Generating a Generation

The way Dad recently looked with adoration at Emma reminded me of his reaction when he saw her for the first time as a baby on one of our last ultrasounds. Like she was the Second Coming. And he’s Jewish.

He didn’t anticipate that she would be a living, moving girl on the screen before us – and how could he? He was a father-to-be in small town, rural Virginia in the mid-1960s, well before the era of 3-D ultrasounds and genetic testing. I can only imagine the mystery and fear and excitement he and my mom must have felt before me (and my brother) were born. Or maybe they were young enough and lacking enough in today’s smorgasbord of technology not to be unduly worried, allowed to be more gloriously carefree than I was. They were in their 20s having a baby. I was in my 40s.

And here he was last week, on our quick winter break in the sun, Dad — my Dad, the one who pretended he was an undersea monster in the swimming pool, making faces, and chasing my brother and I — scooting Emma around on a kickboard as her grandfather. He said he thought of me then, and I thought of him. The scene was straight out of our vacations in Miami Beach, minus the coconut oil suntan lotion and geriatric bathers with walkers and gold flip flops. It conjured memories of floating in the water in my stiff blue swim vest with dolphins on it and trusting Dad to motor my little body around the perimeter safely. Now it was Emma in her little vest, holding his hands, kicking and trying to blow bubbles.

And Mom? I caught her and Emma dancing their hearts out one afternoon outside a restaurant where speakers pumped music outside. (My parents are long divorced so we split our getaway between them in two different locations. Such a modern family, we are.) Back to Emma and Mom: They were flailing their arms and twirling in circles, oblivious to spectators. My mom was smiling so hard it looked like her face might crack. It’s not an uncommon sight. Ditto Mark’s mum. She’s investing in cuddly animal toys and toddler books to animate Skype conversations with her granddaughter overseas.

I had no idea — how could I? — that having a daughter was not just about creating my own little family but an expansive one with unique, private relationships between her and her grandparents. Which is how it should be. I am not planning to intrude. I expect and hope that, like my relationships with my grandparents and even my great-grandparents, hers will be free of the adolescent angst and growing pains and spirit of rebellion that complicated our parent-daughter lives.

I am embarrassed and ashamed to admit that my parents, who never pressured me for a grandchild, were really the farthest thing from my mind when I wanted to have a baby. Really, it was all about me. It was about finding my partner (not their son-in-law), having my child (not their grandchild), creating a generation after me (not them). I was naive and self-absorbed enough not to consider how their identities and priorities might shift and how their perspectives about their lives and legacies might be redefined. (Not wholly, of course. My parents have individually accomplished too much on their own to be defined by any other person, especially such a little one.)

Sure, I thought they would make wonderful grandparents. But I never realized the extent such a life-changing event for me would change their lives, returning them to memories of their own childhoods, their own parenthoods. To rediscovering ways of sealing the earliest imprints of happiness and family on this indelible, almost unexpected life.