Angela Giles Klocke bio picture
  • Welcome to my blog…

    I am a Southern Colorado writer, photographer, speaker, and princess. I write about my life, what I see, what I experience, and what I've been through. I'm passionate about God, my family, my friends, my arts, and a handful of causes, including teen parenting, domestic violence, human trafficking, and pretty much anything that involves children. I love life and try to celebrate every moment. Read More!

This is the one about my grandson

ethan1Like writing about my eldest son’s wedding, I knew writing about my younger son’s son – my grandson – would take a bit of time. You see, my brain is still trying to wrap itself around the idea of being a grandmother. Not because I feel old, but rather because it’s simply one of the most surreal feelings I’ve ever experienced. Right up there with becoming a mom for the first, second, and third time. And getting married. You spend a lot of time after these events wondering if this beautifulness is real.

It is.

The moment I saw my son’s tears as he stood over his own new son, I knew it was real. But I couldn’t quite grasp the reality of it, this new phase, this wondrous miracle of a little person, changing so many lives on that spring evening. On a Sunday, a day of rest, his mother labored and gifted us all with this little man, a much-loved bit of heaven with an impressive head of hair.

He is smiling and cooing and laughing now, and the time is already flying by. It goes faster when your days aren’t spent as the caregiver, when you are more looking on versus hands on. It’s a different role, and I am still adjusting. As I lean more into the changing role of motherhood, it is the role of grandmother that baffles me now.

Still, the role might feel surreal, but the FEELINGS themselves are just overwhelming at times. It isn’t the same as parenting, as birthing your own child, and it isn’t less than or more than. You just kind of look at your own child and shake your head…because weren’t you just a tiny baby yourself? And now you’re a man with your own tiny baby (or chunky monkey, as the case may be with our little man!), and HOW DID THIS EVEN HAPPEN?

Sometimes I hold my grandson while he sleeps and I just stare at his face with his chubby cheeks and long eyelashes. I can’t help but find myself flipping through memories of his father. Almost 20 years have flown by and we are not who we were then, yet we are the same. He is still this beautiful, soulful baby boy of mine, and I am still this mother who wants to hold on forever. And yet, as always, I will have to pull myself away and release.

I hug my grandson’s parents before I go, but it’s the little man I kiss a dozen times over. I know once I walk out the door, he will change yet again. In the hours and days that pass, when I see him again, he’ll be bigger, doing something new, and time will keep ticking. I try to hold my eyes wide open when I’m with him because I already made the mistake of blinking with his father, and look what happened there.

But time keeps marching, and I keep kissing that sweet baby face and those chunky little feet, and they get a little bigger each time, and so does my heart, even though I never could have imagined any one little person could have made it grow so much more. As I sit at my desk, hours after a visit, I can still smell him, his special baby smell, and so I breathe it in, savoring the warmth of love as it floods my system. Yes, this is all surreal, and it’s my life, and I am so blessed and excited to experience every piece of it.

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grandson
grandson

MORE PICTURES HERE — AND MORE PICTURES SOON!

*Pictures that include me were taken by Tanya Mello

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Sharon Wren - Oh, he’s so sweet!! That hair!

Throwback Thursday: Sixteen years ago today

Baby BrianSo, I’m working on my grandson post and suddenly I remember this post from my son’s 16th birthday. And since he’s about to turn 20, well, here we are. Let’s throw it back in a very mommy throwback way!

This is a story of a boy being born. This story has changed every year. As the boy has gotten older, the mommy has embellished the story to make the boy smile. This year is no different. This year’s story began sixteen years ago, as opposed to fifteen years ago, as it began last year:

Sixteen years ago today, I woke up in pain at 5:30 in the morning. The sun was not out and I should not have had to be awake, especially given that I was 986-thousand days pregnant. But I was. And my water had broken. Or I’d wet myself. I was hoping I’d just wet myself so I could go back to bed and sleep until a respectable hour. Alas, labor had begun. You would soon be here.

While I raced around getting ready to go to the hospital to have you, I kept having to pass this massively huge sci-fi spider. And that’s when your horrible fear of spiders began.

“I don’t have a horrible fear of spiders.”

Whatever. That’s not the point.

So we finally got to the hospital. Not rain nor sleet nor hail nor snow nor hurricane nor earthquake could keep me from meeting you.

“Ummm…what?”

Hush, I’m telling a story here.

There was that one bridge collapse on the way, and we could only slow the car to a crawl for your grandmother to jump in. We saved her life, really. And when we got there, first I had to deliver a baby for someone else, because, well, I couldn’t just pass her up in her time of need, and–

“Mom? Have you forgotten the real story?”

This IS the real story. I just never shared it with you. Didn’t want you to think I was showing off or anything.

“But…”

Were you there? No, not yet. So you don’t know. Fine, I’ll stick to only what happened while trying to give you life.

So, like, I was in horrible pain because you were HURTING ME!

“Mom…”

I was in labor and I didn’t whimper not once. I continued visiting poor sick children, wiping the foreheads of other women in labor, and instructing doctors on the proper bypass heart surgery thingy thing stuff…uh…

“Yeah.”

Hours and hours later – remember, I’m in tremendous pain all this time – it was finally time to give birth to you, to bring you into this world, to meet you and hug you and love you and name you George.

“Sigh.”

Doctors filed in with students left and right. “This here is our best patient ever. She is amazing. She is about to give birth to a beautiful child. Ahem, I mean, awesomely totally future scene kid, err, man, err… whatever. Did I mention how amazing she is?”

At one point, they totally lost your heartbeat. “Okay, we have to get this baby out!” they shouted at each other, and one by one, they circled me, waiting for my instructions.

And I said, “Let’s do this, people. This is NOT a drill.” I put on my helmet and shoulder pads and readied myself. “Blue 22! HUT!”

And you were born.

Oh how you wailed. That lip of yours, that one right there…it looked like this. (I poked my bottom lip out as far as possible.) And I knew right then, that is a beautiful full lip, destined to be pierced. I just knew it, Brian. And look at you now, all lip-pierced and whatnot.

“You sure didn’t expect me, did you?”

I didn’t know who to expect.

“I’m not like Scott at all.”

You are YOU, and I love YOU as you. I don’t care that you aren’t like Scott, no more than I care that Scott isn’t like you. All I care about is that you are YOU. And that you’re Mommy’s good little boy, of course.

“Yeah, stop it. Go back to your fantasy story.”

If this were a fantasy story, I’d have slept through the whole of labor, silly boy.

This IS a true story.*

*This is not a true story. Nor did this whole conversation take place. I have to say that because the boy, who probably never reads my blog at all except for THIS ONE TIME!!! will come here and call my a liar. In public. In front of all of you. I can’t be having all that drama. So there.

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The first of the last

Last week, as I walked down the steps of the local high school, the halls all quiet for now, I surprised myself by tearing up. I haven’t spent a lot of time in this school, not like the time spent in elementary schools, but I know it holds memories of my sons and my daughter, and now here we are, at the beginning of the end. My girl, my baby, the last one, you see, starts her first day of her last year of high school today, and it sends me edging closer and closer to that final moment of this stage of parenting.

It ends soon.

I’m supposed to be rejoicing, and in many ways I am, because I’m proud of my children and always excited about their lives (and it HAS been a big year), but I’m also balking at the idea. Rejoice? Over the end of this beautiful time in my life? Who sits inside the bubble of something wonderful and says, “This has to end!”? Not me.

Some laugh and tell me I’m being too dramatic or that I need to get over it, but sometimes I sit across the table of another mother and I know she gets it. We get choked on the words as we try to express excitement. And then we laugh because we see that we aren’t alone in this weird transitional phase, this letting go, whether it’s the first baby or the last.

On this first day of school, this first day of the last year — the last of my children in their high school years — I really am excited for the year ahead, but I know it will be brief, flying by through a flurry of color guard practices, football games, carpool* (only for a brief time, though, since driver’s license and car are right around the corner too), and flying out the door each morning. Before I know it, all who love this girl will be sitting together in a row, anticipating the end of the alphabet so we can see the baby walk across the stage, and then onward we will fly, on and on and on, going wherever this breeze of life takes her.

But for now, I listen to one of the last mornings of her getting her hair just right in the bathroom, see her lean into the mirror to apply her mascara, and breathe in echoes of the last 13 years of school mornings. It ends soon, but today I’m holding on.

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*Truth in Advertising: I loathe carpool.

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Kelley J Leigh - Beautiful.

Elise - I don’t know if you remember but I have a daughter the same age as yours and she is my youngest so I am in the same boat. I remember one year when my daughter was young when she wanted a Swifter Sweeper and I bought it as a present for her birthday or Christmas – I may be totally making this up but I think maybe, just maybe your daughter had wanted one too?? I think our two girls are probably a lot different but both are on the precipice of adulthood with their whole lives before them. I don’t know about yours but I see a combination of excitement and anxiousness in my daughter. As for me…just the typical combination of awe and worry of motherhood. Ha ha. I really just want her to live a mostly happy life:)