On Christmas Eve, 2024, my only child, my daughter, gave birth – quickly, gloriously, astonishingly – to my first grandchild, a beautiful boy we know as Reuben. Reuben Jack to be precise (his second name belonged to my beloved dad).
Welcome, Reubs!
Now that you’re here, I can’t imagine a world without you. What a darling boy you are! When I look into those eyes, I feel like I’ve known you forever. Somehow you were Reuben from the very start – from those first blurry black and white photos from within your mother’s womb. You were just an indistinct smudge back then (Is that an arm? Oooh, look – that’s his spine!) and even though you were sometimes called ‘Beansprout’ or occasionally ‘Temu’, we came to know you as Reuben. (To explain, your conception coincided with me buying an ancient campervan which I proceeded to ‘fit out’ obsessively with bibs and bobs from Temu, so for a while there, it seemed like a great nickname.)
The months went by, and with your mum, Katie and dad, Jarred, pretty much living with me while you were busy doing your thing – diligently dividing cells, conscientiously growing arms and legs, a brain and all those other bits and pieces – we three often sat around talking to you via your mum’s belly, waiting for your kicks, hiccups and writhing’s which all seemed rather miraculous to us. The longer this went on, the more you became part of our family and our relationship, yours and mine, developed apace. Reuben Jack … I know you. And when I look into your mother’s eyes, I see you. And I remember.
You were there in Katie’s toothless baby smiles, her excited toddler babblings, her trusting hand in mine at the shops. You were there in her baby tears, rare and fleeting, her delighted laugh, her childhood triumphs, and her fierce intelligence as she grew into a strong, kind, talented and thoughtful adult. Reuben, when we hang out, and our eyes lock, I know you see me.
Being a grandmother is very different from being a mum. I don’t like it when you cry, but, unlike your mother, it doesn’t cause me physical pain. You don’t need me to keep you safe, like your mum needed me at your age.
I get to enjoy the sheer ‘babyness’ of you without the worry and stress. Not for me, the concern about the next feed, sore breasts and stupid growth percentiles! I can simply revel in getting to know and love you.
I love the smell of you. I love to kiss your soft head and your growing belly. And that smile!
Reuben – you have my blood. We are family.
I still wonder how it is that I feel I know you so very well, and you’re only seven weeks old. Now, your mum and dad and I (instead of talking to your mum’s belly) sit and stare at you for hours, in awe of your absolute perfection.
Welcome to the world, Rueben Jack!