My three year old has a little Grammie in her. She talks incessantly, enjoys a tasty snack, and loves a good back rub. Demands them really. Much like her Grandma.
Growing up, you could not get within a 3-foot circumference of Mom’s back, could not accidentally brush up against her spine, without her asking you to rub her back. Sometimes she would just request it outright, “Oooo. Rub my back,” she would sing. But more often she would simply shake her shoulders and shiver her torso like a draft had suddenly sent a chill through the room. We all knew what that meant. No words were necessary. And if her pathetic little dance didn’t produce the desired results, she resorted to bribery. . .
When I was young and naïve as to the value of a dollar, I would yield my massage services for a penny a minute. But I would not come that cheap for very long and soon Mom had to turn to my younger (and less savvy) siblings as her indentured servants. We were all subject to this child labor camp at some point. And inevitably we would all groan when the back dance was performed in our presence as if we’d just been asked to scrub a toilet or fly a suicide mission over Nagasaki. “Do I haaaaave to…?
But I guess that’s why I bought her the Moose one-year for her birthday. . .
Yes. A Moose. With wheels. Of course. Don’t you have one? And it’s meant to be rolled on your back. It seemed like a good idea at the time. But looking back, I’m not sure why I bought an implement that could only be used for the one thing I consistently tried to avoid doing. Except that she loved it. And I loved her. And that’s what we do when love people. We do things we don’t want to. She definitely taught me that.
Mom’s life lesson #6: Service is the Best Love Language.
I’m willing to bet Mom didn’t love driving my ungrateful 9-year-old-self to play practice five nights a week. I’m sure all those Pop-Warner football games she attended in inclement weather weren’t really that thrilling-even in light of my breathtaking halftime shows. I’m quite confident Mom did not love painting the entire inside of my house and I know she was totally exhausted all those nights she sat up with me and my nursing newborn. But she still cleaned my house and cooked me extravagant meals the next day.
She organized upteen closets, vacuumed countless miles of carpet, packed and unpacked a seemingly unending passel of children, and offered up her home as a refuge for many a' nomad because that’s how she hugged. She served. And when she did, you knew you were loved. She didn’t have to say it. It was her little shoulder shake, her tiny torso shiver that communicated without words how she felt. There was no mistaking that dance of affection.
So when I awkwardly squeeze myself beside my toddler each night and demand she turn off her mouth but instead she turns to me and demands a back rub, I try to remember that. And so I do it. It doesn’t really matter that I’m exhausted. It doesn’t really matter that I really should be downstairs folding laundry, loading the dishwasher or watching ‘The Bachelor’ (don’t judge). Nope. I lift my weary arm and gently rub her back. And then do it some more when she’s unsatisfied by my first brief effort. I do it because I love her. And because she’s got a little Grammie in her. And I tell her that. I whisper, “Grammie loved back rubs just like you.” And I wish I had that Moose.
