Tag Archives: Anticipation

Expectations

The baby isn’t even born yet and I’m learning the disappointing truth that it isn’t about me and my expectations.  It’s all about the parents and baby.  Don’t get me wrong.  That’s the way it’s supposed to be . . . but still.

I had fantasies of being in my daughter’s room until she went into delivery when I would leave to allow them their precious moment.  Hah!  Then I thought I would wait in the waiting area until after she gave birth. Another disappointment . . . I have to wait at their home.  Then the kicker, my ex-husband will pick me up and take me to the hospital.  I get to share the unveiling with him!  I get it.  It’s only right.  But I hadn’t given him a single thought.  He is the baby’s grandfather after all.  Grandmother – grandfather – equal in the eyes of the parents.  Grandpa even tried to name the baby.

So I’ll stay home and make gluten-free meals for those crazy nights when baby is making his presence known.  Clean the place. Show my worth somehow.  I sound terribly selfish and immature, I know.  These are just my petty ramblings.  It’s amazing how immature I can still be.  After all, I’m becoming a grandmother for the first time.  This is a life-changing event for my daughter and her husband (and the baby).  I’m thrilled for them.

Most of the pettiness comes from the fact that my time will necessarily be so short with them.  I only have two weeks and then I’m 3,000 miles away. I want to cram as many memories in as I can.  I can be content seeing the man I once loved dearly holding baby the way he once held our own. In fact, it will bring back surreal, precious memories transposed over the present moments.

Only a couple of weeks (we hope) to go.  I’m rationally excited.

Flowers and Toys

Is the pattern
instilled within so long ago
to begin again –
running, constantly running
from one wild flower to another
longing for a sweeter scent
or more vivid, delicate petals?
And who, this time,
is the fleer to be –
you or I?
Each fear entrapment,
a seeping of the soul
subtly transferred to the possession
of the other.
Both have sought through
countless meadows,
seeking that rare blossom,
headier in fragrance
than all the rest.
Like children at Christmas
we grab one toy to our breasts,
proclaiming it our favorite,
our most precious treasure,
only to cast it aside
in favor of another –
stuffing memories into small places
squeezing stuffing from edges frayed
only to leave a soiled vestige
of childhood fancy
lying half off the shelf,
to tumble down forgotten.
Is the pattern to begin again –
if so, which of us is the toy?