Giving thanks watching grandson grow

Today, I want to say Happy Birthday to my first grandchild, Charles James Lynch, who was born Dec. 6, 2003, and who, since that day, has occupied the very center of my heart ... along with his parents, his Uncle Rob, and now his younger brother and sister. (It's getting a tad crowded in there, but what can you do?)

Charlie and I bonded the moment we made eye contact, and even more deeply when he came home from the hospital, and I finally got his weary father and exhausted mother to bed. Charlie slept in my room that first week, so that I could wake with him, change him, take him to his mother to nurse, and then whisk him back to my room for the burping, one more change, and a groggy, rocking lullaby as he fell back to sleep.

On those endless nights, as we rocked or walked, sang or talked, we looked each other in the eye for long moments, solemnly, appraisingly, and found ourselves supremely satisfied. He didn't care that I wore an old nightgown, he didn't care that my hair in the middle of the night could cause a small-animal stampede. He didn't mind that my singing voice at 3 a.m. is not nearly what it can be at 3 p.m. -- which, frankly, isn't saying much. Charlie didn't mind that I look less like Angelina Jolie and more like, say, Betty Crocker. I was just right, in his opinion -- and, of course, he was perfect in mine.

As Charlie has grown, he and I have spent many nights together: When his parents went out of town, and I stayed with him, sleeping on the nursery floor so I'd be sure to hear him. When his little brother Georgie was born, and we were so worried about him, and his parents were at the hospital almost 24/7, and I'd rock him in his Winnie-the-Pooh footie pajamas, assuring him they'd be back soon, and that he was safe and loved to an insane degree. When he stayed at my house while his parents went away, but he couldn't sleep, so we told stories and cuddled as his eyes slowly closed.

Charlie and I play a game called "I love you more." He'll say, "I love you more than all the stars in the sky." I'll say, "I love you more than all the grains of sand on the beach," etc. Finally, he'll say triumphantly, "I love you more than infinity!" -- so I give up. (He's so proud to know about "infinity"; he has no idea that there is no "infinity" imaginable that could possibly contain my love for him.)

Amazingly, even at age 7, Charlie's still excited to see me, still wants to hear my stories, still wants to play with me: soccer, basketball, tennis, even football is still a blast with Gaga. His favorite part is when Gaga runs after a ball, trips on something -- a stump, a croquet hoop ... a blade of grass -- and sprawls across the driveway, maybe even breaking a bone or two. Please. How can you beat that for fun? And, the odds are huge that this will happen, so he invites friends over to play with us, which provides massive entertainment and monumental prestige in the neighborhood.

Charlie has very blond hair, sparkling blue eyes, two missing front teeth and just a few freckles sprinkled across his nose. He is beautiful, and laughs all the time, at almost everything. He is advanced, talented, brilliant. He started walking at 10 months, and has rarely stopped moving since then. Charlie is the best reader in his class, he can write like a pro, ride a two-wheeler, hit a mean tennis ball and is president of his first-grade class.

My favorite thing about Charlie, though, is this: If he's playing with someone, and he sees another child who's alone, or seems left out, he'll go over and say: "Hi, my name's Charlie, what's your name? Do you want to play with us?" I've watched him do it. I've watched him bring a luminous smile to a lonely child's face. And, if his other friends don't want to play with the child, then Charlie and the new kid start their own game. He won't abide bullying or hurtful remarks, either. This is because of his parents. I am, daily, filled with gratitude -- and wonder -- that my daughter and her husband have nurtured such kindness, such confidence ... such a sense of honor ... in my grandson.

It's late now. The party is over, friends gone home, and I lie in bed listening to Louise sing "Silent Night" to her newly minted 7-year-old, just as I did to her so many years ago. And, the tears fill my ears.

Vicki Wentz's column, which appears here on Sundays, is published in newspapers across the country. She is a high school teacher who lives in Chapel Hill, N.C. Readers may contact her at vwentz@mindspring.com.