Susan Writes

Last summer my youngest Grand liked being swaddled in a blanket.  He ate and slept.  I changed his diaper and rocked him.  Then he ate and slept, ate and slept, just like most newborns.

This summer my Grand and I play.  We sit on the floor.  I toss a small plastic alphabet block into the air.  He runs under it, picks it up from the floor, and puts it in my hand.  I balance the block on his head.  He laughs and tilts his head back, trying to see the block.  I stack red and blue blocks.  One, two, three, four, five…he swipes his hand across the tower and the blocks tumble onto the floor.  He laughs.  “Heh, heh, heh, heh.”

My Grand chooses Machines at Work from the book basket.  He turns the pages faster than I can read.  “Bulldozer, backhoe, digger.  Ker-plop, the dirt falls to the ground,” I say.  He echoes, “KER PLOP, KER PLOP!”  Then he’s up and walking.

My Grand is constantly on the move.  If he wore a pedometer, I’d have proof that he surpasses 10,000 steps a day.  He circles the kitchen table.  Through the living room.  Around the coffee table.  Down the hallway.  Outside he mows the concrete patio with his toy lawnmower.  He pushes anything and everything, even a water play table, without the water.  He picks a geranium leaf and rubs it between his fingers.  And he bangs two landscaping rocks together.

It’s lunchtime.  I eat a chicken sandwich.  He has chicken, sweet potatoes, and kid-sized pasta.  I put small bites of all three on his high chair tray.  He picks out and eats he pasta, pushes the chicken and potatoes to the edges of his tray, and says “Mmmmmm,” meaning ‘More.’  Next time, I’ll offer pasta last.

As my little Grand sits facing me on my lap, I sing Pat A Cake.  He slaps his legs and in his own language sings along.  He stretches his arms high to ‘throw ‘em in the pan.’  His hand touches my nose.  I say “Bonk.”  He laughs and touches my nose again.  “Bonk!”  Again and again and again.  The game ends when he slaps instead of touching.

His momma and daddy wave good-bye and say, “We’ll be back in a little while.  You and Gran have fun.”  My Grand flings his body against the door and wails for three seconds.  I pick him up and hug him and gently kick a roll of red duct tape across the wood floor.  No more wailing.  My Grand runs to the rolling tape, picks it up, brings it to me, and then walks, as fast as his fourteen-month-old legs will move, back to the exact place where the tape stopped.  I roll.  He fetches.

My Grand and I play.  Just like grandchildren and grandmothers are suppose to.

Filed under: Family, Grandchildren | Tagged: Grandchildren, Grandparents |