I had taken this past Friday off to drive my mother to the hospital for surgery and while it was a fairly routine sort of surgery her health history and the impending arrival of our first child left me with the sharp taste anxiety that lingered all weekend. It was actually on both our minds as Management and I stumbled into one of those difficult conversations that circle what-ifs like so many vultures riding on thermals waiting. I suppose that like most children I have taken my parents’ continued presence for granted, they have always been there so on some emotional level it feels as if they will always be there but on Friday at five in the morning they both looked so frail and so corporeal.

There is this sort of desperation that gnaws at me. I want for my mother to know her grandchild and for my child to know her in turn but I am consumed by worry that there will not be time enough–worry seems to be a common theme around here. I suppose what touched off this bout of anxiety was my conversation with my mother a couple of days before I took her to the hospital where she wanted to let me know how important it would be to her and my father if they could be a apart of their grandchild’s life and that they really would like to share some of the duties of watching the baby while we are at work. Now having a family tug-of-war over daycare slots is an ideal situation but it left me wondering if either set of grandparents will feel like they are getting the short end of the deal and will there be enough time for everyone to know each other.

Will my child grow up to remember the grandparents with the sprawling garden and steamy greenhouse? Will they remember feeding the koi in the pond with their grandmother or how if they asked their grandfather a question a felt-tip pen and napkin would invariably enter the process of answering as would several very old and dusty books? Will they remember how Sundays are when Polkas are played on the radio even though both grandparents comment on how corny and silly they are or how when the Polka gives way to Reggae their grandfather will leap to change the station but their grandmother would scold him by saying “It’s fun to dance to!” as she did a little skittering jig across the kitchen?

Following in my family’s footsteps, I never remember the camera and if perchance I do I never think to take pictures. Memories are less than tangible, cluttered in my mind and inaccessible to all, even myself sometimes. I wonder if I should buy a video camera next year so that we might all remember my parents idiosyncrasies as well as all those little quirks of life. That is if I remember to charge the battery.