The Playpen

If I had the time…ok, lets start again. If I had the drive, I would conduct a massive experiment that stats the biorhythms of a large group of bloggers to determine whether or not there is a pattern in their posting habits. It’s been raining here, and I have been feeling a bit flat. The thing is, it seems to me that everyone is in the same boat. My reader was as lifeless as Bob Dole all weekend. Do the seasons affect moods, which subsequently affect posting habits? Is there a global blog-consciousness that connects us all? I think so. One day, I’ll prove it. Anyway, in digging through my files I found a lovely post that was written by my mom after her last visit. I, of course, am only posting it now and doing so selfishly to avoid having to write anything of substance myself. Sorry mom. It’s a good post though, and I DID say I might save it for a rainy day. – Matt

When a new baby comes along and he requires Mom’s home cooking rather than bottles, Nana doesn’t get to spend as much time with him. But we have met and I have fallen in love. During my two week stay at his house I changed him and rocked him and figured out what to do when he wasn’t hungry or wet but still yelling about some mysterious complaint. “Nana’s Golden Position” is to hold him out in front of me with my left hand under his head and my right hand under his bottom. The required movement is then to bounce his feet against my belly until he stops crying. My lost time at the gym was negligible since this works one’s biceps unmercifully. It usually quieted him down so I could hold him close as he fell asleep, pulling his knees up and turning himself into a tiny human bowling ball as he dosed peacefully. A caveat: do not wear sequined tee as this leaves red polka dots across a soft baby cheek.

For two weeks I watched him grow in strength both vocal and physical. He has a great future as an NFL field kicker or a champion hog caller. He lives in a very busy household, but his big sister as well as his mom and dad are devoted to looking out for him as best they can. And that is something a grandmother doesn’t take for granted but is extremely grateful for. One thousand eight hundred and forty-four miles away, I can rest easy about that.

Grandmothers must give equal time to all grandchildren; that is written in stone. But with Mom taking care of Baby Boy so much, I got to spend a great deal of time with big sister Frankie. So when my visit was over and I was being dropped off at the air port shuttle bus, Frankie looked so sad. Even as I smiled and kissed her good-by, babbling unsuccessful reassurances like, “I’ll see you soon. You can come to Nana and Papa’s house next time” (What does “soon” mean to a four year old?), her mouth turned down and I swear even the corners of her usually bright brown eyes drooped. These partings take a lot out of all of us. For two weeks we had baked Snickerdoodles, read books, watched “Caillot” episodes on TV (a new discovery for a grandmother with no reason back home to watch kid shows), and taken long “gathering” walks around the neighborhood.

This last activity remains one of the most dramatic examples of how much she has changed. She and I have taken long walks three times over her short life time. The first when she was two years old and she ran, not walked around the whole block. The second time she was three and didn’t want to stay on the sidewalk or hold my hand and continued to gravitate toward puddles of dirty water. Now she is four and this time we brought along a plastic bag and “gathered” our way for an hour of careful observation. Magnolia seed pods and their fuzzy outer coverings, leaves small and large (These last make great fans on a warm sunny day), discarded labels and bottle caps, small lost beads, dead rolly polly bugs (wood lice, for those who prefer more accurate labels). Apparently dead bugs are ok because live ones send her running and screeching. She is unbelievably eagle-eyed and patient, spotting the most minute shiny blue rhinestone in a crack in the sidewalk and slowly dislodging it then carrying it home in her sweaty little hand rather than in the bag where it might get lost.

The differences in our walks are a measuring stick of growth and maturity. I wonder if next time I can skip the warnings, “Not that piece of glass; it has sharp edges. Not that plastic bottle; it has germs.” And maybe next time we can take “Baby Boy” with us in the stroller.

So at the airport shuttle when we said good-bye she looked so sad but didn’t cry. I am sure Matthew gave her the same type pep talk I had before they drove away because by the time he rolled down her window so she could yell out “Bye, Nana,” she was smiling and waving.

I, on the other hand, was having an awful time.

-Nana

1. Mike Says:
   October 19th, 2009 at 9:32 am

   Your stories are very much heartfelt. I enjoy reading all of them
   Mike´s last blog ..A Special Gift Of Inspirational Jewelry

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