The relationship my children have with my mom is different from what I imagined.When I first had my son six years ago, I pictured dinners and sleepovers at Grandma and Pop’s house. I envisioned trips to the zoo, library, beach, and museums. I imagined holidays spent together, with my mom passing on all her beloved traditions to my son. I dreamt of art projects, days lounging at home, pool days, watching classic Disney movies, hikes to waterfalls, and everything I enjoyed with my grandma. I got that and so much more. But tragically, it was all cut short a day before my 34th birthday and a month after my son turned 4 ½. My mom, my son’s grandma, died. Words I never thought I would have to utter until at least 20 years from now, and my son had become an adult with plenty of memories and experiences stored in his memory bank. Now, my son is a boy with a grandma in Heaven. It’s an unsettling reality to know that one day the memories he has of her will gradually fade, until the line becomes blurry between what he remembers of her and what he knows about her from the stories we have told about her. While a daunting task, I will keep her memory alive. However, little did I realize that this wouldn’t be too hard, as I’m getting a little help from the other side. My mom is still a grandma from Heaven. And always will be. One of her first acts of love toward my son came immediately after the funeral. I was having a hard time and missing my mom terribly. I looked up and cried out, “Mom, God, Jesus, please give me some comfort. Just for this moment.” Seconds later, I heard a noise, and my son walked into my room from his. Silently, he reached out his arms to hug me, and I quietly led him back to bed. I smiled and gave thanks to my mom. She was still being a grandma. Another time, she bestowed upon my son her grandmotherly wisdom during my son’s last year of preschool. My mom instilled in my brother and me that we should always be aware of who could use a friend and someone to talk to. We were to include everyone and always make sure others felt like they belonged, even if they were “different.” This adage is etched into my brain, and she had already started preaching that to my son, even at his young age. My son isn’t always the most outgoing of kids, but he has been blossoming this year. Much to my delight, I received one of the sweetest messages from his teachers. She mentioned that he had befriended and taken a rather quiet kid who had been playing alone under his wing. The two have become best buddies. Thanks to my son, this other boy is now blossoming and coming out of his shell. I smiled and thanked my mom. She was still being a grandma. Additionally, we are preparing for kindergarten next year. Getting a Catholic school education is something we have been praying about, and my mom was excited to see my son receive it. We applied to the school just in time for the deadline, as my journey with grief has cluttered my mind. A week later, we received an email that we had been waitlisted because they were already full. I admonished myself for not getting the application in sooner; however, I still called up to see where we were on the waitlist. The lady told me that we were number one, but I still should make plans for a backup. Sighing, I wrote down another thing to add to my to-do list. Then, not even an hour later, the lady called me back and told me that the principal somehow found a spot for my son. He was in! I smiled and gave thanks to my mom. She was still being a grandma. With every kind word my son utters…with every prayer he says…with every time he preserves through a challenge…with every hug he gives me to comfort me when I am sad…with every word he writes in his journal to Grandma…with every sentence he speaks to her picture on his nightstand…with every time he asks if Grandma is laughing at him because he’s being silly…with every time we sit in her house with my dad and husband and spend the day in carefree timelessness soaking in the gift of another day, she is there. She will always be his grandma. A grandma in Heaven.
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