Being a parent to a toddler is not something I thought I’d be doing at 61. The reality of this recent role hits me, most notably, around 2 a.m. on the occasional mornings my 16-month-old grandson wakes up yelling “Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom.” (My three grandchildren, Tilleigh, 7; Evie, 3, and William, 16 months, call me “Mom.”)
Whether it’s from a stuffy nose or a bad dream, the little fellow’s sweet cries come across loud and clear through the baby monitor on the nightstand next to my side of the bed. It’s funny, despite the fact that it awakens my husband and I from a deep sleep, neither of us are annoyed. In fact, we always chuckle. Hearing “Mom” repeated over and over from the mouth of a baby is endearing.
William moved in with us after my son was granted custody last September, and it wasn’t long before William and I bonded as much as a baby and adult can. I always say that I love my grandchildren as though I gave birth to them. And it’s the absolute truth. These three little people are my world.
Still, it can be exhausting, especially when you’re taking care of a toddler. They never stop. It’s like watching a ball being knocked around in a pinball machine.
And he’s learning to climb. While it’s fun to watch him develop new skills, I have to be prepared, at all times, to dive across a room to cushion a fall. In other words, the little kid is getting me in shape. I’m constantly lifting his 28-pound frame, bending over to pick him up, playing in the floor, etc.