Here we are, starting over

From the time she was two years old, my daughter lived with her dad and stepmother in another province, and my only contact with her was a visit nearly four years prior when she was 16.  After that meeting, we wrote to one another for a couple of months, but then the letters stopped coming.  On that March evening, I told my husband that I often wondered if I would here from her again.  Two hours later, shortly after we went to bed, the phone rang. "Hi, Mom," said a young woman. "Do you know who this is?"  My heart was pounding - it was my daughter calling from Western Canada.  She told me that she had left home and was living with a family she had met through church.  She had given birth to a baby girl the previous September, she said, but had to giver her up for adoption five months later.  She planned to come to Ontario for Bible college.  We talked for ages, exchanged addresses and phone numbers, promising this time we would keep in touch. 

Over the next few months, we phoned or wrote at least once a week.  By July, I couldn't wait to see her any longer.  I bought a plane ticket and flew out west.  The visit was lovely.  A month later, and the day before her 20th birthday, my daughter came to live with me.  Things seemed great, but at the end of September we received a big sue was over seven surprise - she was over seven months pregnant.  Though we discussed the possibility of adoption, she decided to keep the baby.  That November, after several hours of hard labor, our beautiful grandson, Matthew, was born.  That little boy came home to a house full of love and attention.  My husband doted on him.  His and uncle adored him.  He was perfect.  And again everything seemed fine.

One day, three months after Matthew was born, I came home from work one day to find all of the baby's things were gone.  Later that night, my daughter told us that she had gone on welfare and moved into an apartment.  We were shocked - and in the next weeks, we missed the baby very much.  There were a few visits, but in August 1993 - for reasons I still don't understand - my daughter and grandson suddenly dropped out of our lives.  I was devastated and worried I might never see them again, but I also didn't lose hope for a reconciliation.

In March 1994, my daughter phoned again.  She talked as if nothing had happened and I followed her lead and didn't bring up the subject.  After speaking regularly for a month, I suggested that we start to take the baby sometimes on the weekends to give her a break.  By June, Matthew was with us not only on weekends, but for several weeks at a time.  In October I was in the middle of running a political campaign when Matthew came to live with us full time.  Within a few weeks, my daughter left town. 

That December we received an early Christmas present, custody of our two-year old grandson.  We were starting over.  Today at 8, Matthew is the joy of our livers.  People say he keeps us young.  Perhaps this is so, but I do have days that I feel old - especially when camping in tents and organizing sleepovers.  At 48, my energy level is not what it was when I was 25.  Preparing for hockey season and Cub Scouts takes more out of me than before.  It seems stand to find that Matthew's teachers are the age of our kids, and to have his friends' parents asking us for advice.  Things are very different for us as grandparents raising a grandchild. In addition to being Mom, Dad, grandma, and grandpa to Matthew, we are also grandparents to three others and parents to our now adult children.

Since we have had Matthew, his mother has come in and out of our lives several times.  At this point, we've had no contact with her since May of 1999.  Matthew has adjusted very well and accepts us as his family.  We've been told many times what a wonderful thing it was that we took him in.  To us, there was nothing wonderful about it- having Matthew is probably the most rewarding thing we have ever been blessed with.  When he graduates from secondary school, my husband and I will be retired.  But if I had to do it over, I would not change a thing.

_________________________________

Nancy McSloy is a doting grandmother in London, Ont.

Article published in Maclean's - September 17, 2001.