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Toddler Time

Toddler Time

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Over the weekend, I had a toddler’s eye view of life as we watched our two-year-old grandson. He was delightful, as he usually is, and of course completely unaware of the life change that awaited him — a baby sister.

With him, I ran up and down the street holding onto his shirt as he careened on a balance bike, a contraption that wasn’t around when my own children were young. 

With him, I ate pretend hamburgers on plastic buns with plastic tomatoes. Unfortunately, he did eat some very real play dough while I wasn’t looking.

He “checked my ears” with the jack end of a baby monitor, “talked on the phone” with our portable, and covered me with his baby blanket. With his giggles and grins he reminded me of what I’ve been missing since my own kids grew up. 

Land of Trucks

Land of Trucks

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I’m the mother of three daughters, which means that I am, for the most part, a stranger in the land of trucks. But I’m becoming more familiar with them thanks to my almost two-year-old grandson, who has never met a truck he doesn’t love. 

There are trash trucks and food trucks (a nice modern touch) and dump trucks and more. There are trucks that hold stacks of alphabet blocks, which I’ve never seen in real life but which provide the all-important educational spin.

Most of all, I’ve seen Isaiah backing up his trucks, parking them, talking to them and immersed in play with them. That’s the part that makes me love them most. 

A Diller, A Dollar

A Diller, A Dollar

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When my children were young, I used to read them this Mother Goose rhyme:

 “A diller, a dollar, a 10 o’clock scholar. What makes you come so soon? You used to come at 10 o’clock, and now you come at noon.”

I feel like this blog is becoming the 10 o’clock scholar — if I hurry, that is. If I don’t, it will be the 11 o’clock scholar. 

The non 9-to-5 world, of which I have recently become a member, is good for leisurely mornings. Which is not to say I don’t have plenty of to-dos. It’s just that they can less hurriedly be to-done.

(These ducks don’t seem to be in much of a hurry either.)

The Coffee Table

The Coffee Table

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When my children were young I remember how pleasant it was at the end of the day to pick up toys and tidy up the house. I knew it wouldn’t last more than an hour or so after they woke up the next day, but for a few blissful hours I could float around in a state of order. 

Now that there are toddlers in my life again, I’m remembering what it felt like to live, even thrive, in the midst of complete pandemonium. There’s a letting go that is probably healthy, though it may not feel that way at the time. 

Take the coffee table. I’m sitting beside it right now, and though most of the weekend’s disorder has been put to rights, I haven’t yet re-stacked the magazines. I can still see Bernadette’s sweet face as she palmed the slick covers and slid them off one by one. What power! What glee! 

There’s a reason why the magazines are still jumbled. The better to imagine those sweet kiddos, their arms around my neck, their heads on my shoulder. 

The Morning After

The Morning After

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It’s difficult to get the blog up and going the day after a big birthday celebration. Heading into its teenage years it’s needing a lot of sleep — and getting rather surly about picking up after itself, too. 

So I’ve spent the morning cleaning up confetti and collecting empty champagne bottles.

These are crucial years ahead, years requiring firmness and guidance. I don’t want the blog skidding off the rails. 

I’ve done this three times before, I tell myself. I can do it again. 😊

 (Photo: Pippx, CC BY 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons. And just for the record, I think this is the first time I’ve used an emoji in the blog. I won’t make a habit of it.)

Doing the Reading

Doing the Reading

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Finding the balance point for this new phase of life is not going to be an exact science, I can already tell. I crave big blocks of time but am also terrified by them. I tremble at not having enough to do, then compensate by piling on too much.

For instance, I continue to try and do all the reading for class, even though it can be an insane amount. Last night, for instance, I realized that there’s an entire book we’re supposed to read for today.

In my mind are the words of my children. “Mom, you don’t have to do all the reading.” Wise words from people who, as I recall, were taught that they should do all the reading. 

But as with so much of life, relationships shift, patterns change, wisdom develops. 

And tonight, I will go to class at least slightly … unprepared. 

Made by Walking

Made by Walking

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We make the road by walking. That was the sentence beamed on the wall of the Methodist church in Arlington where Bernadette was baptized on Saturday. Bernadette like an old-fashioned baby in her long white baptismal gown and cap. Bernadette who reaches out her arms to be held, who crawls like a house afire and pulls herself up to stand. She is a delight, though she can still cry with the best of them.

While she has perfected the piercing wail, her cousin Isaiah has mastered the wild bird shriek, his way of letting folks know he’s not getting his way. And he used this to perfection during the baptism, even as his parents fed him Cheerios, age-old food of parents in distress, and did everything else they could to occupy him during the service.

It seems like not that long ago we were the parents on the front lines, we were the ones grabbing those little pencils and envelopes in the pews, handing kids keys and trinkets they would never be allowed to touch otherwise. We were the ones carrying a screaming baby out of the sanctuary. We were the ones making the road by walking.

During the sermon, the pastor talked about how those who come before us make the way … just as we make the way for those who come after us. A lovely image not only for the Path of Life, capital P, capital L, but for every little lower-case section of it.

En Peu de Francais

En Peu de Francais

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With a new French-speaking grandson, I find myself dredging up phrases from ancient history — a high school class in French I. Today’s is “il fait du vent” … it’s windy.

But how much more trippingly does “Il fait du vent” fall off the tongue? Pretty trippingly, I’d say. 

Apparently, I could also phrase it as “Il y a du vent,” but I’ll stick with what I learned years ago. Which is way too little to converse with a bright 11-year-old.  

Once again, I’m struck by the paucity of foreign language study in the U.S. — or at least my language study!

(I met these children on a trip to Benin in 2015.) 

A Different Thursday

A Different Thursday

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For most of the summer, we’ve been watching our grandson, Isaiah, every Thursday. The little tyke and his mom head over here early in the morning, and Isaiah’s daddy picks him up in the afternoon. But starting this week, Isaiah has begun going to a family daycare provider, so it was quiet around here yesterday.

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not a babysitter-type person. Watching Isaiah (or granddaughter Bernadette) full-time are not jobs I’ve lobbied to have. Much as I adore my grandbabies, I know my strengths and weaknesses — and a daycare provider I’m not.

But I love to be around the babies, and watching them grow and change is a greater joy than I could have imagined. All of which is to say.that yesterday I missed the feel of a little head on my shoulder and of little arms around my neck, the softness of baby skin and the dearness of hands so plump that the wrist line looks like a bracelet.

I missed the devilish smile when Isaiah bangs the cabinet doors or opens up the crisper drawer, finds an apple and bites into it. Watching babies: so much of it is funny, so much of it is tedious, so much of it is tactile. So much of it is all of these at once. 

Before there were grandchildren I thought I remembered what it was like to have a baby in the house, But it turns out, I had forgotten. 

(Isaiah and friend plot their escape.)

Outside-After-Dinner

Outside-After-Dinner

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The sound of children laughing two doors down, birds rustling and roosting in the azaleas, the clatter of plates being cleared. It’s 7:30 p.m. and as bright as day. It’s outside-after-dinner. 

To a child, this is a place of its own, magical and wild, long shadows looming where there were none at noon. It’s a place where rules are bent, bedtimes extended. 

When I was a kid I’d be excused early with cookies to go, then run to meet playmates from next door and across the street. We played SPUD and Red Rover till the streetlights came on.

For my own kids, there were long evenings catching fireflies or climbing hay bales to ride the zip line from the big oak on the Riley’s side of the yard (which is still standing) to the big oak on the Voegler’s side (which is not).

Now we sit on the deck slapping at mosquitoes, putting off going inside. There are grownup tasks awaiting us — bills to pay, emails to send.  But it’s hard to abandon the soft light and the feeling we’re getting away with something. It’s hard to leave outside-after-dinner.