I am Ammoma now, that’s grandmom in Malayalam. It still feels fresh, like the new name tag I’m becoming accustomed to. But here’s the thing: In her entire five months of life on this earth, I have had three whole months with Lyla, my granddaughter. Not all at once, but in little chunks of time that feel like small gifts. And I’ll tell you something – those months have rewritten something deep within me.
I felt like I knew everything about babies. Raised two of my own, after all. But being close to her over these visits was like learning a long-forgotten secret language. The language of broad smiles, open, inquiring looks, and cries that could have meant “I discover something amazing!” or “you are incredibly silly!” all in the same minute.
The biggest thing I felt was pure, simple awe. Seeing her shift, ever so slightly, from my visits. One time she is exploring her hands. The next, she’s flipping over as if it’s her life’s calling. Watching the world click into place behind her eyes – the moment she understands that her tiny piano makes noise when she shakes it or that Potato, her 4-legged wiener brother is soft and interesting, felt like magic played in slow motion. I was seeing familiar things with fresh eyes, only because she did. A leaf? Fascinating. The mobile on her highchair? Pure entertainment.
And the physical patience as well. Not the waiting-in-line kind. The kind where you sway, rock, and do a smoothing motion back and forth and you find your own muscles protesting, thinking *maybe just maybe* this rhythm will calm her cranky moment. And that little head finally goes thunk heavy on your shoulder with a sigh? That is a quiet win. A perfect win in every way.
And the sounds! Oh, the soundtrack of a baby. The happy coos at the funny faces I made, the surprise gasp of delight at fast paced music that makes everyone jump then laugh. The low, grumbly sounds that generally spell a diaper change is on the way. You begin hearing with your whole being. Is that cry sharp? Whiny? Just bored? It is an unending, light mystery you attempt to solve.
Primarily, however, these three months taught me about a new type of love. The grandma love here is fierce and quiet at the same time. It is how your heart squeezes when she sees you across the room and her whole face lights up with recognition. “Oh, you’re here!” that look says. It is the stupid songs you sing when you don’t care who’s listening just to get that gummy smile. It’s an ancient love, as if it were always waiting for her, and brand-new, all at once.
I also learned I’m not behind the wheel. That’s firmly her parents. My spot is the comfortable co-pilot chair. The additional pair of arms for hugs. The level-headed presence taking it all in. The one who returns her to you when it’s just not mommy or dada. It’s about support, not control. That took some practice. Learning not to fix it, no matter how much it hurts to let go, is just part of the job.
Every time I leave, I am always a bit of a wrenching in the heart. I miss the joyful chaos, the touch , feel and smell of her baby skin, the toys that turn up everywhere. I miss her.
So, what have these past three months taught me? That as an Ammoma, I didn’t have to have everything figured out. It’s about showing up, over and over again, for the chaotic, beautiful, exhausting reality of this tiny person figuring out the world. It’s about rediscovering awe through her shining eyes. But it is also about a kind of love that grows with every sticky hand held, every smile and cry shared, every quiet moment spent just being together.
It is the most difficult, the best, the most surprising gift. And these three months? They’re just the start of things.
