I was in the supermarket a week ago and, searching for some jam, came across a packet of blancmange. For those of you who don’t know what this blancmange is, picture a cross between milk and jelly. For me, it is a memory of weekends at my grandparents. A bronzed fish or a plastic rabbit mould which my grandma would use to set a blancmange.
To me it tastes of comfort, the warmth of family love. It calls back so much time spent in play at my grandparent’s house in somerset. Each bite of blancmange I enjoyed this morning (yes, I have eaten dessert for breakfast!) took me back to this sweet bundle of memories.
I think with happiness about what my grandma and grandad were to me. Acceptance, generosity, love. Not rough-and-tumble grandparents, not a get-down-on-the-floor-and-play-for-hours presence. But a constant solidity. Two people who I knew were proud of me and were invested in me and my future. Who would talk with pride about me.
And then I turn to the future and think of what my parents will be to my little unborn peanut. And I have such hope and happiness for what is yet to come – seeing my parents as grandparents to my child.
I think of my mum who will spoil him rotten and will tell him how loved he is. Who will sing to him and hold him. Who will secretly (ok, not so secretly) hope that he shares her love of musicals to justify even more trips to the theatre. Who will provide the same level of security and stability I felt from my grandparents.
And I think of my dad and how he will be with my little boy. How he will tell him terrible (grand)dad jokes, will blow raspberries on his tummy, tickle him and play games with him. And more than this, I imagine him showing my boy that it’s ok to be sensitive, to like cuddles and be affectionate, to show kindness and gentleness.
I feel so hopeful for the future, so grateful for my past and so content in this present moment.