My first grandchild—a little girl—is due on March 4, and every week brings a new milestone. This week, she’s officially the size of a banana. I laughed when I read that. A banana! It’s such a funny, oddly specific comparison, but it made her feel more real somehow. I held one in my hand and thought, “She’s growing in there, right now, to this exact size.” It’s surreal. I’ve watched my own children grow, but this is different. This is the beginning of a new generation. And suddenly, fruit has become a scale for love, anticipation, and wonder.
I never imagined how emotional this journey would be. Every update from my daughter feels like a gift—tiny kicks, cravings, ultrasound photos. I find myself daydreaming about holding her, rocking her, whispering stories into her ear. I’ve started knitting again, something I haven’t done in years. Little booties, soft blankets, maybe a banana-colored hat just for fun. It’s my way of connecting, of preparing. I want her to feel warmth from the moment she arrives—not just from blankets, but from the love that’s already waiting for her.
There’s something magical about watching your child become a parent. It’s like seeing time fold in on itself. I remember holding my daughter when she was the size of a banana, too. Now she’s carrying her own. It’s humbling and beautiful and a little overwhelming. I’ve started writing letters to my granddaughter—notes she’ll read someday, maybe when she’s old enough to understand how deeply she was loved before she even took her first breath. I want her to know her story started long before she could hear it.
I’ve also become obsessed with baby fruit comparisons. Last week she was an avocado, next week she’ll be a carrot. It’s silly, but it helps me visualize her growth. It turns the abstract into something tangible. I’ve even started a little photo series—“baby for scale”—with each fruit next to a tiny onesie. It’s my way of documenting this quiet joy, of turning waiting into celebration. My friends laugh, but they get it. This isn’t just about fruit. It’s about hope, healing, and the sweetness of what’s to come.
March feels both far away and just around the corner. I’m counting weeks, not days, and each one brings us closer. I’ve cleared a drawer in my house for baby things, even though she won’t live here. It’s symbolic, I guess—a space carved out for her in my world. I imagine her tiny fingers, her sleepy yawns, the way she’ll fit perfectly in the crook of my arm. I’ve loved many people in my life, but this love feels new. It’s quiet, patient, and full of promise.
So yes, this week she’s the size of a banana. Next week, something else. But no matter the fruit, she’s already the center of my universe. I haven’t met her yet, but I know her. I feel her. And I’m ready. Ready to be her grandmother, her storyteller, her safe place. Baby for scale? No. Baby for everything.
