Laughing with Di – January 2018

 Being a mother, and now a grandmother, provides events that supply my overflowing happy memory box. What could have possibly happened to jeopardize all of this joy?
Let’s have a laugh….
As a fresh, young, mother, I swaddled up my tiny, new baby boy, placed him in his new stroller and proceeded to go for a walk on a beautiful, sunny day in July. Our stroller was pretty fancy for the times sporting a flip/canopy top with a clear, plastic window enabling a quick view of baby (this feature being the crux of the story).
So, there I was proudly and lightheartedly ambling along peeking down through the window every now and then. After quite a few steps, when I looked down, baby was gone! Seriously. I jolted to a stop, turned around and saw my bundle lying on the sidewalk maybe 20 feet away! I stood there staring in disbelief at what I was seeing. He was so little and compactly wrapped that he slid right through one of the leg holes of the stroller and I rolled right past him! There I was, totally oblivious, walking along with my precious baby on the ground behind me and he wasn’t even crying. I ran to him, carefully picked him up visualizing the worst thing that could happen (like he could have rolled down a drain never to be seen again…ergo, so much for grandchildren). I carried him back to our house, laid him on the bed, undid his clothing and scrutinized his whole body. He was unmarked, unharmed, smiling up at me and safe.
Now I can just enjoy the simple pleasures of watching my grandkids grow. When my first was born, I received a “Grandmother Book.” It started me reflecting on my “roots” and when I read the first question to guide me along this written journey, “What is your name?” I knew I was in trouble. Dianne Lynn Teresa Kowalewski needed an explanation. The names couldn’t just lay there in letters. What were the reasons for these names? Who was this person? And did I really want my grandkids to know? My older sister contends that I was found under a rock in 1947, at Area 51, after the aliens crashed.
Family lore suggests that I am probably named after my Dad’s niece (or, after a 1940’s actress, Diana Lynn, whom my Dad thought was hot and my mother never caught on). Then, I had to prove to nuns that my chosen Confirmation name, Teresa (without an “h”), belonged to a Saint. (Only Catholics will understand this dilemma).
I needed one final piece. You know those colorful pie charts seen on TV that divide up your DNA, where you could have an ancestor like Henry VIII or Cochise (look him up); well I wanted one. The result produced a black and white pie indicating I was 93 percent Eastern European and seven percent “other” (the “other” is probably under that rock!). Rather boring… no vivid reds or sunny yellows or royal purples for me. My surname defines my ethnicity, but I thought maybe Attila might have had his way with a female ancestor and there were a bunch of little Huns in my past. Sadly, no.
I’ve yet to finish the Grandmother Book… but I have visualized it.