What if I Hadnt Been There to Catch Them?
I never thought Id be experiencing the heartache and joys of raising three small children, alone, at 62.
I yelled at the children to get into the car. Allie, 6, was taking her time, dragging her book bag. Jordan, 4, was whining for me to carry him. I had to yank Jax, 9, who had paused to write ballz on the dewy car with his index finger.
My grandchildren are my world. But at 62, I cant believe Im raising them alone.
The youngest, Jordan, still has that preemie pallor. With big eyes and an impish smile, hes both a cuddler and a spitter. Out of the three grandchildren, he talks about his missing mommy the most. Maybe thats where the spitting comes from; inside that little body is the anger of a two-humped beast.
The night he realized my daughter wasnt coming to tuck him in, he started crying and wouldnt stop. I cuddled and kissed him, even as the others fell asleep in their sorrow. But not Jordan. He was furious and aggrieved. Born breech, he had never intended to leave his mother. His love for her was umbilical.