About those who love and have loved without hours of rest
-How’s the team holding up?– during the past week, I’d occasionally ping Mom with this question in a Messenger chat or ask over the phone.
–Very well / great / actively,– one of the answers would reach my ears or eyes.
–Don’t worry, just rest,– the “add-on” would chime in, appearing out of nowhere.
In my parents’ house, during the kids’ vacation, life runs like a well-directed action movie. Calm and boredom never set in.
Through every room, there are arranged garages, Lego castles, towers of books, jungles of pencils, markers, and modeling clay. Doll gatherings. And five made-up beds. Sets of shoes and outdoor clothes. Everything ×5.
Here, breakfast smells of freshly made pancakes with strawberries. Cocoa fountains flow. And before those are finished… my Mom is already coordinating the lunch menu for five grandchildren.
Halfway through lunch and after tidying the towering pile of dishes… she’s already spinning around the dinner pots. Watching her from the side… it looks like someone has installed a motor in her.
A motor that buzzes without rest hours, never switches to safe mode.
Five kids! All fed. Neatly dressed. Occupied with interesting activities. And still spoiled with trips to amusement parks and playgrounds.
On the weekend, we join the vacationing five—with baby My. Grandchild number six. And Mister Ego. A 30 kg adolescent beast.
The house seems to swell at the seams. The “resident” density increases. Pancake towers for breakfast grow. Lunch stew pots puff up. Dinner meat “slices” elongate.
The whole house buzzes like a giant beehive, with Mom at the center… taking care of everyone individually.
And as I pack the bags, she even nudges me with a question:
–What, sweetie, should I put in?
I assure her, nothing.
And with our bellies now full, we’re off. Almost imperceptibly, she slips two boxes of farm-fresh eggs into my bag:
–Eat these. Healthier than the store ones.
I glance at my Mom as we say goodbye, waving, thinking that after weeks like this, fatigue should knock me off my feet. But. Yet. She stands there, gathering tears from her eyes into her fists, gesturing to show she’s sad to see us leave. And in her eyes, you can read more clearly than in words:
–I’ll be waiting for your return!
Before leaving our hometown, we brake at the candles lit for my grandparents, who sit on cloud-shaped holders.
Next to me, Patricija asks:
–Are these your grandparents, Mom?
I nod affirmatively.
–Did they take care of you too?
I nod.
–And give you candy?
–Yes,– I nod toward my own childhood memories.
–And did they love you like our grandparents love us now?
I hug the two kids standing quietly next to me and silently say a “thank you” the size of an elephant in my mind.
Evening toast:
To GRANDPARENTS.
For whom nothing was ever too hard or impossible because of us, their grandchildren.
And I can only truly say this as an adult. Watching, marveling at my parents, now six-time grandparents, radiate energy and goodness, enveloping us all. Without rest. Without signs of fatigue.
V.
