When our children left the nest, we breathed a sigh of relief for a child-rearing job well done. Thankfully that reprieve was short-lived, for just when we thought we could never love another as deeply as our own, our child places their child into our arms . . . and the lay-down-my-life-for-you love starts all over again. Nothing in this world can prepare us for this moment, and nothing can compare as this child of our child steals our breath and our hearts. Then we watch as the baby's great-grandmotherâour motherâ embraces this miracle, bearing witness to this ageless mystery of maternal love. Happily we resume the work of caring for a childâbut this time with less stress and even more fun! The dance of life goes onâthe family circle grows.

Chicken Soup for the Soul
applauds how grandmas bless all our lives, and we are honored to bless theirs. These true stories bring hope and happiness to those who caress us, not only with their hands but with their hearts.
Chicken
Soup for the Grandma's Soul
celebrates the love and joy only a grandma can know. Whether she's rocking or rock-and-rolling, knitting or surfing, hugging or hiking, every grandma will find herself in these loving, laughing, even life-saving stories.

On behalf of all the lives they've touched and changed forever, we say thank you!

1
THE BIRTH
OF A

S
oon I will be an old, white-haired lady into
whose lap someone places a baby, saying,
“Smile, Grandma!” I, who myself so recently
was photographed on my grandmother's lap.

Liv Ullmann

Babies, Boredom and Bliss

W
hen a child is born, so is a grandmother.

Judith Levy

“We're not going in there, are we?” I asked, appalled, looking inside the baby store my friend was determined to enter. I'd come a long way to visit . . . hundreds of miles, and she wanted to shop in a baby store? Quite frankly, I found those kinds of stores boring, the way I found most babies boring. I'd never been accused of being enthusiastic over little creatures who couldn't walk, talk or do anything except scream, make a mess and demand all of one's attention.

Turning on the well-worn heel of her running shoe, my friend shot me a steely look. “We won't be long,” she promised, striding into the store.

Unhappily I trailed after her.
She's changed,
I thought grumpily as I stifled a yawn and tottered through the crammed aisles on my high heels.
Definitely changed,
I thought sourly as she spent the next two hours oohing and aahing over everything to do with infants until I thought I'd go insane.

What can I say in defense of my once-glamorous friend, who now smelled of spit-up and stumbled tiredly through the store misty-eyed with joy?

She'd become a grandmother.

That fact was responsible for her gleeful preoccupation with the world of little things, the reason she didn't have time to dye the gray in her hair, the reason she'd traded in her classic clothing for jogging gear, the reason she didn't seem able to talk about anything. Except babies. And most particularly, one little grandbaby.

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