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5 Best Toys of All Time

Posted on March 17, 2016 by susanrray

Screen Shot 2016-03-17 at 9.29.59 AMIt’s birthday season around our house. Since all eight Grands were springtime babies, I’m shopping – almost like Christmas. Legos, paint sets, American Girl clothes, riding toys, super hero figures, play dough. Gifts for Grands from ages 1to 11. And I know what would really ignite their creativity and they love to play with, but can you imagine a child’s response after tearing open a birthday present and finding sticks?

This column is inspired by an article on wired.com and written by a self-professed geek dad, Jonathan H. Liu. He wrote that he worked hard to narrow down a long list to five items that no kid should be without. A list that fits everyone’s budget and appropriate for all ages. Time-tested and kid-approved. I’d add parent and grandparent-approved. Liu’s choices of 5 Best Toys of All Time are a stick, a box, string, a cardboard tube, and dirt.

I amend his list to include a stick, a box, dirt, water, and a balloon.

  1. Stick. All sizes. I rode one as a horse that went as fast as I could run and I never fell off.  A stick is a giant pencil to write in mud and sand. It lifts leaves from a running creek. And, even though parents prohibit violence, a stick is a sword and a club and a rifle. There’s something about hitting a large tree trunk or big rock with a stick that makes you feel good.
  2. Box. Who hasn’t created a clubhouse from an appliance box? Shoeboxes with doors cut in the ends are train tunnels and garages. Decorated boxes create a neighborhood – stores, homes, and businesses.
  3. Dirt. I’ve written about my Grands’ dirt pile. The one that’s a climb-to-the-top-of-the-mountain and a track for toy racecars and bicycles. A place to dig. When one Grand was five years old, she screamed, “Mama, Lucy’s in my dirt!” Her dirt, where she was digging a hole to pour water, another best gift. Hide a few treasures, shiny trinkets or seashells or colorful rocks, and watch a kid dig. And then there’s pretend food. During my childhood, I patted enough mud pies to feed the multitudes.
  4. Water. A creek. A swimming pool. A bucket of water. Kids like water. How many have been entertained all afternoon with a pail full of water and an old paintbrush? Paint a concrete driveway and watch it dry, and then paint it again. A bucket or sink full of water, a funnel, pouring pitchers, and empty bowls – all a toddler needs to be happy.
  5. Balloon. “Blow it up, Gran! Let’s play balloons!” my four-year-old Grand said to me. Hide the balloon. Take turns hitting it to keep it up in the air. Try to toss it like a ball. Sit on it, but don’t burst it. Make it stick to the wall. Punch it, but not Gran who is holding it. Blow up another and let it swish thru the air. Blow it up, tie a knot, prick it with a pin.

So eight birthdays and eight boxes filled with sticks, balloons, and two zip lock bags: one filled with dirt, the other with water. My shopping is finished.

But I won’t because my Grands have sticks, boxes, dirt, water, and balloons and they play with them daily. That’s how I know these are the 5 Best Toys of All Time – at least for my Grands.

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Grand Monday Morning

Posted on March 12, 2016 by susanrray

Screen Shot 2016-03-12 at 8.12.19 AM

Monday mornings: time to tackle chores. Washing. Paying bills. But not at my house. Monday mornings with Jesse, my twenty-one month old Grand, is on my agenda. I invite him to visit and pretend that it’s to help, Daughter, his mom.

When I walk through the back door of Jesse’s house Daughter says, “Jesse, Gran’s here!” His running feet slap the hardwood floor and his arms are spread wide. I lift him into my arms. He lays his head on my shoulder and wraps around me. That loving could carry me through the week. My Grand waves and says, “Bye, bye” to his mom and siblings.

In our playroom, Jesse immediately pulls two plastic buckets filled with small cars off a shelf. He squats, his bottom almost touching the floor. (How I wish I could sit like that!) He surrounds himself with at least twenty-five cars – in no order, but each set with wheels on the floor and not touching another. One car plays music, for only five seconds. He pushes the music button, stands, takes two steps, and the music stops. He turns, takes a step, squats, pushes the music button, takes a step, the music stops. He turns – and because I have nothing better to do than count how many times my Grand does this – after the 7th time, he turns, looks at the quiet car, tilts his head, and drags a a box of wooden blocks out of the closet.

Jesse is in the empty-it stage. One by one, he lifts the blocks out of the box. I stack a few on top of each other and he swings his fist to knock them down and giggles. A few more stacks and giggles, and I sing a silly made-up song about picking up blocks and we fill the block box. Thankfully, he likes to put things in as well as take them out.

What is it about toddlers and running in a circle? Jesse pushes a toy-shopping cart from the playroom, through the den and bathroom, and back to the playroom. I sit in the playroom and act surprised when I see him. “Where’s Jesse?” I call. “There you are!” My Grand stops and laughs and then he runs again trampling over the cars on the floor.

I sing another silly song, “Pick up cars, one by one,” and I put cars in a storage bucket. Jesse frowns and stiffens his arm to hold his open flat hand toward me. He sets every car on the floor and then runs the circle again and again, stopping only to straighten the cars that he turns over.

Jesse wiggles into our kid size rocking chair. He rocks and laughs. Then he stops, walks across the room, and pushes a button that plays music on a blue elephant toy.   He sits in the rocker and rocks until the music stops. He walks across the room, pushes the button, rocks – over and over. I didn’t count how many times he did this. I laughed and he did too.

For two hours, Husband and I play with our Grand. He happily puts away toys – all except the cars. I put one in the bucket; he takes it out. Those cars stay parked on the floor.

“Tell Gran thank you for inviting you to play,” Daughter says when I take Jesse home. He tucks his head against my shoulder and brushes his face across my cheek, a toddler kiss.   I love Monday mornings, there’s no better way to begin a week than playing with a Grand.

 

 

 

 

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It’s Just for Whipped Cream

Posted on February 11, 2016 by susanrray

urlMy most favorite newest kitchen gadget is fun and it makes delicious whipped cream. When I watched a friend pour heavy cream into a canister and seconds later squirt fresh whipped cream on strawberry shortcake, I was hooked. “Your Grands will love it!” Kathy said. “I can’t believe you don’t have one of these.”

So I put whipped cream dispenser at the top of my birthday wish list last summer. “What’s that?” Husband asked. “It’s just for whipped cream?”

“Lots of really delicious whipped cream and it keeps in the refrigerator for almost two weeks and our Grands and I will love it. They can squirt their own.” I tried to justify the cost.

“Whipped cream tonight!” I said, when I ripped open the package. I had bought a pint of heavy cream in anticipation of serving it with birthday cake. But that wasn’t to be. I’d neglected to notice that chargers were needed. Chargers filled with N2O, nitrous oxide, and sold specifically as whipped cream propellant.

I eagerly waited for the delivery of chargers and the day they arrived I was as giddy as a kid with a new puppy. That night I poured cream in the metal canister, added a little powdered sugar and vanilla, and Husband dispensed the N2O charger. Following the manual’s directions, he shook the canister exactly six times and then, as a test, I pressed the nozzle toward the kitchen sink.

Whipped cream splattered the sink. Husband’s turn. More splatters. On the next page of the manual, the directions for operation were specific. “The whipper must be held “headfirst” (with the decorator tip facing vertically downwards!) and the lever must be operated gently.” It worked! Holding the canister vertical, not at a 45-degree angle, I sprayed whipped cream into a big serving spoon and licked it clean.

We’ve eaten whipped cream on brownies, ice cream, banana pudding, cake. All desserts are better with real cream. A little cream makes my morning coffee perfect. And the Grands do like my new gadget. A lot.

Last week, our five in-town Grands ate lunch with Husband and me, and after lunch Lou, age 6, asked, “Can we have a treat?”

“Well, we still have some ice cream cake,” Husband said.

“With whipped cream?” David, age 10, asked.

“Sure.”

“Can I do my own?” eight-year-old Lou asked.

Husband nodded and put slices of the frozen cake on plates. He shook the whipped cream canister and helped Lou hold it straight down. David stood close waiting his turn to squirt cream.

And as Lou told her mother later, “I squirted the whipped cream and there was a giant whipped cream explosion and it went everywhere.” Yes, a whipped cream explosion.

I was at the kitchen table with my back turned, helping the younger Grands put away their lunch plates. I heard a loud swoosh and Lou scream, “Oooohhhh!” Husband, Lou, and David were covered with white blobs. Face, hair, clothes. The floor, the stove, kitchen counters – everything within a few feet was splattered.

The shocked looks on Lou’s, David’s and Husband’s faces quickly changed to surprise chuckles and then to hysterical laughter. What a mess! And what laughing!

“I don’t know where to start,” Husband said. David and Lou licked whipped cream off their arms. Eventually, the mess was cleaned up and the Grands ate their ice cream cake, sans whipped cream.

Like I said, the gadget is fun and makes yummy real whipped cream. But when it’s almost empty, watch out.

Filed under: Food, Grandchildren | Tagged: , , | 3 Comments »

Big Rubber Ducky

Posted on October 15, 2015 by susanrray

Screen Shot 2015-10-15 at 6.29.02 AM Lou, age 8, spent the night with Husband and me, and the next morning she and I sat at the kitchen table eating breakfast. We had talked about her plans for the day, and then she asked, “What are you going to do today, Gran?”

“Write the first draft of next week’s column, but I’m not sure what I’ll write about. I hate that. I have some ideas, but none that I’m excited to write,” I said.

Lou immediately held her hands wide apart and said, “Write about the big rubber ducky!” I laughed. My older Grands, ages 6, 8, and 10, have teased me about a rubber duck I bought for all my Grands to play with when they take a bath at my house.

“Oh, Lou, I don’t think there’s enough about the rubber ducky for a column. What would I write?” And then my Gran began talking and told me to get paper and write it down. So here’s the big rubber ducky story from Lou’s point of view.

“Well, Gran,” Lou said, “You came to our house and said that you just bought two rubber duckies. One big. One small. And you held your hands two feet apart.” She held her hands far apart. “And I said, ‘That’s one big duck!’ And you nodded your head.”

“Then a couple of days later Ruth (her six-year-old sister) and I came to spend the night and it was time to take a bath and I asked, ‘Where’s the B I G rubber ducky?’ and you got that little old ducky out from under the sink.” My Grand giggled, and I held my hand up for her to stop talking so I could write.

Lou looked out the kitchen window and said, “Gran, does all of this have to be true?” I tried to explain poetic license.

After a silent minute, Lou continued, “Okay, so Ruth said, ‘You call that big! That’s the smallest duck ever.’ And I said, ‘To my calculations that isn’t anything close to two feet long!’ Write it just like that Gran.”

Lou held her hands far apart and then slowly moved them together until they almost touched. As her hands moved her eyes widened. I asked, “Lou, are you sure you said that?”

“Well, probably. Cause it’s true.” My Grand grinned, ducked her head, and giggled. “Gran, will you write it like that? You told us it was two feet long and it’s just a normal old rubber ducky.”

Let me explain. I think I held my hands about a body width apart when I said that I’d bought two rubber ducks. My Grands assumed I was showing them the big ducky’s size when I was simply gesturing as if giving a gift. The big rubber duck is only six inches long. The little one, four inches.

After Lou’s and Ruth’s visit when they first saw the ducks, they told their family the actual sizes. So the next time David, age 10, visited, he went straight to the bathroom. “I want to see that rubber duck that’s so big it barely fits in the bathtub,” my Grand said. He held it in his hands. “Gran, you really think this is two feet long?” He shook his head and grinned.

My Grands are having fun teasing me. I just hope they never find a two-foot rubber ducky for sale. It wont’ fit under my bathroom sink.

And thank you, Lou, for writing this column.

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What Grandparents Do

Posted on September 17, 2015 by susanrray

images  Grandparents do silly things. Like travel halfway across the country to hug grandchildren. Husband and I made this all day journey to visit Son and Daughter-in-Law about twice a year, until five years ago. Now, three Grands later, we make the trip more often.

Son carried Husband’s and my suitcases from his car, opened the front door of his home, and announced, “Pop and Gran are here!” Bare feet slapped the wooden floor as Dean, age 4, and little brother, Neil, ran. Husband lifted Dean who wrapped his arms and legs around his Pop in a whole body hug. Two-year-old Neil stretched his arms high and his threw his head back. I lifted my Grand into a hug and he buried his face in my shoulder. “Oh, Neil! I love you,” I said. “Uv’ you,” Neil said and swiped his open mouth across my cheek.

Baby sister Annie lay on her stomach on the floor. Dean ran to her. “Annie, look! Pop and Gran are here!” I sat on the floor beside my four month old Grand and picked her up. I hugged her close. Her brothers patted her arms, her head, her legs, and snuggled close to me. The hassle and cost of the day’s journey were worth every effort, every minute, every penny.

Grandparents laugh at the same corny riddle time and time again. Dean sat across the supper table from me. “Gran,” he said, “What did the cow do when her car wouldn’t start?” I guessed that she got her car fixed or walked or bought a new car. Dean shook his head from shoulder to shoulder. “She rode her MOO-tercycle!” my Grand said and he burst out laughing. I laughed, too. The next day and the next I still didn’t know what that cow would do and Dean and I both laughed when he shouted, “MOO-tercycle!”

Neil asked and answered his own favorite riddle. “Sad cow?” he said and immediately lowered his chin, stuck out his bottom lip, pulled down his eyebrows, and said, “MOO, hoo, hoo.” When everyone at the table laughed, he skipped the question and chanted, “MOO, hoo, hoo.” Dean’s and Neil’s riddles were part of every meal’s conversation for three days. I laughed every time.

Grandparents babble. Annie sat in her bouncy seat. I said, “Look at you. You’re as cute as a June bug. La, la, la, la, la. Look at those big beautiful brown eyes. You’re such a happy and strong girl.” My Grand kicked her left leg and made her seat rock. Her eyes sparkled. Her mouth opened wide and she stuck her fist in her mouth. I rattled on. “Oh, is your fist good? Yum. Yum. How about a song? Ole MacDonald had a farm….” Annie laughed out loud at my imitation of a horse. Even her big brothers laughed.

Grandparents like wiggles and scrunches. Recently a new grandmother said, “Before my granddaughter was born, I’d think ‘What’s the big deal?’ Yesterday a friend showed me pictures of her first grandchild and told me how her grandson wiggles his toes, scrunches his nose, and fills his diaper. You know, I get this grandparent thing. I didn’t understand why grandchildren were so special. You gotta’ be a grandparent to get it. I get it!”

Grandparents stick together. After all, we do such silly things.

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Oh, Yes We Did!

Posted on September 2, 2015 by susanrray

IMG_0311“Gran, can we play in the creek tomorrow?” four-year-old Elaine asked as I tucked her into bed. Yes, after the water is warm. By 8:00 a.m., the water was as warm as my Grand’s patience allowed. When your day begins at 6:00, two hours later is the middle of the day.

Elaine carried a bucket and plastic shovels. I hauled towels, my cell phone, a mug of lukewarm coffee, a bottle of water, and a folding chair down our backyard hill to the creek. A small creek – only a few inches deep, three feet wide with clear, and gentle flowing water.

Elaine stomped and stomped. “Look, Gran, the water’s brown! Where’s my feet?” She stood perfectly still and I challenged her to stay still until the water cleared and she could see her feet. As she stared down, water striders glided on the water’s surface around her ankles. Elaine squatted. Her nose almost touching the water. The striders dispersed. “Where’d they go? I wanna catch one,” my Grand said.

Elaine raised her open hand and when a strider came close, she slapped the water and closed her fingers, but she didn’t catch anything. She tried again and again and again until finally, she showed me a crushed insect.

“Way to go, Elaine!” I said and then convinced her that the strider would be happier with its friends in the creek than alone in a plastic bucket. When she opened her fist underwater to release the strider, green algae floated onto her hand and she grabbed it. “Look, Gran! This is slimy!” She plunged her hand to the creek bottom and brought up a handful of algae.

“Is this supposed to be here?” Elaine asked. I explained that algae grows in water like weeds in dirt and it should be in the water. “Wow! That’s comazing!” (comazing – not amazing) my Grand said as she squeezed algae in both hands and then gathered enough to cover the bottom of a bucket. She held the bucket under my nose, “ Look. It’s like wet moss.”

Elaine and I took giant steps in the creek. We swirled water with a stick. We threw rocks and splashed and threw a leaf and watched it float. “Gran, will you help me build……what’s it called? One of those things that Samuel and Elsie (her older siblings) make?” She described it as rocks stacked on each other. “Do you mean a dam, Elaine?” I asked. “Dam!” she shouted. “Dam! Dam! Dam. Is dam a bad word?” Elaine’s interest in building a dam was shorter than the time it took to shout the word three times.

“I need to make some mud balls,” Elaine announced. She dug black clay from the creek’s bank and squashed it between her hands so that it stuck together. Carefully, she arranged the balls, the size of hickory nuts, on a big rock to dry. Every ball had to be the same size and placed in two straight lines.

A few more splashes and swirls and stomps and creek play time ended. As Elaine and I walked toward our house, I ad-libbed a silly one-line song. “Oh, we had fun in the creek,” and Elaine immediately sang, “Oh, yes, we did!” Our song continued.

We splashed and walked

            Elaine: And picked up rocks

            We saw a dragonfly

            Elaine: And wet mo – mo- moss

            We threw some rocks

            Elaine: And picked up water striders.

            Oh, we had fun in the creek.

            Elaine: OH, YES! WE DID, DID, DID, DID, DID!

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Two Short Hours at the Pool

Posted on July 3, 2015 by susanrray

Version 2I wasn’t excited when Daughter asked if I’d like to take her two oldest to the community swimming pool for a couple of hours. I remembered when my own children were about the age of these two Grands, and I treaded water the whole summer while they jumped off the diving board. I was water-logged, hot, and tired

  “Are they jumping off the diving board? The high dive?” I asked. Daughter read between my words and assured me that both Lou and David, ages 8 and 10 respectively, can jump from the low and high diving boards. I could sit on a lounge chair and relax. So I donned my cover-the-whole-body bathing suit, lathered my Grands and myself with sunscreen, and packed a bag. Water bottles. Granola bars. Towels. Sunscreen. A book. And off we went.

David said, “Gran, put your stuff on this picnic table. We’ll keep everything together.” My Grands helped me drag a metal and plastic lounge chair close to the table and before I’d even sat down, Lou was climbing the high dive ladder and David stood at the bottom. I wanted to shout, “Wait, I need to see you swim first!” I didn’t. They had jumped off this high dive three days earlier while their mother watched.

Lou looked at me as she stood on the very edge of the board, that seemed a mile above the water, and I plastered a smile on my face. She didn’t know I was thinking. “Are you sure you can to do that?” She waved and jumped. She surfaced before I had time to take a deep breath. My smile was genuine.

David walked to the end of the diving board, looked my way, threw a one-finger wave, and jumped. He too, quickly surfaced and I relaxed. Enough to step back three decades and notice that some things haven’t changed.

Two teenage lifeguards sat on tall wooden chairs. She twirled a red lanyard, attached to a silver whistle, around her hand. One direction, then the other. A rubber band encircled his open hand. He popped it with his fingers. Each occasionally shouted. “Walk! Don’t run!” “Move away from the ladder.” “No horseplay!” “Stay off the diving board until the other person jumps.”

A girl, about age 10, stood at the end of the high diving board. Then she turned toward the ladder. A woman, standing beside the pool under her, yelled, “You can’t come down the ladder. Jump! You can do it.” The girl’s curled fingers covered her lips. Her elbows tucked in her ribs. She turned, tiptoed to the end of the board, and shook her head. “I’m right here. You’ll come right back up,” the woman said.   The girl’s shoulders swayed. The woman called, “On three, go! Ready? One! Two! Three!” The children, waiting in the diving board line, screamed, “Three!” One step and she splashed into water. She raised her hand high when she surfaced and shouted, “I did it!” Everyone applauded.

A toddler ran toward the pool. His mother grabbed his arm and lifted him into her arms. Three young boys played chase in the water. “Look at me,” a young girl called just before she ducked her face in the water.

Under a huge maple tree, I soaked up the filtered sun’s rays. In the pool, I played ‘keep away’ and raced across the pool with my Grands. Never opened my book. And hated that two hours passed so quickly. I just needed another five minutes.

 

 

 

 

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Speaking Their Language

Posted on July 3, 2015 by susanrray

search “Gran, do you know where my Michelangelo is?” my Grand asked thirty minutes after I arrive for a week’s visit at his family’s home.

“No, but I’ll help you look,” I answered. “Tell me what it looks like,” I said. I was impressed that Dean who was almost 4 years old had a Michelangelo. Was I looking for a painting? A sculpture?

“He’s green. He’s got an orange mask,” Dean said. I nodded my head and frowned. “He’s got nunchuks,” my Grand explained. Nunchuks? Weapons?

“How big is Michelangelo?” I asked.

“Wait,” Dean said and held up his hand as if he were stopping traffic. He ran to his and his brother’s toy box and searched and then ran back to me holding an action figure that I’d seen Dean’s younger brother carrying. “It’s like this. This is Neil’s.”

“Oh! He’s a Teenage Mutant Turtle!” I said, feeling a bit silly that I didn’t realize that right away. I know the ‘turtles’ have been around for a long time. I don’t always remember their names.

“He’s a Ninja!” Dean said. A Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle to be exact. Dean and I searched his house. On the floor. In the toy box. And getting into the spirit of the hunt, I called, “Michangelo, where are you?”

“Gran, you can call him Mikey!” Dean said as he threw sofa pillows onto the floor. “I found him!” Dean held him with both hands and shoved him toward me. A six-inch tall plastic action figure with a broad smile showing a mouthful of big white teeth and wearing an orange shield and mask. And it had nothing to do with the Renaissance artist who sculpted David.

Dean sat in my lap and showed me how the tiny nunchuks fit in Mikey’s hand. “Aren’t there other Ninjas?” I asked. My Grand rattled off the names. “Leonardo and Raphael and Donatello.” He only had Michelangelo and there are lots of Ninjas, but these four are the most important. I mentioned that all these are famous artists and began to tell about Michelangelo. “I know. Mom told me,” my Grand said.

“I’ve got a Bumblebee,” he said and ran to his room. I didn’t expect a yellow and black flying insect and Bumblebee wasn’t. Dean put a good-looking sports car in my hand. “Bumblebee, that’s a good name for a yellow and black car,” I said.

“Look,” Dean said and he grabbed Bumblebee. He pulled and twisted movable parts and transformed the car into a fierce looking warrior robot. My Grand likes to play with balls and cars and play dough and blow bubbles and run outside, but he’s really into action figures and his and his brother’s birthdays were only a few days away.

I shopped for Leonardo, the hard-working, honest, fearless leader, and found a huge display of Ninjas. Leonardo hung front and center. Easy and fast shopping, except I needed identical Ninjas, one for Dean and one for Neil. Ffter searching through dozens of packages that kept falling off long metal display rods, I finally found and bought two Leonardos.

Dean jerked Leonardo out of his birthday gift bag and held it high above his head. “Look! He’s like Michelangelo! And you got Neil one, too! Gran, do you know where my Michelangelo is?”

I knew what I was looking for. Not a painting or sculpture. I’d become Ninja literate.

 

 

 

 

 

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A Refreshing Walk with My Grand

Posted on May 28, 2015 by susanrray

imgres “Wots dat?” Neil asked and pointed toward white, feathery puffs of cotton that floated above his head.

“It’s seeds from cottonwood trees,” I said. He reached his hands high to catch the seeds, but they floated around him and onto the ground. He picked up a delicate seed and closed it inside his fist. When he spread his fingers wide, the seed seemed to have disappeared. He wrinkled his forehead, cocked his head, and picked up another seed.

Neil, my almost two-year-old Grand, seemed perplexed. He gathered several cottonseeds -one at a time- closed his hand, and when he opened it, he didn’t see the same white cotton puff. “Gone!” he announced and then began walking.

Neil and I were taking a morning walk. In his neighborhood, on the sidewalk, to a nearby park. “Wots dat?” Neil pointed to a white spot on the sidewalk. “Bird poo. Don’t touch it,” I told him and held his hand tightly. “POO!” he shouted and wiggled his hand free from mine. We had reached the park and Neil ran to and climbed upon a green metal bench. “POO!” he said and patted white spots on the bench.

A robin hopped on the grass, pecked at the ground, and raised its head. I held Neil in my lap and told him that the robin was searching for worms to eat. The robin flew low to the ground and Neil’s feet hit the ground running. Arms stretched in front of him, legs churning, Neil ran toward the bird. Mr. Robin stopped, pecked the ground again, and when Neil was only a few feet away, the bird flew. All around the open grassy field, the two played chase.

But, of course, Neil never came close to Mr. Robin. Finally, the robin perched in a pine tree. Neil ran to the tree and looked up. I pointed to the bird and suggested that he was full and ready for a rest. “Gone!” Neil announced.

Holding hands Neil and I walked along the sidewalk to the duck pond. “Wot dey doing?” Neil asked when we saw several ducks with their heads tucked along their backs. I said, “Probably sleeping.” Neil asked, “Why?” I explained that ducks get tired just like we do and, knowing that why questions never end, I veered our walk toward Neil’s home.

My Grand gathered short sticks that he gave me to hold and we talked about things we saw. Airplane contrails that crisscrossed the sky. White puffy clouds. A man who was power washing his driveway. A brown rabbit that hopped from shrub to shrub. A red pickup truck. Yellow tulips that Neil couldn’t pick.

“Wots dat?” Neil suddenly stopped walking. “It sounds like a fire truck,” I said. A fire truck that didn’t come within our sight, but kept Neil still long enough that he spotted ants, tiny brown ones, on the concrete walk. He squatted so low that his knees touched his chin and he watched the ants scurry to their anthill in the grass and then back onto the sidewalk. One ant hurried away from the others and Neil, still in a tight squat, shuffled his feet and followed it until it crawled into the grass.

“We’re home,” I told Neil. He rushed into his house and gave his older brother a treasure – one of his sticks.

There’s nothing quite so refreshing as taking a walk with a toddler. Everything is fascinating. Even seeds and ants and sticks.

 

 

Filed under: Grandchildren, Nature, Play | Tagged: , , , , | 1 Comment »

Love You Just the Same

Posted on May 15, 2015 by susanrray

searchShe snuggled in my arms – her eyes closed, hands clenched, knees drawn to her belly. A small bundle, asleep and still, and only two days old. A prayer of thankfulness surged through my thoughts.   She stretched. Arched her back, lifted her arms beside her head, and spread her fingers. The top of her head pushed against the crook of my elbow and her legs stretched to my other arm. She took a deep breath, yawned, fluttered her eyelids. Her black eyes, darted, as if to focus. “Hi, Little One,” I said. “Did you have a good nap?” She closed her eyes, made baby sounds – umm, heh – and wiggled her head until once again it was nestled in my arm. She drew up her knees and lay still again.

My youngest Grand. Now she’s two weeks old and I see her through the magic of long distance video. She’s growing already. In a few weeks when I’ll again fly halfway across country to visit her and her family, she’ll open her eyes more often. She might even listen.

Little One, you are blessed to have two big brothers. I laughed the day after you were born and you and Mommy were in the hospital. A big, husky deliveryman carried a new swivel rocking chair into your home and your brother (almost 4) said, “I’ve got a new baby sister.” “Whoa!” the deliveryman said, “that’s a big responsibility. You take care of her. That’s what big brothers do.” Because I had a big brother, I knew what he meant. I asked the deliveryman if he had a younger sister. “I sure do. Used to, she didn’t like me telling her what to do. But now she’s dating and she trusts me and we talk. She knows I’ve always got her back, no matter what happens.” And no matter how old you are or how tall you grow, you’ll always be little sister.

Your headful of black, straight hair is as dark as your mothers. You see, we grandparents and parents and aunts and uncle like to see ourselves in you. Like your dimple –that’s from your mother’s father. Your nose – your dad’s. Your long fingers – I claim those. You are unique. A combination of millions of genes that make you different from all of us, and yet like us.

Little One, you evened the score for Grands for Pop and me. Four boys. Four girls. I may not run as fast as I did when your oldest cousin was born almost ten years ago, but I’ll always have a lap and I’ll read to you. And I may not sew costumes for you as I did for your big girl cousins, but I will finish your baby quilt, I promise, real soon. Your picture album may not have as many pictures, but it will have pictures! And I love you just the same as I love your brothers and your cousins. Just the same.

 

 

 

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