A New Pair of Eyes

For the first time in over 22 years, I pushed a baby in a stroller on Shabbat. And boy was I proud to be pushing. Why shouldn’t I be proud? It was my 2-year-old grandson, Ben. The night before, he had slept over, so it was my job to take him to Shul to hand him off to his parents.   After clicking him into his crisscross safety harness, he looked like a Formula 1 driver about to take off at 200 miles an hour.  And by the way, when I was growing up, my parents were poor and did not own a stroller, so they would just drag me by a leg.

So I’m pushing Ben at a brisk 1.3 miles per hour, trying extremely hard to avoid all bumps and cracked sidewalks. If he feels the slightest thump, I might get yelled at like I was a 19th century Shanghai rickshaw driver. “Zayde, no bumps. No bumps, Zayde!”  There goes my tip.

On our walk, like the unpaid tour guide that I am, I like to point out things he might like. “Hey Ben, there’s a kitty cat. What sound does a kitty make?” 

“Meow.” 

“Yup.” 

Then, running into a friend, my friend says, “You know how I know that’s your grandchild?” 

“Because I’m 68 years older than him?” 

“It’s the smile on your face,” he says.

We smile because we know we’re giving the grandkids back at the end of the day, and we smile because we are grateful for every minute we’re still alive to have these moments. 

When parents are not looking bewildered and exhausted, they will occasionally smile. But it’s nothing like a grandparent smile. We smile because we know we’re giving the grandkids back at the end of the day, and we smile because we are grateful for every minute we’re still alive to have these moments. We smile because we have more time to see the miracle.

If you’re open, grandchildren bring many gifts. With each new grandchild, a new heart chamber filled with love can break open.  Also a new set of eyes and sometimes a new lease on life is there for us.  How could we not smile?

Back to our journey that Shabbat.  I’m walking him close to the bushes because I know he likes running his hands along them.  Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spot a tiny flower. The top is roundish and has six or seven explosive bright colors.  I’ve been walking this route for years and I never saw this flower before.

So excited and forgetting it was Shabbat (you’re not supposed to pluck), I plucked. “Here Ben, give this to your mommy.”  He quickly brings it to his lips and proceeds to blow on it.  I’m not sure, but it’s possible he was making a wish. Just like big people, 2-year-olds also wish for things.

Each time he blows on the flower, another petal or two would fly from its stem into the air — then  float down like magic dust.  He keeps blowing and blowing ’til he’s left holding nothing but stem.

Now at Shul, we go up to childcare where we sit on the floor and play. Not easy sitting on the floor with sciatica. Me, not him. I try getting him to play with other kids, but he won’t have it. Instead, he rests his head in my lap and holds me tight. He does not want his Zayde to leave him. I oblige. No worries, you’re safe with Zayde.

Then he looks up at me and starts to ask for his momma. “Momma, momma, momma.” I notice a few tears rolling out. He misses his momma. He wants his momma. He continues, “Momma, momma, momma.” I try soothing him by rubbing his back. 

“She’ll be here soon.”  Soon means nothing to a little boy. 

He continues on, “Momma, momma, momma.” After probably a few dozen “mommas,” I realize that, like him, I’m also starting to well up. His repeating the mantra “momma, momma, momma” has released in me something I’ve been hiding from. Something I don’t like to think about. It released in me that I also miss my momma. It has been 24 years since her death. He continues, “momma, momma, momma.” With my heart and eyes now open, I understand exactly what he means.

Mark Schiff is a comedian, actor and writer, and host of the ‘You Don’t Know Schiff’ podcast.