What a Grandfather Remembers

Somewhere in the archival filing system of our family—shoeboxes in closets and attic and basement—there is a photograph of a nude baby-child stretched across my bare chest as we relax on the sofa. Chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat, getting as close as possible to the miracle my wife experienced when she carried the child in her womb.

I believe the child is Jon, our youngest son, but it could have been any of the others—Terri or Scott or Heather. All of them took their place on the chest-bed. All of them fell into sleep there. It was where I learned about the warmth of children, about their need to be touched, and, also, my need for the same sensation. There is nothing in our time on Earth as pure or as lasting or as memorable. Even now, with eight grandchildren in the mix, I have little electric shocks of recall when I see my children play with their children. Yes, I think. Yes. Their heartbeat is still against my heartbeat, the heat of their breathing is still the breath of God.

Terry Kay

Somewhere in the archival filing system of our family—shoeboxes in closets and attic and basement—there is a photograph of a nude baby-child stretched across my bare chest as we relax on the sofa. Chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat, getting as close as possible to the miracle my wife experienced when she carried the child in her womb.
I believe the child is Jon, our youngest son, but it could have been any of the others—Terri or Scott or Heather. All of them took their place on the chest-bed. All of them fell into sleep there. It was where I learned about the warmth of children, about their need to be touched, and, also, my need for the same sensation. There is nothing in our time on Earth as pure or as lasting or as memorable. Even now, with eight grandchildren in the mix, I have little electric shocks of recall when I see my children play with their children. Yes, I think. Yes. Their heartbeat is still against my heartbeat, the heat of their breathing is still the breath of God.

Baby Massage, Communication and the Working Parent

My husband and I felt completely prepared to bring our new baby home. Thanks to reference lists and generous gifts our nursery was fully equipped. And our combined babysitting experience gave us the confidence to pull off the diapering, feeding, burping and bathing stuff most new parents struggle with.
What I wasn’t expecting was the communication gap that confronted me when I found myself suddenly one-on-one with my newborn son, Connor. There we were, alone together, and he didn’t need to be fed, or burped or diapered, or bathed. He was awake; and alert and just staring at me. His big gray eyes seemed to long for interaction. But he wasn’t at all interactive in the ways I knew how to be. I work with grown-ups all day long! What do you say to a newborn? What do you do to connect? I sang, and rocked, and read, and talked and waited for some feedback from him to know that this was – on some level – helping to improve his being…

Submit your story

One of the joys in producing parenting videos is talking with parents about their experiences. You just can’t make up the wonderful stories. Each so personal. Yet the experiences seem universal. When they say “it takes a village,” they’re right.

Would you send us a story we can share to help the next family? A couple of lines or pages. A snapshot or two? Your favorite video? All about the weird and wonderful. Lessons learned. Whatever you think would help other families on this amazing journey.

We thank you. The Universe thanks you.

Permission Policy

Of course, when you send it, you’re giving us permission to share it with the rest of the world the best way we think possible … just had to say that for the lawyers.

  • This field is for validation purposes and should be left unchanged.