By Stacy Bronec 
After seven hours in the car with three young kids, my husband and I sighed in relief as we parked in my parents’ driveway. Rhett, Allie, and Nora unbuckled and launched themselves from the car, yelling and jumping up and down. We’d made it to see “Grandma Way Far Away.”
My mom’s nickname started years ago when we tried to differentiate between the kids’ grandma out of state and the grandma down the road. The kids lovingly gave her the name, and it’s stuck over the years.
We unloaded our bags—way more than seemed necessary for a weekend trip. My mom had dinner ready and waiting for us. After we ate, I called to my three-year-old, Nora, “Let’s take a bath before bed!”
“I’ll do the bath,” my mom said, kneeling and opening her arms to her youngest grandchild. “Your mom always gets to give you a bath. Let me have a turn.”
Gets to.
She scooped Nora up, and they walked into the bathroom. Soon, I heard the water running and Nora and my mom chatting. Sitting on the couch, enjoying a break from the usual evening routine, I kept thinking of what she said. I had never thought of it that way.
How often have I grumbled about changing another diaper, cooking another dinner, wiping up another spill, or giving another bath?
Countless. And yet, my mom sees it as something I get to do.
I know my mom has the gift of hindsight, understanding how fast the years go. She also has the luxury of patience—her home no longer filled with tiny humans and their big demands. Bathing her grandkids is extra special because it’s not her everyday life.
That day, my husband and I made the trip to visit my parents. But over the years, the road has always gone both ways.
Nine years ago, I called my mom at midnight, telling her I was in labor with my first baby. By dawn, my parents were at the hospital, waiting to find out if they had a grandson or a granddaughter. After a couple of days, my dad went home and back to work. But my mom stayed for over a week while I learned to breastfeed, getting up at night with the baby and me when she could have slept.
When I was induced with my second baby, she made the seven-hour drive to stay at our house with our toddler while we went to town to have a baby. Then, she stayed for several days, mostly playing with the two-year-old, who didn’t understand why this baby was taking all of my time.
Four years ago, when I went into labor with my third baby—who arrived two weeks early and in a hurry—my parents arrived at our house hours after she was born. And again, my mom stayed to help care for the big kids while I nursed a newborn around the clock.
When she visits, she brings new books to read. She spends hours playing board games and outside in snow or sunshine. Every time she pushes them on the swing set, my stomach drops when she gives them underdogs—the kids’ laughter fills the air. She never says no to piggyback rides or popsicles.
She and the kids FaceTime during their weeks and months apart. She patiently stays on the phone when they carry it throughout the house—showing her their books and toys, but often, the ceiling.
My mom sends cards and small gifts throughout the year and tells the kids she’s praying for them. She does her best to close the gap of the miles that separate them.
All three kids squeal in delight when she comes to visit. And cry when she leaves.
My mom has been there for countless events—little and big—over the years. She’s always there for my kids. For me. For my family.
Not because she has to, but because she wants to and is grateful she gets to.
I’ve been a mom long enough to know it’s impossible to enjoy every second of motherhood. But her excitement about running a bubble bath on a Friday night is a gentle reminder to see the joy in the ordinary tasks.
Because I know someday, I’ll look back on the ordinary moments and know they were anything but. While I’m not wishing away these years I have with my kids at home, seeing her as a grandma gives me something to look forward to.
And I pray that someday I get to be half the grandma she is.
by Tynea Lewis 
by Sarah Cox 
