The rapture of being a grandma began around the moment that I discovered it would be my newest and most cherished title. But from my standpoint, this role is best completed often, at close proximity.
Regrettably, while I have achieved my indescribably joyous status (bubbe, in my case) all is not bliss. My beautiful grandchildren are everything happy but they are 1,468 miles away from my hugs and kisses.
Thanks to the careful attention of my daughter, a phenomenal mother, I am able to see them every few days through the miracles of technology. But I can’t help teach them, dry their tears or engage in a game of catch.
Nobody requested this long-distance relationship and no-one likes it. There is nothing I can do to eliminate the miles between us. Most importantly, whining or anguishing over it is non-productive and makes no positive difference anywhere.
When I’m faithful to my ideals and principles, I find something to be gained from this condition. When one of the children is ill, I am always inquiring and diligent about their conditions. As much as I can afford it, I make frequent trips to see them. Any excuse is a good one to send a jacket or shirt or dress.
The ceremonies of grandmotherhood are far less important than the emotional mutuality. We repeatedly express our love, whether it is long or short distance. But it’s the hand-holding and promise-keeping that persuade me they are certain of bubbe’s love. That love is without boundaries, equal to my gratitude for their dimples and smiles. Shalom.