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We got an interesting e-mail from our son Shawn in Berkeley, Calif., last week. "We had the ultrasound this morning," it began, "and learned the sex of our baby. It's a ..." followed by several blank lines, then
"a ........" and more blank lines, and another "a ..." And that was it! End of e-mail.

I immediately whipped off a response that had a few un-motherly bad words in it. I was not alone. It had been a group e-mail, and in one of those technical boo-boos I don't understand, some of the replies went out to everybody who had received the original e-mail. Several of Shawn and Becky's friends and relatives used unkind words similar to mine. Shawn quieted all of us with the news that their "it" is now a "he."

For a moment I thought that if there's any justice in life, this little blue bundle would be just like his father. A running, climbing ball of mischief and energy would serve Shawn right. Then I remembered what a special woman our daughter-in-law is, and how fond we are of her. Besides, that might mean their first child is their only child.

A grandson! Well, there go all those little garments trimmed with lace, ribbons and rickrack that I was going to sew. And it's a good thing common sense prevailed three years ago in that shop in Sisters, when I agonized over the hundred dollar baby dress that was a mass of lace and ruffles, with a matching shawl and photo album. (After all, if you dress a baby in something that beautiful, you need an equally special book to put the pictures in.) At the time I didn't even have prospects of another grandchild, much less knowledge of its gender, so finally I walked out the shop door, feeling deprived but virtuous. 

Hmmm. A little grandson. Now I feel better about the book I sent Shawn a few weeks ago. I sewed Becky a couple of maternity tops, and sent the book with them. "I Can't Wait to Meet My Daddy," it's called. It's beautiful and meaningful, but seemed a little slanted to a tossing-a-ball-out-in-the-backyard relationship. Now that slant is OK.

Having one of each, I know grandsons are as enjoyable as granddaughters. I thought back on the fun that grandson Steve and I shared; the Halloween costumes, story-time marathons, craft projects, sock puppets, watching cartoons together. He was my Nickelodeon buddy until, unlike his grandma, he outgrew the Rugrats.

Unfortunately, I never did. I remembered the time we got so carried away decorating Easter eggs that we stopped twice to boil more and went through six dozen before exhaustion ended the effort. I recalled watching him proudly tooling up and down the driveway in his battery-powered Jeep.

He even provided entertainment for his great-grandmother. After he'd spent some time with my mom in her apartment up the street from our house, he told me he and Grandma Hubbard had been playing cars. Unable to wrap my mind around the concept, I asked for details. Using the layout of village streets I'd found at the fabric store and his Matchbox vehicles, they did indeed play cars ... Steve on his hands and knees, and Grandma Hubbard moving hers with her cane. Great-grandchildren brightened Mom's last years.

Ah, those were the good old grandmothering days. And now I get a chance for a rerun. Better yet, I don't even need ribbons, rickrack and lace. I remember all those overalls and sunsuits I made when Steve was a baby. There were miniature "muscle pants," tiny boxer shorts for summer, and hooded fleece sweatshirts for winter. Why, there was even a dressy outfit of pants and vest, with matching shirt, for Easter one year. And all those genderless things I can sew: a hooded wrap-around towel for bath time, stuffed toys, activity books. Oh, I'll have fun!

Yesterday I bought a piece of fabric; pale blue seersucker with a pattern of little cars and trains. When I showed it to my husband, he touched it and said, "Isn't that kind of a crisp texture for a tiny baby's skin?"

"Oh, it'll be soft after I pre-wash it," I explained. "Besides, it's not for a TINY baby. It's a sunsuit for the next summer, when he's a year old."

Russ just shook his head. Grandpas evidently don't dream as far ahead as grandmas do.

I was afraid that since our grandkids aren't children anymore -- they're 26 and 21 -- I might have forgotten how to be a grandma. But I don't think that's a problem. It's all coming back to me now. I'm remembering the way a toddler's eyes light up when he spots grandma; the feel of a butterfly kiss on the chin because the little one can't reach any higher; that soft, warm weight against your breast when a baby falls asleep in your arms.

I can hardly wait!

* Donna Scofield is a freelance writer whose articles, columns and short fiction stories have appeared in numerous national and regional magazines. The longtime Yakima resident is retired after working as a secretary and office manager in Yakima School District elementary schools. She has raised two sons and two daughters.