A few years ago, we thoroughly enjoyed having one child in driver’s training and another in toilet training at the same time. I discovered that half the fun of having such an age spread among our children was telling strangers about our family.

The ages of our three sons was a great conversation starter. In revealing that our first two children were 15 and 13 when our third was born, I got remarks ranging from, “Oh, you poor thing,” to “I’ll bet that was a shock.” Perfect strangers weighed in, calling him our “Whoops,” or “Little caboose.”

When I tell them that I had prayed for another child for eight years and our third child was the blessing that was missing from our family, my story was thoughtfully received. However, my solution to solving the empty-nest blues was seldom embraced.

And now I’m a grandmother — times three.

As I approached grandmotherhood for the first time, I explained to our then-six-year-old son that he would become an uncle.

“And do you know what that makes me?” I continued.

“No.”

“I’m going to be a grandma.”

“But you’re not going to be old,” he quickly replied. Perhaps he was afraid that I’d sprout blue hair and begin wearing polyester pantsuits.

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