Thank you for giving us grief

My wife and I weren’t ready for grieving these holidays, but it came anyway. One of our three kids and family live right down the street. They wanted us right next door and pushed accordingly, but I needed more visual and physical elbow room than their neighboring lot provided.

So we opted for a larger more open lot with no other house crowding in on us at the west end of our double cul-de-sac. They were east and we were west, we were both happy with the arrangement. We were thrilled that a granddaughter soon arrived, and we dedicated a spare room in our house as her playroom soon to be filled with age-related furniture, toys and other special things. Her walls were soon filled with framed pictures of Mickey Mouse characters.

One Christmas we bought her an Elsa and Anna Frozen Castle Dollhouse with so many tiny pieces my jaw dropped and heart sank when they were spread on the floor. I slumped with anticipatory exhaustion while she dug in picturing in her mind the finished product while I pictured only the hours it would take to fit those hundreds of pieces together.

Soon I had to take a break from it all and went into our den while she stayed behind earnestly at her work. A few minutes later she came into the den to ask if two little pieces she held in her tiny hands went together. They didn’t, but I knew then and there that my job was to return to her room and help her assemble that mess of pieces into the dollhouse she so desperately wanted to see rise before her.

Hours later stood the castle. The work was done, and Kaitlyn beamed with pride of accomplishment. In one long session hundreds of pieces found their ways together into the most beautiful edifice she had ever seen. And I was impressed with her multihour stick-to-it-tiveness.

Now to the grieving piece. That castle has stood the test of time, seven or eight years of it. But during those years something wonderful happened: Kaitlyn grew into a beautiful young preteen who had now outgrown her playroom things. Over the years as I’ve peered into her room with its chronoscape of toys from little Disney furnishings suitable for a 3-year-old to things more age-related I’ve wondered if she was ready to upgrade. This year I popped the question, and, yes, she was ready.

She gave me a tour of the things she had outgrown, not that that wasn’t obvious; and our work began. And that’s when the grieving began as well. With each toy and piece of furniture came a flood of poignant memories. Our little toddler had become a tweenager ready to leave the flotsam of toddlerhood behind much like a caterpillar sheds its cocoon to emerge the butterfly.

As all those toys one-by-one were slowly bagged to be given away, floods of memories caught me up in them: her running trippingly across the playground to me to be picked up after school throwing herself into arms that never missed her leap; her snuggling against me as she slowly awoke in the mornings when I babysat at her home while her parents were at work; her repeating to me three signal words (kind, sweet and caring) I gave to her to guide her growing up; her stretching up to give me a hug and a kiss and saying “I love you, Grampa” whenever she left our house; my making her promise to me she would always stay as beautiful on the inside as she was on the outside (she made the promise and has kept it). I recently added “and courageous” to inspire her to have the pluck to help others and to be strong enough to do the right thing.

Our grieving was for missing the toddler who was no more but had disappeared into the tweenager that still hugs and hangs out with us. Truth be told, the toddler that she was will be with us forever. And that cheerful little toddler will live forever in Kaitlyn’s heart of hearts, giving daily joy and happiness to herself and others along the uncertain road ahead.

Thank you, our precious no-longer-little-one, for giving us the joy of grieving.