Three years ago, as casually as if he were saying “I love Harry Potter,” my nine-year-old grandson, a Brooklyn resident, announced, “We’re moving to Berlin.”
Had he reported, “My fourth-grade class is going on safari to Zimbabwe,” I couldn’t have been more blown away. Sure, his mother was born in Germany, but she’d become an American citizen and had never indicated anything less than delight with living in the United States.
But the news was true. “Anne wants our kids to know her parents and culture better,” our son Jed explained — sheepishly — when I reacted, slack-jawed, especially when he added. “We’ve been discussing it for a long time.” Newsflash. “But it will probably be for only one year.”
Thus, began their heavy lift of international relocation: a tricky mix of finding jobs, healthcare, applying to schools and far more. Beyond these nuts and bolts were the feelings of our grandson and his little sister to consider.
I refused to let myself consider that Jed’s move might be permanent, especially when his brother Rory revealed that he, his wife and two kids were leaving their city of Los Angeles, where Rory worked independently in the film industry.
He could have scooched up to, say, San Francisco or down to San Diego. Not my son. He and his wife picked Paris and already were on a complicated path similar to Jed’s.
I’d dealt with can’t-make-this-stuff-up before. McCall’s, when I was its editor-in-chief, was hastily reborn as an eponymous magazine for Rosie O’Donnell, making my editorial job roadkill. But my family’s switcharoo felt like a far deeper shocker because this time, it was personal. Quicker than I could say “You’re kidding, right?” both families were halfway to Europe.
While various friends had panted for grandbabies, that fantasy had never been mine. At Jed’s wedding, however, he announced that he and his bride were expecting a child. Five months later, Baby Boy Koslow arrived. I took one look at this six-pound addition to our family and in a blink, I got it: instant love. This prompted me to try to morph into the grandparent I never had.
My family had been outliers in North Dakota while my paternal grandfather lived in New York. I met him only twice and I doubt he remembered my name. His wife, the paternal grandmother for whom I am named, was long gone, but my widowed maternal grandmother lived closer, in Minnesota. I saw her more often, and while I would have loved to have known Nana as an adult, she was in no way wired for kids. Think Driving Miss Daisy.