When I was growing up, my mom and I didn’t talk much. At least not about big things, important matters mothers and daughters should discuss. No talks about girl things, God things, goals, dreams, birds, bees, boys.

The reason our communication focused only on surface stuff is debatable. My introversion? Mom’s aversion to uncomfortable truths? Her (justified) preoccupation with raising seven kids mostly on her own?

Whatever the reason, I promised myself things would be different with my own daughters. We’d talk… and talk and talk and talk.

So as soon as Brianna was born, I babbled endlessly with my new baby—and her two sisters who followed. I’d talk as I changed diapers, fixed bottles, fed, burped and bathed my babies. I kept up the chatter as the girls grew, in hopes communication would come naturally and they’d always know they could talk to me. About anything and everything.

And for the most part—some typical teen times/young adult avoidance the exception—my girls and I managed to talk through most of the tough stuff. And the simple stuff, too.

My concentrated efforts with my firstborn prompted Brianna to become, as Jim still says on occasion, “quite the talker.” Once she gets to know you, that is.

Well, like mother like son.

Soon after Brianna’s baby Benjamin hit the two-month mark, it became clear she’s effortlessly passed that talker gene on down to her son. Benjamin was just eleven weeks old—last week—when Brianna shared this conversational clip:

The next day I had the opportunity to babysit, and Benjamin had no qualms about babbling with Gramma during our time together. Highlights of our discussion:

Looks like Benjamin just may have a future as a storyteller. Or a comedian or commentator. Time will tell.

But whatever my youngest grandson’s eventual career, I hope he forever and always remains compelled to share what’s on his mind, his heart, his soul with his mama.

Maybe now and then with his grandma, too, if I’m so lucky.