forgetful

I remember my grandparents.  Some, like my nanny, my mom’s mom, I remember quite well.  She lived across the street from my school and I would go there everyday for lunch – a bologna sandwich. 

My dad’s parents lived in the same city as we did until we moved when I was 7 or 8, but I still remember the trek down to their house, in the heart of downtown Montreal, on a regular basis.  My aunts still live in that house now.

My great grandparents, on the other hand, I have almost no memory.  And what I do remember, is likely from the stories my mom would tell of her life and close relationship with her own grandmother.

My kids have AMAZING grandparents who are all still well and healthy, but, who live much too far away, and our visits are limited to a few times a year.  Or less.  It makes me sad that our time together is so short, but we do our best to make it full and meaningful.  And it is.  I feel like our kids really do know their multiple sets of grandparents and look forward to time spent with all of them.

They are beyond lucky, though, because  both my kids have had the chance to meet, be rocked by as babies, spend time with and be loved on by this beautiful lady:

This is Great Grandma Sweet.  And she lives up to the name.  I adore her.  She is thoughtful and lovely and wickedly funny.  She is Dan’s maternal grandmother but she’s never, not once, treated me as anything but one of her own grand kids. 

Thank you, Grandma.  For everything.  We are all so lucky to have you.