Baby Paipai, my darling freshly turned one-year old grand girl, has been out of sorts this morning. She sinks her pudgy fingers into the flesh of my upper arms and tugs up, straining every muscle in her darling face to convey the need for me to rise up with her wrapped in my arms. It’s the singing and the swaying this precious cargo craves when she’s tired or unwell or upset or in need of a reset. She singsongs with me, patting my back, and with the relief and gratification of placing the final piece in a puzzle, she eventually tucks her heavy head into the comfort of my neck and releases a big sigh as she slips off to sleep.
Here I am, now sitting beside her pink blanket wrapped baby burrito body on my big white linen covered bed as the sounds of her snoozes carry up and away within the breeze of the window fan, filling the shadows of my darkened room with peace, love, grace and mercy. My thoughts clutch my throat for a moment—having just wrapped up my encore issue of the magazine and as I pen this final-final editor letter—that she’ll never know me as a magazine editor, a me I’ve been proud of and known so deeply for so many years, and a me that is now shifting into the unchartered territory of redefining where and how I’ll show up in the world moving forward. Oh, but is the heart and soul of life really that complicated? Must I give what I do professionally so much power over my identity? Will this baby girl mind what kind of work I do as long as the puzzle piece of my nuzzle-y neck remains available to receive her tender moments?
Looking Back
He always answered the door with an enthusiasm that pushed us back on our heels. The record player would be spinning, but he knew we would each need a turn choosing one of our favorite songs from his meticulously organized record collection. I think I most loved how he scooped up our mother in his arms, verbally sharing how grateful he was to see her, to see us.
My grandfather passed away when I was 7 years old, but I feel as though I’m filled with a full lifetime’s worth of memories with him. Perhaps those memories are so big because his love was larger than life, so much so that his infusion and influence upon my mind and heart couldn’t be interrupted by the distance of death.
He would gently grab each hand of mine in each of his and pull me closer. I would instinctively step up on his toes and we would begin the welcome dance. My brothers always giggled and wriggled their way out of his grasp, so I was the lucky one who learned early on that dancing was how you invested the best moments of glee and love and … life.
I would work up a thirst with all of the spinning and singing and smiling, but I knew—through somewhat traumatic, personal investigations—to never sip from the ice “water” glass that sat atop the speaker. That was grandpa’s “special drink” and it would grab the attention of every fiber of your being upon passing over your lips and dragging itself down your throat. Years later, as a young adult, I would recognize the flavor of grandpa’s drink while sipping from a passed bottle behind a barn during a graduation party. They called it whiskey, and I learned the same lesson I had as a child: it was not for me. But it made me smile nonetheless, thinking of my grandfather as a young man in a similar moment behind the barn with his own friends.
Aside from two incredibly cranky canines who could strip our bones of our flesh, and a troop of rock pelting, frothy mouthed kids from across the creek that ran behind my grandfather’s home, times at his house were some of the very best of my early years. And I have no recollection of the work he did or his professional endeavors.
Now, as a young glamma of two brilliant little mighty girls—4 ½ year old Love Nugget and her baby sister sound asleep at my side—I reflect back on those days with my grandfather, the only parent of my parents who lived long enough to meet—and enjoy—grandkids. I knew his love was different from my parents’ love, and valuable in ways only he could provide. Even though my parents looked at me with a sparkle in their eyes, there was something deeper and sparklier about the way in which my grandfather gazed upon me (and I’m sure my pesky non-dancing brothers, too) that made me feel whole and complete and protected and strong and important.
And, little did I know, that deep and sparkly love would come back to me again in the physical world with the way my grand girls look at me that brings tears to my eyes and makes me feel the rhythm of my own heart. Through every “Do I have to go, Glamma?” and every sticky little hand—or four, because glammas are hard to share sometimes—that stretches toward me with the words “hold me,” the real and raw and true definition of love and life rises up in my heart and soul in ways that remind me no matter how rigid the world sometimes feels, there are equal parts purity and preciousness that we have the honor to contribute to, and perpetuate out into the world, for this moment, and for all the generations to come … regardless of how many professional iterations we evolve into, or what we do outside the walls of our homes—ultimately, the legacy we leave is defined in the reflection of our love seen and felt and embedded within those around us.
The baby is stirring and I feel a dance party coming on, because that’s how we do life in this house on a Friday morning when the grands grace me with their presence.
Thank you for the years—it has been an honor to be your editor. Find me on social media to stay connected, and enjoy the next chapter of this magazine.
To the legacies we build,
Stephanie Regalado
