I was very lucky. When I was born, I still had all four grandparents living.

Unfortunately, though, my grandparents were never a fully integrated part of my life. There are no family feuds to speak of, no rebellious acts, no personality conflicts. For the most part, my parents got along very well with their own parents, as well as each other's. But there were great distances and vast expanses of water separating my grandparents from my brother and me. And then there were my father's too few vacation days and paltry researcher's salary, which made routine visits nearly impossible. I received cards in the mail with multi-stamped international postage for birthdays with stale, slightly wilted five, and then ten, and then, spurred on by adolescence and inflation, twenty-dollar bills. And there were hurried, awkward, static-filled long-distance phone calls several times a year, where I dutifully reported how I was doing in school, and what subjects I liked best.

My mother's father passed away when I was just six years old. His surname was Camacho, a fitting name for a rambunctious, spirited, yet disciplined Bronx Puerto Rican. He was a boxer who joined the Army to see the world. He married my mother's mother, a feisty Austrian who survived Nazi bombings and didn't know a lick of English. They settled in New York City after the Second World War, where my grandmother got a job as an usher in a movie theater in Times Square. She learned English by watching matinee after matinee, while sweeping up stale, discarded popcorn.

My father's father was an ethical and exceptional attorney who argued cases in India's High Court. He wed, in an arranged marriage, a short, kind, but very feisty woman, my father's mother. She gave birth to five children.

My bloodline is rich and diverse and unique, and for this, I am eternally grateful. Yet because my grandparents lived so far away, my brother and I did not see them often enough for me to get to know and appreciate their colorful histories. I know only a few stories of their childhoods. If given the chance, I'm sure my grandparents would have taught me many important life lessons, provided constructive criticism, words of wisdom, and the type of unfaltering support when I needed it most, which only grandparents can provide.

Our bloodline continues with my daughters, all of whom have four healthy, loving grandparents. They, too, are lucky. But this time, there is a difference. My girls know their grandparents in ways I never knew mine. They are actively engaged in each other's lives. Both sets of grandparents make their granddaughters' favorite foods, play the kind of music they like, and have taken them to their favorite playgrounds. They know that Mira, my six-year old, is a cautious observer with a serious side, but can cut-up when you least expect it. They know that Leela, my three-year old, is a wild child who thrives on any kind of physical activity, and have chased her through our house over and over again. And Mira and Leela know their grandparents intimately as well. They understand that Tata is from India and visits temples to worship God. They know Omi speaks German, and that Grandmom, who grew up in New Mexico, has ancestors from Spain. The older they become, the more the girls are able to understand their grandparents' histories - their childhoods, their native countries, their cultures -- directly from the grandparents themselves.

Recently, Mira had Grandparents Day at her school and both of her grandmothers were able to attend. I dropped them off in the morning and at the end of the day, waited outside to pick all three of them up. After a few minutes, I watched Mira stride through the doorway holding hands with my husband's mother on one side, and my mother on the other. Mira was squashed in an authentic grandmother-sandwich.

On their way to the car, I stopped them mid-step for a photograph. I do not have a picture like this one of myself and my grandmothers, so I could not resist capturing this moment for my daughter, and for me. The threesome patiently posed in front of the brick schoolhouse, holding genuine smiles laced with pride and joy. I will forever remember this scene. These two vibrant women are, and will hopefully remain, two vital role models in Mira's young life. And I hope that by knowing their grandparents, Mira, as well as my other two daughters, will better understand and appreciate their diverse cultural background, and the history of where they came from.

Once I snapped the perfect shot, we climbed into the car and headed to a local deli for a grandmotherly lunch.