I continue to try to really understand what it is about having grandchildren that kidnaps our hearts. My latest insight is that we have a chance to see a work in progress without judging it, grading it, editing it, revising it, or blaming it.

Our infant grandchildren cry at inconvenient times, keep their parents awake and make them crabby, drool, dribble, and make all sorts of messes -- and we forgive them.

Our toddlers get bumps and bruises, spill paint on our kitchen table, get loud in restaurants, want burgers for every meal, and sometimes run their bikes into our ankles. And we love them absolutely anyway.

It’s not easy being a mother. At the beginning, you are expected to love totally and fiercely. And just when you start getting good at it – resigning yourself to the fact you love this human being much more than you love yourself and you’d fight tigers or sharks if it meant saving them -- you have to start letting go. What's the truth it takes a long time to learn?

Think Donna Reed without such a tiny waste and perfect makeup. Think June Cleaver without quite so much patience and deference to the man of the house. Think of the very rare college degree and even rarer career. Think of Sunday dinners of roast beef, mashed potatoes and gravy. Think of neighborhood coffee klatches. Think of PTO members and brownie troop leaders.

Our mothers were often the thread that held the fabric of post-World War II communities together. Most were full time "housewives". Their domestic duties took longer (fewer appliances) and expectations for what they could do outside the home were lower.