Am I passionate?

When I think of that word, my mind goes immediately to sex. I consider all of the steamy and erotic experiences that I could write about…and I decide to spare you those details. (You’re welcome for that!)

As I sit down to write this piece, I find myself stumped. What on earth am I going to write about? Other people are passionate about world peace, global warming, and starving children. They take big stands on big issues! What issues hold such a place in MY heart?

I recall how, when I was younger, I fought for equality for women in the workplace. Yes, I can say, “I did that!” I honored women along the way, those that went before me and those whose hands I grasped to pull them upward. But that was thirty years ago – what about now?

I think of all the small things I have been passionate about: food (and I mean really good food), and wine (really good wine). Flowers in my pots, red flowers always, especially geraniums – oh, and the pots are cobalt blue! Decorating my home or my office – I have the drive to tackle every shelf and corner, each picture frame and knick-knack on display, until I am finished.

I was passionate about Downton Abbey and watched every single episode. Instead of crying about the series ending, I just started watching other British TV series. And then I became passionate about British television!

I’ve been passionate about a dozen or so old boyfriends, until I realized I didn’t like them anymore and then I became passionate about getting rid of them!

I can imagine you think me fickle now, after hearing about my past passions and the way that I jumped from one to another. But I know what passion feels like, whether it lasts for a moment or forever, and I enjoy the heat of it for as long as it burns.

Now that I’m older, I can definitely say that I have one passion that will not dwindle and fade, and that is my love and adoration for children. Naturally the small ones – babies and toddlers. Really, who doesn’t love babies? But I have to say that those long-armed, gangly-legged, pimple-faced teenagers burrow themselves into a special place in my heart, as well.

I guess I am drawn to their sweet faces and inquisitive nature. Perhaps it was becoming a grandma, and missing those times when my own children were small. But – no matter the reason – I love them, I adore them, and I am passionate about them. I love to read to them, listen to them, ask them questions, feed them, and challenge them.

Take my grandson Devin, for instance. He’s 5 years old and built like a fire hydrant. His mama keeps his hair short in a buzz cut, and he’s got a little swirl right in the front of his hairline. He’s fair, with the pale blue eyes of his mom’s Norwegian heritage.  He’s always smudged and dirty no matter how many baths are forced upon him, and he is usually adorned with at least one Band-Aid. This kid is the real-life Peanuts character “Pig Pen,” and I just can’t resist loving him up.

When he wants, he’ll climb on my lap and ask to have his back scratched. I’ve learned that his version of back scratching is a long lazy dragging of my fingernails lightly over his tee shirt – so it’s just shy of a prickly tickle and just short of itching a mosquito bite.

When he’s had enough of that, he rolls over from his tummy onto his back and asks me to rub his arms. He holds them straight out like Frankenstein arms. I gently run my flat palm from his little shoulder to his hands. “Is that good?” I ask. “Now the other arm,” he commands. I dutifully rub the second arm.

After a few strokes he flips his hand over, palms up, “Now this side.” I notice his eyes are closed like he’s in some kind of ecstasy. And me, well, I’m in ‘grandma heaven’ as I love the feel of his soft skin under my fingertips; the little dimple on the inside of each elbow provides a dip and a curve as I traverse the short length of this little guy’s arm.

His eyes open and I think he might be sleepy. He murmurs, “Grandma Susie?”

“Yes?”

“I’m hungry.”

Sighing softly, I rise from my chair and go to the kitchen, pull out the peanut butter (smooth – not crunchy) and the soft white bread I buy just for him, and I cut off the crusts with a smile. This is not the first thing that comes to mind when I think of the word, “passionate.”

But as I prepare to make the best peanut butter and jelly sandwich that Devin has ever tasted…I know without a doubt that this is the deepest and most undying passion I could ever experience.