Being a parent is an awesome task. I remember days, and nights, that I thought it might just kill me. And others when I knew my children saved my life, and sanity.

Surviving my children's childhoods, teenage years, putting them through college and the mute witnessing of their coming into adulthood was both painful and a privilege. A privilege I wouldn't trade for all the riches in the world. We parents are masochists like that.

But the single best perk of having made it through thus far has been being a grandmother.

Experiencing the growing up of little persons without midnight feedings, crushing exhaustion, bee stings, cranky teachers, sullen teenagers and broken hearts lends one a perspective on their development I seem to have forgotten, or maybe I was too busy trying to juggle it all to notice, when my children were little.

I've seen my grandchildren take tentative not quite first steps, try to figure out where to put their tongues in their mouths to say "hello" and I've been the grateful recipient of countless hugs, snuggles and sloppy kisses. Pure joy. And to watch those little ones laugh themselves silly over absolutely nothing brings me to my knees. I adore these little varmints with every inch of my being. They are worth every ding in my baseboards, every broken glass, every lost moment I spend with them. Even without the laughter, they are pure joy.

Painting: Joy © Lissa Banks 2018