Cause for celebration during the height of COVID19 was rare.  Amidst the uncertainty and suffering, finding joy, let alone expressing it, honestly felt somewhat irreverent.  Yet a personal windfall, prompted by the pandemic, did occur when our son and daughter-by-love moved from New York City to Nashville, Tennessee in the fall of 2020.  Although we were living in Lexington, Kentucky, their relocation reduced our door-to-door travel time from over twelve hours to around four.  The decreased geographical distance allowed for more regular visits both ways, a welcomed change after seven years of being separated by a thousand miles.  

Within a few months of settling into their new residence, they acquired a puppy.  Having raised and bred a number of dogs over the years, we quickly became the go-to dog sitters, a title we readily accepted.  Any excuse to spend time with our kids was fine by us.  Besides which, we figured that by demonstrating our trustworthiness with their pet, perhaps someday we’d be entrusted with the care of a far more precious charge.  

In early October of 2021, we were scheduled to stay with their golden doodle while they traveled up north to vacation with our daughter-by-love’s parents and siblings.  We arrived the afternoon before their departure since they had an early morning flight and we were also providing their transportation to the airport.  (We pride ourselves on being a full service operation.)  Once our week’s worth of luggage was unloaded, we proceeded to perform the ritual of preparing dinner together.  There was a flurry of activity in their cozy kitchen, the four of us performing culinary choreography accompanied by the strains of our animated chatter.  Following a delightful repast, we retired to the living room for what we presumed would be a quiet, uneventful evening.

Under the guise of changing into more comfortable clothes, the kids disappeared upstairs.  Minutes later, they came bouncing down the steps, faces alight with smiles, carrying a small, navy blue gift bag aloft, saying they had a little something for us.  They set the bag in my lap.  Expecting to find a candle or perhaps a sunflower-themed curio, when I pulled back the tissue paper I was completely mystified to find a small printout of what appeared to be a sonogram.  No way.  I put my glasses on to be absolutely certain I was seeing what I thought I was seeing before reacting.  Sure enough, it was the ultrasound image of a baby – their baby – our first grandchild!  I was dumbfounded. Utterly gobsmacked!  Tucked deeper in the bag was a tiny pair of yellow walking shoes.  (Anybody who knows us, knows that we are prodigious walkers.)  What a clever way of revealing to us that we were going to become grandparents.  I couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry, so I did both.  We all erupted into tears, laughter, congratulatory hugs, kisses, and squeals of delight.  

  

This was news for which I’d been yearning the past few years, patiently as possible, making only occasional, subtle references to what I looked forward to doing with grandchildren.  Having witnessed the countless ways in which my sons and nieces had enriched the lives of my parents and vice versa, as well as observing how the recent birth of her first grandchild had revitalized my older sister, was it any wonder that I had longed to join the ranks of grandparenthood?  Blessed with four creative, generous, supportive, thoughtful, loving grandparents myself, I could think of no more gratifying  investment of time, energy, and resources during my golden years than helping nurture the next generation.

The claim that a baby changes everything could not have been more true than it was for us beginning that night, and the baby wasn’t even born yet.  We had been toying with the idea of moving to Nashville for months, but the announcement of our forthcoming grandchild galvanized us to start searching for a house in earnest.  As if the prospect of becoming grandparents wasn’t enough incentive to migrate to the Volunteer state, a week or so later, our son received word that the musical he had written would be fully produced at a regional theatre in Tennessee during their 2022 season.  

When he called to share the news, we were thrilled for him!  When he inquired as to whether or not we would be willing to go along as live-in caretakers for our, as yet, unborn grandchild, we were thrilled for us!  This would mean living together in actor housing for the entire run of the show, from rehearsals to closing night, a little over two months all told.  No doubt he had a strong inkling what our response would be, but we eagerly agreed before he could finish the question. 

Suddenly, finding a house near Nashville became paramount.  To our dismay, house hunting had changed dramatically since our last purchase twenty-six years ago.  We found ourselves caught up in the midst of a real estate frenzy with people paying tens of thousands of dollars over asking price, sight unseen, without requesting inspections.  The rules of negotiation were out the window.  In spite of these dubious practices, houses were being snatched up as quickly as they came on the market.  Being out-of-state buyers posed an additional obstacle.  Finding a principled agent to guide us through this unorthodox labyrinth was our only hope.  Thanks to a connection through our daughter-by-love, we made contact with a young woman with whom we felt an immediate goodness of fit.  The search was on!     

Six months and a handful of unsuccessful bids later, our grandson made his highly anticipated debut at the end of April.  He was healthy, the kids were euphoric, and we were utterly captivated by this newborn whose features were an adorable blend of his parents’.  The housing market be damned.  We would do whatever it took to be at our kids’ disposal.  If it meant driving back and forth between Lexington and Crossville, so be it.  

         

When August came and went, we had pretty much given up on finding a house before rehearsals started.  I swore off looking at Zillow, but couldn’t resist checking a notification that pinged one early Thursday, September morning.  The featured house was not of interest, but down below was one that caught my eye.  

Hesitant to open the link, the dread of being disappointed yet again staying my hand, I held my breath and clicked the image.  Scrolling through the photos, I nearly forgot to breathe.  Each one revealed a room or space that looked like it had been designed for us.  All the boxes were ticked – location, style, floor plan, square footage, and even price.  If it looked half as good as the pictures, this was the house we’d been looking for!   We called our agent immediately to schedule a tour for that Saturday.  What a long two days it was, knowing the homeowners might accept an offer before we could get there.  

   

When Saturday finally rolled around, we had arranged to see two additional houses so as not to put all our eggs in one basket.  One of those went under contract while we were en route to Nashville. Dismayed, but not disheartened, we proceeded to the second alternate where we met our agent.  She’d worked with us long enough to know from our initial reaction that this one was a no.  The final showing, the house we’d been waiting to see, happened to be just up the hill, less than half a mile away.  The instant I laid eyes on it, I knew it was the one. 

When our agent opened the door, it was like that moment in a movie when a bright light suddenly illuminates the scene while an invisible orchestra strikes an electrifying chord echoed by a full choir.  Aahhh!  From the front porch to the deck, the layout was even more marvelous than expected.  Wandering from room to room, it was easy to envision our belongings furnishing each space.  By the time we reached the bonus room over the garage, it was obvious this was the house for us.  

Satisfied our search was over, we asked our agent what we needed to do to make this place ours.  She suggested an amount that we agreed was reasonable and recommended that I write a letter to accompany our offer.  We went our separate ways to complete our assigned tasks.  Thanks to remote technology, the letter and formal offer were in the hands of the seller’s agent within an hour.  The only thing left to do was wait and hope for the best.   

The wait was made bearable by getting to stay with our kids and grandson.  They were eager to hear every detail about the house.  The air felt positively charged with the energy of our combined excitement.  Every time the phone rang, we all jumped, but no call came that evening.  And we didn’t hear anything the next morning, but that didn’t prevent us from imagining what the future could look like if we lived in that house.     

Reluctantly, clinging to our optimism, we headed back to Lexington.  Just after crossing the state line into Kentucky, our agent called.  The owners had accepted our offer without a counter offer or any contingencies.  Apparently, they were persuaded by the letter.  It assured them that by selling to us the house they’d built, where they’d raised their family, would be in good hands.  We nearly had to pull off the road we were so overcome with relief, gratitude, and sheer joy!  We spent the remaining miles of our return trip celebrating via phone with our kids, family, and close friends.  Hearing how genuinely happy they were for us was heartwarming.  

As we pulled into the garage, the reality of what we were about to do finally sunk in.  After two years of searching, we had one month to get our house market ready, dismantle our household of twenty-six years, pack it all up, help settle my 91-year-old father in a new residence, and move ourselves.  We looked at each other quizzically.  “Are we ready for this?” my husband asked mischievously.  “Absolutely!”  I affirmed without hesitation. “It’s a good thing I started purging and packing months ago.”  It was now that the real work began. 

One month and two moving trucks later, we were on our way to Nashville to set up housekeeping in our new home.  With only four days before our sojourn in Crossville was to begin, I concentrated on putting the essential rooms in order – kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom.  The rest could wait until we returned after the show opened.  Making my way back and forth between the house and the maze of boxes in the garage, there were moments that felt completely surreal.  I had to pinch myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.  We were actually living the life we’d only imagined for so long.    

Throughout our Lexington to Nashville to Crossville back to Nashville odyssey, we encountered people who were curious about what we were doing.  After recounting the sequence of events, a typical response was, “So let me get this straight.  You’re picking up and moving, lock, stock, and barrel, from a house you’ve lived in for nearly 30 years and moving all the way to a new city, just so you can be closer to your kids?”  “Yes, that’s right,” we confirmed.  Apparently shocked that we would voluntarily uproot ourselves and move at this stage of our lives, they looked at us like we were a little crazy.  They would proceed to say something like, “You sure are making a huge sacrifice.  How do you feel about the sacrifice you’re making?  Do your kids appreciate the sacrifice you’re making?  Hopefully this will turn out to be worth the sacrifice.”    

Now sacrifice is an emotionally charged word with unpleasant connotations.  Images of animals being slaughtered or young females being thrown into volcanoes to appease angry gods come to mind.  Even in its less violent, less dramatic usage, sacrifice is typically associated with giving something up or experiencing some degree of loss.  The presence of force, the absence of choice, or at least a lack of desirable options is presumed.  Generally speaking, sacrifice implies some form of suffering.      

At first, we found this surprising attitude amusing and casually laughed it off.  Interpreting the decision to make ourselves more accessible to our children and grandchild as a sacrifice was foreign to us.  When this reaction to discovering we were moving persisted, I decided to look up the word sacrifice.  

Sure enough, there were references to suffering, death, and destruction.  But in fact, the full definition of sacrifice also included “an act of giving up something valued for the sake of something else regarded as more important or worthy.”  In this case, choice is clearly present between two potentially satisfactory possibilities.  This less familiar, or at least less frequently referenced definition of sacrifice more accurately described our circumstances.  

While contemplating this alternative view, I recalled a conversation with my mother that occurred years ago.  At the time, each of my two sisters and I had one child and we all lived in the Lexington area, but our parents lived in Beattyville, Kentucky, about 75 miles away.  Regularly and uncomplaining, they made this round trip to take care of one or another of their grandchildren.  After a couple of years, they decided to sell their home of nearly three decades to move closer to all of us.  I remember Mom mentioning being questioned about their sacrifice.  Her sincere reply was, “It’s not a sacrifice if it’s what you want to do.  And we want to be with our children and grandchildren.”  It was as simple as that.                 

The memory of her voice saying those words settled over me.  Until that moment, I’d forgotten how we were following in my parents’ footsteps.  We were merely doing what had been modeled for us.  Choosing to move closer to our children and grandchild seemed like the most natural thing in the world.  Undoubtedly Mom would have applauded our decision.  She would have relished hearing the tales of our temporary vagabond life, as did my father.  The self-imposed pressure to explain or justify our actions dissipated.  Once again, I was wrapped in the comforting reassurance of two people who had always been there for me.  

Following this epiphany, I calmly respond to those who insist on labeling our move a sacrifice, “If by sacrifice you mean giving up one thing to gain something valued more highly, the answer is an unequivocal yes!  We have sacrificed and done so wholeheartedly.  The sacrifice we couldn’t bear would be missing out on our grandson’s childhood or this exciting time in our kids’ lives, and not being around to help out in whatever way we can.”  When our kids declare they couldn’t do this without us, we are confident that they would find a way, but we’re glad they don’t have to.  It’s not that we want to be needed, but it sure is nice to be wanted.  

There’s a popular expression surfacing everywhere these days…”I’m living the dream!”  The problem with this statement is that it implies there is only one dream – the dream – which suggests everyone has or should have the same one.  In actuality, I suspect there are as many different dreams as there are people.  Those who view our choice to move closer to our children and grandson as a sacrifice do so because it is not what they would choose to do.  But one person’s sacrifice may be another person’s dream.  And when that little fellow squeals with glee when he sees us coming, reaches up to gently touch our faces, and wraps his dimpled arms around our necks, there is no question – we are living our dream.