From Car Seat Tears to National Cheers

I spent the weekend at the cabin playing dual roles: grandma and babysitter to Reagan and Grayson.

While I was glued to my laptop, Reagan, an ever-curious teenager, asked why I was devoting so much time to my computer. I laughed. “Because I started a blog,” I told her. “And you, my dear, should be reading it.”

“What’s a blog?” she asked.

“It’s sort of like a digital diary,” I explained. I write about life, family, my quirks, my hangups, and why I talk to squirrels. You might find out something about your mom you didn’t know. Heaven forbid, you might even crack a smile.”

That’s when she hit me with the universal teen eye roll. Translation: Grandma, you could have stopped with the explanation a few paragraphs ago.

Moments later, with a sweet smirk and all the charm she could muster, Reagan asked, “Why don’t you write about me, your favorite granddaughter?”

Oh boy!

I paused, aware that five other pairs of precious eyeballs were out there, including two who could read, and every one of them holds a special place in my heart. So how do I write about Reagan and make her feel like the sparkly center of Grandma’s universe without accidentally lighting a fire in the family group chat?

Here’s the thing: Reagan was our first grandchild. Her appearance crowned me with a new title: GRANDMA.

We have a special bond. I’m her soft landing. Her emotional exits from the cabin, sobbing in her car seat, arms outstretched like I was the last helicopter out of Saigon, wrecked me in the most beautiful way.

Honestly, if she could have clawed her way through the car window onto my hip, she would have. My daughter once said to me, “Mom, if you ever feel unloved, just remember that little girl ADORES her grandmother.” I do. Often.

These days Reagan’s world is all about Cheer and I can vividly recall how it all began. I was asked to take her to her first tryout because her parents had other commitments. The coaches were tossing out words like cartwheel, aerial roundoff, and back handspring like they were calling out bingo numbers.

Meanwhile, I was clutching my nerves, watching Reagan do her very own thing. And by that, I really do mean her very own thing. It was as if she had rehearsed what she was going to do ahead of time play by play: 1. lean back, looking upward while arms in the air. 2. Arch back, as if really going to accomplish something. 3. Quickly drop to the floor, catching self with arms. It was a movement that repeated itself over and over like a glitch in a dance routine.

I have to admit, I felt a tiny pang of embarrassment for her. But she wasn’t embarrassed at all. Nope, she was vibing. She had found her rhythm and I needed to chill.

Let’s just say Reagan wasn’t flipping like Gabby Butler, the standout in the world of competitive cheerleading, but she had spirit. And as it turns out, spirit matters. The coaches saw what she needed and placed her on a team where she belonged. She was elated. She was part of a team.

Fast forward a few years, twirls and flips later, some wildly expensive Cheer uniforms, glitter bows and team trips, this same girl who once did the “catch-myself” move on repeat, qualified with her Cheer squad for the All-Star World Champion in Orlando this past April.

She’s getting so tall now, nearly eye to eye with me, rocking her turquoise sunglasses and six-pack abs that I didn’t know girls could even get. She’s now the one giving pep talks and fixing bows on the littles, who look up to her like she’s queen of the mat.

Recently, the three generations – me, Jill, and Reagan, took a trip to Utah to visit my son, (Jill’s younger brother) Mark. Reagan was your classic teenager: phone in hand, politely bored, and surprisingly tolerant of our scenic narration cruising through the Salt Lake City Flats.

Her one and only goal while in Utah? Finding a SWIG. This naïve grandma asked her what kind of swag she was looking for. She laughed. I was educated. Apparently, caffeinated beverages mixed with candy syrups and coconut cream are all the rage.

Reagan is a natural hugger. Walks towards me with arms open, like she’s been waiting her whole life for that moment. And in a world full of eye rolls and TikTok reels I may never understand, that hug energy is sacred.

So, is she my favorite granddaughter? Only when my other two granddaughters aren’t within earshot. And even if they were, they’re too young to understand. I’ll say this: she’s my original. The prototype. My proof that being a grandma was going to be something special.

I almost did a cartwheel in celebration of your birthday, Regs, but then I reconsidered. I’m kind of partial to where my body parts are now, and I saw no spotters standing by ready to scrape me off the floor.

So here’s where I land, Regs. I dedicated an entire blog just for you in honor of your special day. Happy 14^th birthday. I love you to the moon and back.