I still remember exactly where I was standing when the phone rang.
Our daughters had each been married a couple of years when one of them called from her home two hours away and announced the news that would change everything: “Mom, you’re going to be a grandma.”
I hung up the phone and immediately started imagining this brand-new relationship. Of course, I was going to be the coolest grandmother on the planet. This grandchild and I were going to have something extraordinary. I could see it so clearly in my mind.
A few months later, our first granddaughter arrived in early December. We were there for the birth. We were there the following weekend to help and to soak up every possible minute with that precious little girl. Then Christmas rolled around, and our entire family gathered at our home for the holidays.
It was one of those rare, beautiful seasons when everyone is together at the same time. Aunts, uncles, and great-grandparents met our granddaughter for the very first time. To make it even more memorable, a massive snowstorm rolled through and snowed everyone in for several extra days. No rushing off. No packed schedules. Just family, laughter, and a tiny baby who seemed to be passed from arm to loving arm.
It was a wonderful, family-filled December.
And then the snow melted. The calendar flipped. Everyone went home.
January came. Then February.
It didn’t take long during those cold, dreary months for reality to settle in. December had been a gift, but weather and busy schedules meant that two-hour drives weren’t happening very often. Suddenly, that rich, daily togetherness I had tasted was gone.
And that’s when it hit me.
The picture I had painted in my mind of this extraordinary relationship wasn’t going to be my reality.
When I stopped to think about it, I realized why. My expectations were shaped by a model that was dear to my heart—my own mother’s relationship with my children.
My mom lived just fifteen minutes away. She was part of my kids’ everyday lives from the very beginning. She showed up for school programs and sporting events. She took them to lunch on school holidays. She hosted slumber parties complete with movies, popcorn, and games.
That was the grandparenting picture I knew.
But it wasn’t the one I was living.
I lived two hours away from my granddaughter. Daily interaction wasn’t possible. Weekly wasn’t realistic either.
I was a long-distance grandma.
While I was still quietly wrestling with that discouraging realization, the phone rang again—this time with more news. Our other daughter was expecting our second grandchild. As if two hours felt hard, now we were looking at ten.
My husband and I immediately began exploring travel options, hoping to find a way to get there quickly when the baby arrived. But with our distance from nearby airports, flying wasn’t any faster than driving.
So, driving it would be.
When the call came that labor had started, it was around 10:00 PM. We jumped in the car and drove through the night. Somewhere on that long stretch of highway, our grandson was born.
We missed the birth.
Distance had cost us a moment we couldn’t get back.
Still, when we arrived, we spent a couple of sweet days oohing and aahing over that precious baby boy and loving on our growing family. Then we packed up and drove home.
Home—where the thought finally settled deep into my heart and became undeniable:
I am a long-distance grandma.
The following spring, I traveled back to Missouri for our grandson’s baby dedication. It was a quick trip, and my husband couldn’t go because of work. My mom joined me for the drive so she could spend time with her great-grandson.
That Saturday evening, as we sat in the living room, my daughter looked at me and asked a question that caught me completely off guard.
“Mom, what are we going to do?”
“What?” I replied.
“There’s a ten-hour drive between us,” she said. “I want my son to know you. I want him to know his grandparents. And I want you to know him. What are we going to do?”
There it was. Out in the open.
The very thought that had been rolling around in my heart for nearly a year and a half—the one I hadn’t shared with anyone.
What a gift it was to hear her say that. To know she cared. To know that this relationship mattered to her too.
We didn’t come up with any brilliant answers that night. But we did something just as important—we committed ourselves to finding them.
That conversation happened about twenty years ago, and the purpose planted in my heart that evening has never left me. Over the years, I’ve searched for and implemented practical ways to build strong, meaningful connections with my grandchildren across the miles.
And here’s the beautiful surprise: my original vision of this one-of-a-kind relationship wasn’t as unrealistic as I once feared.
No, I’m not part of my grandchildren’s daily routines. I don’t attend every school event or stop by on a whim. But distance doesn’t have to mean disconnected.
I’ve learned that even as a long-distance grandma, it is possible to build close, loving, and lasting relationships—one intentional step at a time.
