There was no reason for her to scream at me like that.
Granted, screaming is just what you do when you haven’t yet learned the niceties of proper conversation. It’s not like I expected the wee child to lift one tiny finger and say, “Grandmother, I would like a dry diaper now, if you would be so kind.”
It's not like I wasn't trying to please the girl. I had diapered, burped, offered a bottle. I had bounced, rocked, rubbed tummy, snuggled, entertained. I had explained, in sincere and soothing tones, that I would happily do ANYTHING Little Miss wanted, if only she would somehow tell me what that was.
Aspen, our first grandchild and — don’t even argue with me, I don’t want to hear it — the cutest baby to ever grace God’s green Earth, joined our merry family in August. Since October first-ish I’ve had the great privilege of spending one day a week with her so her parents can save some childcare bucks while they go to work. My freewheeling freelancer life gives me the flexibility to work from wherever, and sometimes I actually get some work done, although Small Child does her darndest to distract me by the aforementioned cuteness.
This day, though, her smiles and coos turned to impassioned fury. Her forehead unsmoothed into thick wrinkles and her eyes blazed with “What the hell, Grandma??” anger as she shook the ceiling with her cries.
Desperate, worried, I did the mom-bounce — step, bounce, bounce, step, bounce, bounce — and inwardly fished for a lullaby. Maybe music would help.
“Hush, little baby. Don’t say a word,” I began, voice cracking a little. “Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.”
I rock-walked and sang, the motion whooshing me through time. How many hours did I spend as a young mother, singing those same lyrics, bouncing and walking, my own eyes filled with tears? I arrived at motherhood having never changed a diaper, much less cared for a newborn all on my own. I plodded through the first years wracked with insecurity, not knowing if I was doing it right, with no relatives nearby and no friends to lend a hand or a listening ear. How well I remember pacing the creaking floor of my first child’s bedroom in the middle of the night, he wailing in my arms, I weeping to the heavens, lost in hopelessness at my inability to rescue my crying child from his misery.
And now, here I was in that boy’s home, holding his daughter as she cried, singing to her the same song I’d sung to him.
“If that mockingbird won’t sing, Mama’s going to buy you a diamond ring.” Silly me — I was using the wrong name. I got it right on the next line. “If that diamond ring turns brass, Grandma’s going to buy you a looking glass.”
I sang to the screaming girl, promising her other silly gifts. Does an infant want a goat? A bull?? No, she does not. I couldn’t blame her for continuing to howl if that’s the best I had to offer.
As I had 20-some years ago, I forgot what gift came after the dog named Rover who obstinately refused to bark. I started the song over, stepping, rocking, watching my small charge vent her great unhappiness.
I closed my eyes and felt tears hot against their lids. I loved this little girl. “Hush, little baby.” I didn’t know how to help her. “Don’t say a word.” I didn’t know how to protect her from the little griefs that made her scream in my arms . . . or from the big hurts that loom in her future. “Grandma’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.”
Something was different. I realized she had stopped screaming. I opened my eyes and discovered hers looking right at me, still teary but bright, interested.
I kept singing.
“If that mockingbird won’t sing, Grandma’s gonna buy you a diamond ring.” Her eyes still locked on mine, that little stinker opened her mouth and — I swear I’m not making this up — started singing.
New tears warmed my eyes, tears of relief but even more of love and the magic of sorrow melting into peace.
If only I could know that all her life I could sing away her troubles.
If only I had the power to wrap my loved ones in my arms in their dark hours, promise them the world, and watch their sadness fade.
Life doesn’t work like that. She’ll get sad again, and it’ll be real sadness I can’t erase, no matter how much I love her. The other people I love, the ones I worry about in quiet moments, will have to keep fighting their demons while I watch from the sidelines, my insides thick with longing to comfort them.
But I can keep on singing, loving them through their storms, listening to their wails, holding them tight in my heart and lifting their names to the Savior who once cried in His own mother’s arms.
You whom I love ― you people, you institutions, you nation ― I sing for you. I pray for you. I give to you not birds nor billygoats but my hands and heart, whatever they’re worth.
And I will wait, breathless with hope, until the day the magic happens and you look up, heartache healed, and start to sing.
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“Hush, Little Baby” was probably written in the southern U.S. sometime in the early 1900’s, but the Internet is uncertain on the details. It’s been performed by artists from Burl Ives to Regina Spektor to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and been woven into songs by Bo Diddley, James Taylor, and Eminem.
If Rover doesn’t bark, Mama’s supposed to buy her child a horse and cart. I have to say, Mama not only has a lot of excess spending cash, she also has some really questionable parenting methods.
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I never figured out why my darling granddaughter was crying. Whatever the reason, she forgave me and, as far as I can tell, wants me to come back next week. I will happily oblige.
If you think someone you know might enjoy this blog, I’d be honored if you would share it with them.
I have mentioned in past posts that I’m trying to write a book. (I can hear my friend and mentor admonishing me to say “writing a book,” not “trying to write,” but the trying feels so much bigger than the writing.) I’m still plugging away at it, writing and researching and doubting and writing some more. It’s a bigger haul than I could have ever imagined, and I have miles to go before I sleep. If you’d like to know more, I describe what sparked the book on the My Big Project page of my author website, juliejriddle.com.
Come on, now, try telling me this ain't the cutest little face on the planet.
