race, I kept busy and watched UPS's tracking on this package on my phone.

When I saw that it was finally delivered, the anticipation really became overwhelming.

A quick email to Amy was helpful as she helped me understand the different ways that people like Brian might respond to receiving this information. Amy was adopted as well. While her job is teaching, her vocation is to help adopted children and their birth parents find each other.

So many possibilities to consider: most adoptees take a few days to digest the information before making contact, or they may speak to a trusted family member or friend. Perhaps Brian was on vacation.

All I could do is go about my day and make sure my phone is on.

I memorized the phone number that was given to me so I wouldn't ignore it, thinking it to be a robocall.

On Friday night Wade and I attended a concert. Being the responsible concert-goer, I silenced my phone during the event.

After arriving home at about 8:00 pm, we changed into our evening at home attire and settled into the night.

At 10 pm I remembered that I had silenced my phone. When I reached into my purse to retrieve my phone, I immediately recognized the number listed as calling three times around 8 pm. My son was reaching out to me.

My heart raced with anticipation. I kept asking Wade what I should do! Call him back? Was it too late? Did I seem to anxious? He didn't leave a message, so what did that mean?

Then I thought to check Facebook. Bingo. He'd sent me a friend request.

It was all I needed to step off the ledge into the unknown. I hit redial.

With my phone on the speaker, so Wade could hear every word, the three of us talked for an hour. Well, at least two of us talked and one did a lot of listening.

Do I remember what was said? Not really. Wade would later refreshen my memory, along with observations that we had the same intonations to our voices. Brian rambled along in the story in the same manner as I did. We laughed the same.

Now to the point of this essay. The tears that flow from my eyes throughout the day are filled with joy. Until Brenna was born, and then Kalie, and then Jesse, the longing I had for my firstborn was muted. Having a baby at 16, then placing the child up for adoption, not being able to really talk about the emotions I had during those 9 months, there is bound to be some emotions.

The tears that are flowing from me now have been dormant for 44 years.

The depth of my love for Brenna, Kalie, and Jesse bring clarity to the love I have for Brian, even though the last time I saw him he was barely 1 day old. I was intentional in unconditionally loving my children because of the lack of unconditional love I felt in my youth.

It is impossible for me to believe that I love Brian any less than I do my other three children. However, it feels as if I have gone from zero to 500 in the last week. Truthfully, there is an aching in my being that is not being squelched with Facetime and phone calls. I need something more. I need to hold him. Though I don't think he will fit on my lap, I want to read him a bedtime story and tuck him into bed.

Equally as emotional is the realization that I now know that he was cared for and loved by his parents, the people who reached out to adopt him. I have so many questions for them. My heart wants to sit at their feet and offer them gifts of adoration and thankfulness for taking my boy and raising him so well. For loving him to the best of their ability, giving him the opportunity for happiness and success.

Isn't that what we want for our children?

This journey of adoption that I have been on for 44 years isn't over yet.

Did I mention I have a 13-year-old granddaughter?

Not a laughing matter

Omran Daqneesh. His 'home' was bombed in Aleppo. I feel helpless when I think of the horror happening around the world.

My friend posted these words from another friend:
We get compassion fatigue with the breadth of tragedy around the globe. It's hard/impossible to enter into it all. But I do know that wherever there is suffering, wherever there is misery, wherever there is pain, Jesus is present--grieving, weeping, suffering alongside. Muslim, Christian, gay or straight, young or old, Jesus grieves in the suffering of the world. May what breaks the heart of Christ break our hearts. May we also trust that when we cannot summon up another tear or prayer for this violent world that Jesus stands in the gap for us with tears, hope, long-suffering love and presence. Jesus holds all the suffering and despair and all the hope and joy in the world in nail-pierced hands. (Sarah Thomas Baldwin)

When I am consumed with my trivial problems, Omran's sweet face comes into my mind and I weep inside for his lost innocence. I let go of my little problems and remember that in other parts of the world there are people, children, suffering from so much tragedy. God help them.

Ode to the Still Living Fonzy

Warning: Read with a kleenex handy. (Remember. I warned you.)

Patience is required when caring for the elderly. Every task you give them takes a bit longer to perform.

For example, our morning walks. When my old guy finds an interesting smell that he wants to leave note on, he sets himself up, making sure he gets just the right angle. He settles along side this odor, backing up a few steps, then realizes he's in the wrong angle and sets about to realign his body to the previous dog’s note. He sniffs again, making sure he's on target, and them releases the smallest bit of urine, reserving some for the next note as we continue on our way.

As soon as he completes his task, the younger Roxy comes in and quickly aims her urine right over the top of Fonzy’s carefully laid liquid.

Then, Fonzy will stop, come back to where Roxy left her note, line his long body up for the squirt, making sure he’s at least near the target, repeat. Come on already!!!

Fonzy is a little wire-haired mini-dachshund that came to our home back in 1999. Wire-haired dachshunds have just the right amount of terrier in them to make them, well, terrier-like. Kalie saved her hard earned money to make this purchase. He was adorable. We all fell head over heels in love with him. All except for Tasha.

“It's hard not to immediately fall in love with a dog who has a good sense of humor.”
― Kate DiCamillo,

He weighed almost 2 lbs. when we drove him home from southern Oregon that summer. Tasha, our sweet older, middle aged, yellow Lab, was annoyed with Fonzy’s cleaver little antics. His adorableness was completely lost to her.

Hoping he would disappear, she ignored him. He’d grab her tail. Pull her ears. Run up to her sleeping body and bark. She was really good at turning a blind eye, deaf ear, the cold-shoulder and paying no attention whatsoever to this little punchinello.

The rest of the family just loved watching Fonzy. He was and still is such a clown. Then one night, about three weeks after we brought him home, Tasha couldn’t resist him any longer. The kids and I watched in amazement as Fonzy ran around the sleeping Tasha. I am sure he was expecting her usual brush off. Suddenly Tasha reached out with her paw and gently laid it on top of Fonzy, stopping him in his tracks. She made a deep, gentle, growl as she kept her paw atop of Fonzy. After a few minutes, she released her hold on him. Fonzy immediately began jumping and barking around Tasha. She repeated the hold and growl. The next time she lifted her paw, Fonzy just lay there. Then Tasha nudged him in a playful way, the stalemate was over. Tasha and Fonzy became the best of friends.

“Such short little lives our pets have to spend with us, and they spend most of it waiting for us to come home each day. It is amazing how much love and laughter they bring into our lives and even how much closer we become with each other because of them.”
― John Grogan

When Tasha was 14 years old she developed something that certainly was going to be the end of her. She vomited when she ate and was lethargic. After we had her euthanized, Fonzy lost his zest. While he still charmed us on a daily basis, he was obviously depressed.

Pet-Finder became our family’s evening past time. We wanted to find the right companion for Fonzy. Our family knows dog breeds. We wanted a Border Terrier in the worst way. Alas, they are expensive and hard to come by. Our search on Pet Finder led us to a Border Terrier “Mix” located in southern California.

Pictures and conversations with the woman fostering this little dog led us to believe “Murphy” would be a good fit. He was flown from California to PDX one afternoon. Wade, Fonzy and I picked up the new member to our family.

One look into the kennel revealed to me that he was more Chihuahua than Border Terrier. When my sister met him for the first time she confirmed this fact.

A quick introduction at the airport and then back into the kennel as Fonzy and I sat in the back getting to know this funny little dog who now was part of our family. Once we reached home we let the two smell and touch before letting them into the house. They were fast friends.

Over the years Murphy developed diminished eye-sight, we added another dog and Fonzy just kept on going.

He’s got horrible teeth. One vet called them “Cat teeth” which means they decay at the root. No amount of brushing will help. Good thing too because he HATES preventative dental care!

Last year Fonzy was diagnosed with an ‘innocent’ heart murmur. No symptoms were present so we are just watching it.

Another noticeable change over the last year has been Fonzy’s sleeping. He has scared the earth out from under me more than once in the last several months. Basically I’ll find him in either our bedroom or Wade’s office. He’s laying flat out on the floor. Sleeping. Looking dead. The only way to wake him up is to shake him. Or stomp the floor. Upon doing so he looks at me with this “What do you want?” look.

He still loves his morning walks with Roxy. I’m a good dog owner who understands how important smelling things are to dogs. We stop a lot to sniff and pee.

On June 26 Fonzy turns 15 years old. I know our time with him is short. He’s seen the better part of my children’s lives. He’s met, licked and cuddled with Cyrus.

Composing this written memory often brings me to tears. I’m really gona miss him when he draws his final breathe. Part of me hopes that I really do come home and find him laying on the floor. REALLY asleep. It’s hard for me to think about making that decision to euthanize him.

There are so many things about this old man that infuriates me. I am, have been the main caretaker of our pets. And yet, Fonzy adores Wade. (All the dogs do for that matter.)

More times than I can count he has come to our bedroom, barked and then ran back down the hall. Yes. He’s like Lassie. He communicates. Of course I would follow him to the front of the house where he would be standing at the sliding glass door wanting to go into the back yard.

“Dogs do speak, but only to those who know how to listen.”
― Orhan Pamuk

During Fonzy’s young years I spent countless hours trying to get him out of the creek in our back yard. He’d escape through our mini-fence, amble into the creek and bark at the neighbors. He was a sneak, an escape artist and down right smart about the whole thing.

He digs too. Or, at least he did when he was younger.

He has NO pain tolerance. When he was just a few months old he had an episode with pain that panicked the whole family. Early in the evening I was out of the house at my book club. I received a phone call (pre-cellphone days) at the coffee shop. Wade was on the line. Frantic. I could hear the wailing of a puppy. I was told to come home because something was very wrong with Fonzy. The details of the problem were sketchy. Over the phone I was told that Fonzy was screaming and then would pass out. This happened a few times before the family decided to call me.

I hurried home and surely did witness this disturbing event with my own eyes. I called the emergency vet and Wade and I drove to Tualatin.

Along the way it was evident that Fonzy was feeling better. Upon arriving at the vet clinic, Wade gave the receptionist the story. “He was chewing on a section of a horse hoof and all of a sudden started screaming and passing out.” Ah. I knew those horse hooves. They had been given to us by a neighbor. They had little spikes from the cutting of the hoof. Now I understood what happened. The considerate receptionist suggested we get him something to eat, suggesting that her surely wouldn’t eat if the pain overtook his desire for food. He wolfed down the cheese we offered him and wanted more. The crisis was over. Emergency vet bill averted.

After that we adopted a ‘three day waiting period’ for all of Fonzy’s injuries.

Until I purchased a dremel for grinding dog nails, our bi-monthly nail trims were, well, there is only one word for it: violent.

He’s got O. C. L. D. (Obsessive Compulsive Licking Disorder). But only for Wade, Brenna and Jesse.

In the last few years he’s developed a horrible gas problem. Room clearing kind of problem. I mean you really cannot breathe. Your eyes start watering and you are gasping for breath.

And yet, our lives without him will be horribly empty.

“After years of having a dog, you know him. You know the meaning of his snuffs and grunts and barks. Every twitch of the ears is a question or statement, every wag of the tail is an exclamation.”
― Robert McCammon

"It’s not always that one has the blessing of having more than one exceptional dog to share life’s journey with. My quiver has been full."
― Jere Witherspoon

Thankfully, Roxy entered my life about 5 years ago. She’s a youthful nine years old at this writing. I know that she will be a comfort when Fonzy leaves us. It won’t be the same, though. She’s a Jack Russell Terrier and there is nothing funny about her. Except that she adores me.

“Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole.”
― Roger A. Caras

Fonzy. You are one of a kind. Smart. Eager. Sprightly. Capricious. Waggish.

I’ll never forget you. Oh, and by the way. I fully expect to see you in heaven because you really are a very good dog.

Patience and Pain

Patience and perseverance have a magical effect before which difficulties disappear and obstacles vanish.
John Quincy Adams

Patience has never been one of my virtues. Just ask my husband. Most of the time I want something immediately. A conversation. A result. An answer. In order to get something taken care of quick I will shove it, force it, demand it. Now.

A healthy human being can not function well with impatience. People won't want to be around you. Pushing things (and people) into place breaks them.

Becoming a parent forces you to be patient, or at least face it. First of all, you should model and teach patience to your children. Children are the epitome of impatience. As a singer to my children I made up songs to help them learn certain attributes...like patience.

"Let's all try to be patient.
Patient is a good way to be.
If I try to be patient
Everyone will want to be with me."

For the last two and a half years I have been a student of patience. The lessons started back in April, 2011. The previous October I began taking water aerobics classes as a way to get fit and healthy. Immediately I saw the benefits of this discipline. Everything was going 'swimmingly' until April. That is when the pain first started. At first I noticed the pain while sleeping. Or trying to sleep. The slightest movement would wake me up from the pain.

Soon walking became impossible without doing so in pain. That meant that walking my dogs each day came to a screeching halt.

In June I lived in constant pain. Sitting, standing, laying down....pain. My doctor at that time increased my Vicodin and began a regiment of cortison shots. These treatments dulled the pain but did not resolve anything. I continued my water aerobics classes and worked through the pain.

By August I was depressed and hopeless. By now even the 10 Vicodin a day did nothing to release me from the pain.

I demanded an MRI from my doctor. She suggested an x-ray. I insisted on an MRI.

My doctor sent me to the fracture clinic to discuss the results of my MRI. I was told that my knee was so bad that I would need a total knee replacement. However, I was too young and overweight. They could offer me a brace that would be fitted at an Orthotics clinic. As this was my only hope I jumped at this solution.

Within three weeks of receiving the brace I was 80% freer of pain and weaned myself from the Vicodin. I asked for physical therapy appointments so I could get ready for a knee replacement once I got older and lighter.

Unhappy with my doctor I began a search through the Kaiser system for someone closer to home and perhaps I could find someone who believed my pain assessment and would be proactive in helping me with my treatments. I found a physician's assistant who could serve as my primary care physician. Once she got to know me she suggested a second opinion on my knee. Terri processed my referral to an orthopedic doctor.

Dr. Rae examined my recent x-rays and looked at my MRI. After explaining to me that my knee was the worst he had ever seen, he also told me that my age would never be a barrier to getting a new one. However, the manufacture would not allow a replacement to be inserted unless I was under a certain BMI. Based on my current weight I only needed to lose 25 pounds.

The biggest barrier to my new knee had been my age and weight. I couldn't do anything to get older faster, and in my mind the weight barrier was big as well. Without seeking clarification I assumed the weight loss would likely be at least 75 pounds, at the time, a huge mountain for me to climb....impossible.

After a brief conversation with Dr. Rae I had renewed hope. The mountain had collapsed.

During the drive home my mind raced with possibilities. Impatience began to creep into my mind. I wanted to lose that 25 pounds immediately. I recognized that starting a drastic diet would be, well, rather silly and I would surely set myself up for failure. By the time I arrived at work I decided that my weight loss quest sould begin after the new year. In the meantime I would step up my exercise routine. Daily bike rides, water aerobics and weight training became my addiction.

Ten days into 2013 I downloaded MyFitnessPal to our iPad. Thus began my strict commitment to calorie counting, which turned into an awareness of what I allowed into my mouth and the importance of exercise. By March 25th I had reached my goal and immediately contacted Dr. Rae's office.

As I spoke with the appointment scheduler impatience snuck it's way into my mind...the first available date with the surgeon I had chosen was April 25, 2013. Hesitantly I accepted it but soon reason smacked impatience out of the way. My first grandchild was due April 7th. An earlier date would cause stress and a potential to reschedule the surgery at a much later date. We all know that babies have their own agenda. Surely he or she would have arrived by that time. The date was actually perfect. Hmmmmm......was somebody at work with me??

Sixteen days after Cyrus was born I had my appointment with Dr. Budge. He determined that I was a candiate for a knee replacement. The official process began.

Along the way there have been some bumps. An earlier post on my blog discusses the birth of my grandson, who by the way is thriving.

If God has had me on this journey to find the true meaning of patience, I wish he would have informed me. My joy and elation in passing the test to be a candidate for knee replacement soon collapsed at the next step in the process....scheduling the surgery date. Several days after my meeting with Dr. Budge I had not yet heard from the scheduler as Dr. Budge indicated. Impatience drove me to email Dr. Budge who affirmed that I should have already heard from the scheduler. He said he would contact her. Three more days went by and nothing. I began making phone calls and leaving messages.

When I finally heard from someone the news dashed all my hope. Looking back now I understand how silly it was to respond as I did. I cried. A new policy had been implemented requiring that before a patient (ha!) could be given a surgery date they needed to have medical and dental clearance. It was more than I could take. I cried. Hard.

As I worked to comply with this new policy, each day brought me closer to achieving their requirements. Before another week would go by I had a surgery date: June 24, 2013. Despite my fear and well laid plans, in spite of my own ideas.....the date is perfect.

Along the way I've learned a valuable lesson about patience. First of all, sometimes you can hurry things along in life and other times you can't. Secondly, a lot of things happen to us because of choices and decisions we have made...or haven't made. Thirdly, we are more impatient when things we have no control over affect our lives, but being rude to those people should not be an option, at least for me. I couldn't live with myself.

Being patient means being pleasant...ultimately realizing that what I do, or how I act has an effect on others.

Pain isn't fun to live with. Over the past three years I have often thought about my father. He had rheumatoid arthritis for most of his adult life and suffered at it's hands more than I can tell you. Yet, when I think of my father I think of the word patient. I'd also add the word joyful. He lived with pain much worse than I but was still patient and joyful.

In 30 days from today I will begin a new life, so to speak. Right now it is important for me to reflect on the lessons learned so I don't pass up the opportunity to grow through the last three years.

Oh, I know that I have not left the valley of pain and impatience. I have done my research. This surgery is going to be painful. The recovery equally so.

While living without pain is a good enough reason to have this surgery, there are other reasons that are more important. First of all, walking the dogs again.


But walking with this litte guy's finger wrapped around mine is the most valuable motivation for me to keep exercising and getting strong so he and I can walk together....and maybe we can take the dogs along. I can hardly wait.

A Thousand Words

It is said that a picture paints a thousand words. How many words can I find that go along with this picture?

Joy. Contentment. Relief. Love. Delight. Elation. Jubilance. Comfort. Peace. Pleasure. Gladness.

At last, my baby...my daughter and her husband have come home with their son, Cyrus Jones. My grandson. The moment I saw this picture my heart felt relief. A thousand words.

Over the last 17 days my emotions have traveled to places I have never experienced before.

My friend, Abigail Rine, wrote on her blog the words that perfectly expressed what my heart was feeling:

"Being a mother is like living with your heart outside of your chest. You have tethered it to another impossibly fragile life, and there is a wound leftover, a hole that will never heal."

The fragile lives I have tethered my heart to are Brenna, Kalie and Jesse. Seventeen days ago my heart wound extended to Kalie's son. The hole in my heart throbbed. Each day, being separated during this time of uncertainty, the distance between Portland and Seattle, was as vast as the deepest part of the ocean.

Kalie faithfully kept me current on the daily reports of her son's progress. Each day brought more good news about his progress. Despite a diagnosis of Cystic Fibrosis, the most urgent concern was his recovery from surgery for an intestinal blockage.

When I couldn't face another unknown moment, I prayed. My husband comforted me...we both ached for our daughter and son-in-law. Prayers from friends and family sustained us all. Our hearts were heavy at the thought of Cyrus being in the hospital. Our hearts were comforted by the fact that he was in good hands, loved by his caregivers, beholden by his parents. He had so much going for him.

Perspective kept me expressing gratitude. During the first days after Cyrus's surgery we were painfully aware that our little grandson was one of the lucky ones. Born healthy, he was a strapping 8 pounds in a NICU of much smaller infants.

Our heartache is not be diminished by this perspective. God's love transcends what our minds can comprehend. I believe that perspective keeps us humble but does not change the fact that God gives us comfort in our own heartache.

Much of what I have experienced over the last 17 days further confirms that God loves me. From getting to Seattle in time to witness the birth of my first grandson, to the fact that as I write this my three children are together, with the newest member of our family, celebrating my own son's 23rd birthday. On one hand my heart longs to be with them. On the other hand my heart is full of joy knowing that my children love each other enough for Kalie and Aaron, just arriving home from an emotional journey, to host Brenna and Jesse for dinner in celebration of birth.

Joy. Contentment. Relief. Love. Delight. Elation. Jubilance. Comfort. Peace. Pleasure. Gladness.

When I gaze into the face of my daughter in this picture my heart can hardly contain all that I feel. The heart that beats for my children now extends to my grandson. I share the emotions found on Kalie's face, emotions welled up from her heart and poured over into her son.

Now my daughter is a mother who is living with her heart outside of her chest. She has tethered it to another impossibly fragile life, and there is a wound leftover, a hole that will never heal.

Poop.

I've never prayed so much for bowel movements. And now I am praying for a desire for a breast. What grandma wouldn't do that for her grandson?

At the end of Cyrus' second day alive grandpa and I noticed something to be concerned about. We didn't say anything because Kalie and the other nurses were noticing too. The faces this precious child is making look pained. I thought to myself "It looks like his little tummy hurts." The picture that Wade took confirmed this to me.

So at the end of day three X-rays were taken, a contrast done (shooting dye up his little bum to compare the two x-rays with). They found the reason this precious boy was making those faces. Indeed his tummy did hurt. He couldn't poop. He had a blockage in his intestine and would need to have surgery.

On Cyrus' fourth day of life Dr. Proctor cut an incision under his still corded belly button, removed his colon...all several feet of it, found the blockage, pushed the dried meconium through his colon, sewed him back up and waited for him to poop.

We were told he filled 5 diapers. And he hasn't quit pooping since. Which is what we have feverishly been praying for him to do. Each day was a milestone. He kept on pooping till they allowed him to finally have another bit of Kalie's milk that SHE had been feverishly pumping.

Within the first hour of his birth he ate very well. Turns out he liked the breast. Early on however, with every drop of milk he sucked from his mother's breast his clogged bowels filled up and had no place to go, thus the painful expressions on his face on his second day of birth.

Wade and I stayed around the Seattle area helping Kalie and Aaron in whatever way they needed. But soon it was evident that our presence wasn't needed. It appeared that Cyrus would be in the hospital for at least a week, more likely two.

While I know coming home was the right thing to do, I am aching on so many levels. So I pray. Constantly. For poop.

Each day brought good news. Cyrus is pooping. Peeing. Keeping food down. They increase his mother's milk intake incrementally...5 cc's each feeding, then 10 cc's, then 20, etc....

No set backs, other than Kalie and Aaron are desperate to find normal and get their son home. Yet though they are anxious to get him home, they are handling this hiccup so well. I couldn't be prouder of them.

Day nine a new prayer request. "Please God, help Cyrus desire to nurse from Kalie's breast. Oh, and please let him keep pooping."

Tests are being run to see what caused the blockage. We've all been told what the diagnosis may be. While there may be a difficult road to walk, none of the likely possibilities are too concerning. Thankfully we live in a day and age, and a place in the world where excellent medical care is available.

Praying for poop, well, it's something we all do! Pooping I mean.

I believe as I write this Cyrus is three days away from getting to go home with his mom and dad.

He's done so well at recovering from his surgery. He's pooping and peeing as he should. He's starting to desire his mother's breast, he's smiling, swinging, getting his hair styled.

God's been faithful. He's answered our prayers. Starting with prayers for poop.

Like I said, grandma's will do anything for their grandchildren. I can hardly wait to change his poopy diaper.

Joy Complete - thoughts on becoming a grandma.

Grandparents. My 'older' friends have been telling me for years that the only reason you have children is so you can have grandchildren.

Grandparents. I am told that you can spoil grandchildren and when the results of that spoilage makes their presence unbearable you can return them to their rightful owners.

Grandparents have a do-over with their grandkids.

Just Google "grandparent quotes" to find all the trite and adorable reasons that being a grandparent is one of the best things on earth.

The funny thing about life is that others often interpret experiences for you. As you share similar experiences you begin to realize that your view may be vastly different.

Of course I have thought about being a grandmother...and my husband being a grandpa. Honestly I hope my little grandson calls me something other than grandma. I like Nana Boo.

I don't have years of experience at this grandma thing. Truth be told, as I write this I haven't been a grandma for even 1 day. But I don't need anyone else to tell me what I have seen and what I feel in my heart.

From that day in August when Kalie and Aaron told us they were expecting, my emotions have been pretty even keel. Sure, I've been excited. But I determined to put on my granny pants and not go overboard...too soon.

My actions were tempered. Since the parents decided to keep the gender hidden from everyone but the ultrasound technologist, spending a small fortune on clothes before the birth didn't seem prudent. I focused my time on considering ways to make life long memories for my grandchild, for my little sweet pea.

Two lovely baby showers and still my emotions were in check. Each event I breathed in the experiences and held them close to my heart.

As Kalie's belly grew so did my tempered enthusiasm. Not a day went by (especially if I was with my mom) that I wasn't asked "Are you excited about being a grandmother?" Of course. But what does that really mean? Being a grandmother?

Kalie and Aaron invited me to be at the baby's birth. This birthing process is something that is very important to me. Since I had two home births (Brenna and Kalie) and Jesse was born in a clinic in PNG, as a young mom I did a lot of research into giving birth. Several family members and friends were in attendance at my own births so having the opportunity to witness this miracle was very important to me. My invitation was a gift and I am thankful beyond words. Kalie is a labor and delivery nurse....she's in the business of delivering babies. (Which by the way, must add an interesting dynamic to the lovely ladies who work at Swedish who delivered Kalie's baby yesterday.)

In the days leading to Kalie's due date I grew increasingly agitated...at least inwardly. The biggest thing for me was the drive to Seattle. I knew that depending upon the time of day it could be a disaster in making it to the birth on time.

Now don't worry, I am not going to give you a moment-by-moment account of the events surrounding the birth but here's a little insight to the day.

As I look back, each step, each decision was perfectly planned. From the phone call from Erin (Kalie's doula and friend) at 11 pm on Monday, April 8th, to each decision by Kalie and Aaron from that point on.

But this grandparent gig. I still don't think it has completely hit me. I deeply love my children..have from conception. Even now they continually amaze and bless me.

Children can become the best parts of their parents. Then what do we say about our grandchildren?

When little Cyrus was born a whole new world burst open for me. I could barely restrain myself from reaching for him still covered in vernix. As his arms and legs stretched out and sweet cries came from his mouth, being a bystander in this moment was difficult.

Once again, tempering my emotions, I kept my cool. As I gazed upon the flurry of activity surrounding the mom, my daughter, who had just delivered my grandson, completely natural, no drugs, my heart swelled with pride and my mind raced to how this tiny little man was going to forever change my family's life. We have a grandson, a nephew, a son.

So I am new at this grandma gig. Today we will welcome him into his parent's home, share some time with his other grandparents, watch them marvel at this little wonder.

Tomorrow and the next day, to infinity and beyond, this little man, Cyrus J. McNelly, and I will together get this grandma thing down. I am pretty sure it will come naturally. And no doubt before too long, I'll believe that what my 'older' friends have been telling me about grandchildren is true.