Our Democratic Family

There are many ways to say, “I love you.” Railroad tracks, for example. Photo by Caitlin Molina.

Recently, I sat across the dinner table from my daughter and immediately noticed the jewelry wrapped around her wrist. It is a tarnished ID bracelet inscribed with my father’s name, Chuck.

I discovered the bracelet last year, in a box of my father’s papers. By its size, I could tell it had belonged to teenage Chuck, when he was a tall and skinny athlete with wrists barely larger than mine. I had never known of its existence, but Dad had cherished the bracelet for all his adult life. I suspect the photo tucked inside is the reason why. Snap it open and there she is: Janey BeBout, in her 1955 cheerleading outfit.

Hi, Mom.

Nearly 50 years later, our six-year-old granddaughter, Ela, was sitting at that dinner table, holding the opened bracelet in her plump little hand. Ela is small for her age and has a gloriously big personality. Much like her great-grandmother, whose final growth spurt topped out at four feet, eleven inches. My mother had a laugh so loud and boisterous that strangers joined in the revelry, even when they had no idea why she was laughing.

Ela ran a finger across the image of Mom’s face and said, softly, “She was your mother.”

“Yes,” I said. “And your mommy’s grandmother.”

She paused for a moment.

“Did she die?”

“Yes,” I said. “Many years ago.”

Ela looked up at me with her big, brown eyes and studied my face for a moment. I know that look. I’ve had this conversation with several of her cousins in recent years. They learn about the concept of dying, and an unwelcome truth slams against their hearts. The grown-ups they love will not always be here.  

Whenever one of them works up the courage to ask if I will die, I smile and tell them, “Someday, but not today.” It’s not the answer they want, but it’s one they can live with, it seems.

“You’re never going to lie to me, Grandma,” Jackie said after asking that question when she was six. “That’s one of your good traits.” That felt like an unfinished thought, and for once I was willing to let it stay that way.

I have been on the receiving end of a lot of Jackie’s opinions, lucky me. When she was five, Sherrod and I visited her school during a day reserved for grandparents’ visits. She pulled me in for a photo and delivered the same reprimand she had just heard me level at her grandfather. “Now it’s your turn, Grandma. Stop talking and smile.”

I did as I was instructed.

Grandma and Jackie.

About two years later, Jackie and I were separated by the pandemic but regularly talked on FaceTime, sharing ideas and drawings for a book we were writing about the friendship between a girl named Ava, and a chickadee she named Isabel. I’d send drafts of texts for her to revise and drawings to color. Like every other editor in my life, she’d call with further thoughts. I am no artist, to state the obvious, but seven-year-old Jackie loved being taken seriously. Don’t we all.

After dinner that evening with Ela’s family, we all saw a wonderful live performance of The Sound of Music. On the drive there, eight-year-old grandson Milo and I sang along loudly to the movie soundtrack. The joy on his face reminded me of the first time his mother saw the movie. Cait was four, snuggled on the sofa between her 16-year-old brother and me.  

About an hour in, she sighed and said, “Mommy, I wish Maria lived with us.” Andy didn’t miss a beat. “She already does,” he said, plaintively. Our poor, long-suffering teenager, stuck with chirpy me.

Every-body sing!

O ho lay-dee odl lee o
O ho lay-dee odl ay!
O ho lay-dee odl lee o
Hodl odl lee-o-lay!

Three days after that dinner with Ela’s family, Sherrod and I were watching our six-year-old grandson, Russell, perform his latest moves in a breakdancing class. This sweet, spirited boy is as creative as he is athletic, and breakdancing is a wonderful outlet for his high energy.

We showed up with our middle daughter, who brought along granddaughters Carolyn and Maribell. During his hourlong class, Russell repeatedly glanced as his grandfather and me, checking to make sure we were paying attention.

You bet we were, buddy. We saw you perform the Russian Tap, the six-step, and the crab position—all in a rapid blur. I know the names of these moves because I later asked, and you patiently explained, twice.

Not every child in my life—grown or still growing—shares my bloodline. This is irrelevant to me, and my hope is that this will never matter to them, either. Sherrod and I married in 2004, and each of us walked down the aisle flanked by the two children we had helped to raise. What a memorable start. Like millions of other American families, ours is a blended one, although I often think of us as tossed together like a salad, with different flavors popping on any given day.

Our grandchildren have begun asking questions about how we became this family, and sometimes I hear it as a test. Always, they are hoping for the right answer.

Cousins Leo, Clayton and Milo.

Clayton, our oldest grandchild, was the first to ask. (Clayton is 16 now, and uses they/them/their pronouns) When Clayton was six, they held baby Milo in their arms with cousin Leo at their side. An hour later, Clayton stood next to me as I cooked at the stove, which seems to be a popular place for unexpected questions from grandchildren.

One look at Clayton and I knew something was on their mind. It took little prodding for us to have this exchange:

“Milo’s mom is your daughter,” Clayton said. “And she was your baby.”

“That’s right,” I said.

“So, you and Milo are related.”

“Yep.”

Clayton looked again at Milo, and then at me. “But I am--.”

“My first grandchild,” I said. I set down the wooden spoon and placed my hands on his shoulders. “And you will always be my first grandchild, for all of my days. That’s how much I love you.”

Clayton smiled. “Just checking.”

We hugged, and off they went. They have never mentioned it again.

These beloved children in my life—all eight of them--will never hear me use the term “step-grandchildren.” There are no levels to my love. “I love you on purpose,” I tell them.

You may be wondering why I’m going on about the children in our family. Well, I’ve been a bit worked up lately. The Republican vice-presidential candidate has doubled down recently on his obsession with families of Democrats. I get it. We’re fascinating.

In 2021, he said, “The rejection of the American family is perhaps the most pernicious and most evil thing that the left has done in the country.” Last month, he said Democrats “have become anti-family and anti-kid.”

It is too easy to list the many ways in which elected Republicans have failed to protect America’s children and inflicted intentional harm. I wrote an entire section about that, full of links and data, and then decided to save it for another day.

What I want right now is to hear from all of you. How do you define family? Children, no children, blood relatives and the friends you choose to call family. Share your stories, please. I think a lot of us could use them right now.

One more story from me.

Yesterday, our boy Franklin turned 13. I wrote about him last year on his 12^th birthday. I don’t have much to add to it except to say we are so grateful that he is still doing well. He’s on two maintenance drugs now, but as Sherrod pointed out yesterday, that’s fewer pills than we’re taking so maybe we should keep our opinions to ourselves. In our family, all dogs have dignity, too.

I am trying hard not look at Franklin and give in to that anticipatory grief. I can’t bear the thought of losing him, but stewing about it now just squanders the time we have left. If Franklin could talk, he would look up at me with his big brown eyes and say, “I thought I taught you better than that.”

You sure have, Boo. We love you.