What does it feel like to be the chosen one, even for one night? It’s a warmth that fills your heart, a fleeting moment when you’re someone’s safe place, their everything. Here’s what happened.
We rolled into town to celebrate our eight-year-old grandson’s birthday, and our first stop was picking him up from school. As the kids spilled out the doors, I held my breath, hoping he wasn’t yet too cool for his out-of-town grandparents. Second grade is a tough crowd, after all. I braced for a low wave, maybe a polite smile. But to my great relief, he ran straight to us, wrapping his arms around us like we were the only ones in the world.
From there, we headed to Big Air, an indoor trampoline park built to keep orthopedic surgeons in business. My youngest grandson, age five, was holding his own with the big kids, bouncing like a pro. I was mostly trying to survive the chaos and enforce his parents’ “no flips or we go home” rule—a rule I must have repeated forty-seven times. Then he tugged at my sleeve, his face serious, his voice so small I had to bend down to hear him. “Mimi,” he said, “can I spend the night with you? Just us two.” He gave a dismissive wave toward my husband, as if to say, Sorry, Pop, you’re not invited.
When a five-year-old chooses you, you don’t negotiate. There are two bedrooms in the guest cottage we stay in, so I agreed, knowing even then that being chosen is a moment that doesn’t last forever. That night, we did all the things: bath, books, silly stories. Pop was banished to the spare room, and it was just the two of us, snuggled as close as humanly possible. I suggested a pillow between us for a little breathing room. His eyes widened in horror. “How will I get to you?” he asked.
All night, each time I shifted, his hot little body slammed against mine, a heat-seeking missile in dinosaur pajamas. By morning, I was awake before him, listening to his soft snore of contentment. Lying there, I thought if I could bottle this kind of joy and release it into the atmosphere, wars would cease, the haves would care for the have-nots, the earth would heal, and—yes—I’d like to buy the world a Coke.
The next day flew by in a blur of zoo animals and playground swings, but it was his second sleepover request that made my heart do the forbidden backflip. “Can I spend the night again? Just us?” Of course, my little one. Of course. My husband rolled his eyes at another night in the guest room. “Three’s a crowd, dude,” I told him gleefully. He’s always the chosen one. It’s my turn.
Bath, books, stories—this time with a specific order: “One scary story, one not-so-scary, and one with magic candy bars.” We were halfway to lights out when he tapped my shoulder. “Oh, Mimi,” he said solemnly. “You are not going to like this.” “What is it?” I asked, a stab of fear in my chest. What could make him look so grief-stricken? He shook his head, full of empathy. “Nope. You are really going to hate to hear this.” A dramatic pause. “I have to go home. I need Mommy and Daddy. And there are big boys spending the night at my house. I’m sorry.”
My heart, still warm from being his safe place, felt a quiet pang. Well, that was quick, only 24 hours later and I was no longer the chosen one. Still, his remorseful eyes softened the blow. He was so worried I’d be sad. Mommy, already in bed, got her own version of “hate to tell you this bad news,” and off he went into the dark night.
The next morning, he seemed a little regretful. I told him sometimes you have to deliver hard news—it’s part of life. The night before, I was convinced peace on earth was possible. Now, more rested and slightly less idealistic, I marveled at how gently he’d let me go.
I’ve been thinking about that ever since—how love is a cycle of being chosen and released, over and over. One night, you’re the safe place, the one they can’t sleep without. The next, they turn toward someone else—Mommy, Daddy, the big boys—and you’re left with the quiet ache of letting go. That’s how it’s supposed to be. Love doesn’t cling; it opens its arms, ready to welcome them back.
When we did our weekend recap—our “high” and “low” moments—it wasn’t the zoo or Big Air or the magic candy bar story that topped his list. It was “spending the night with Mimi.” And what does it feel like to be the chosen one, even for one night? It’s a warmth that lingers, a gift that carries you through the moments you’re let go, until the next time you’re chosen again.
