Motherhood, Again (But With More Wisdom and Fewer Diapers at 2 a.m.)

There is something wildly sacred about becoming a grandmother.

Eight months ago, a little boy made me “Nonna” (or Gia or whatever name he eventually decides fits my vibe), and with him came a rush of déjà vu wrapped in baby lotion and mashed bananas. I have mothered before. I have rocked babies at 3 a.m., kissed scraped knees, prayed over teenagers, and released grown adults into the world.

And yet… here I am again. Only softer. Slower. Wiser. And with the delightful privilege of handing him back when he’s teething.

What surprises me most is how much motherhood comes rushing back. The sway. The hum. The instinct to pat-pat-shhh. The way your body remembers what your mind thought it had archived. Watching my grandbaby discover his hands, his voice, his ability to bang a wooden spoon like he’s auditioning for a percussion section—it’s like watching time fold in on itself.

We did this before. We survived this before. And now we get to do it again—but differently.

This time, I don’t mother from pressure. I mother from presence.

When I was raising my children, I was also raising myself. Learning patience. Learning surrender. Learning that control is a myth and grace is oxygen. I made mistakes. I overreacted. I worried about the wrong things. I folded laundry instead of sitting on the floor sometimes.

Now? I sit on the floor.

Grandmotherhood feels like a holy redo. Not to correct the past—but to savor it. To slow down and notice the way his eyelashes rest on his cheeks when he falls asleep on my chest. To laugh when pureed carrots end up in his hair. To whisper prayers over him that feel both ancient and brand new.

Motherhood never really ends. It just evolves. We raise children, yes. But in the raising, we are refined. Motherhood chisels us into women who know how to hold both chaos and tenderness in the same hands.

And now, holding this eight-month-old bundle of joy, I see it clearly: we are not just raising humans. We are being raised.

To the mothers in the thick of it—the sleepless nights, the endless snacks, the questioning if you’re doing it “right”—you are. Love counts more than perfection. Presence matters more than Pinterest. The days are long, yes. But they are also sacred.

Lean in. Sit on the floor. Let it be messy. Let it be meaningful.

You are growing right alongside them.

Just be present!