Whenever my parents stop over my 5-year-old announces their arrival like he’s introducing the president before the State of the Union. Then, he and my 3-year-old daughter race to the door screaming “Grandma, Grandpa, Grandma, Grandpa!” I don’t even get that kind of welcome. My 12-year-old used to do the same. Nowadays, he goes upstairs to his room after a brief hello. “Hi, Grandma and Grandpa,” he says, sounding like a young Ben Stein. I want to scold him for being rude when my Dad says, “Oh, let him go. He is almost a teenager and that’s what they do.” I wish it wasn’t. I wish I could tell my teenage and twenty something self to spend more time with my grandmother. When you are young you take things and people for granted. Only with age do you come to realize what matters in life, but it’s often too late. I long to spend time sitting around my grandmother’s table, to see her smile and bright red hair. Her house always smelled of Avon perfume and coffee. If she were alive today I would visit everyday. I would hold her hand and talk for hours. I want to scream at my son and tell him how lucky he is. I want him to cherish every single moment. I don’t want him to make the mistake I did. She knew I loved her, but I should have done more. I never told her how much she inspired me. She was important to me, but I didn’t make enough time for her. I was a stupid kid. I know my younger children won’t run to the door forever either, but I wish they would. They wouldn’t regret it.
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