…
The big day arrived right on time. At 0830, the back door swung open and my granddaughter and her mom swarmed in from the morning chill. My daughter had an early meeting at her office and all the good childcare people in her life had suddenly moved out of state. I was all she had left.
My daughter flung Sophia’s backpack onto the hearth, blurted out a lifetime of child rearing instructions, hugged and kissed everyone several times and “Poof!” She was gone.
I wasted no time implementing my cunning plan.
Step 1 was breakfast of cereal and fruit. At the end of the day, Sophia reported to mommy “we had breakfast with dessert.” I can live with that.
Step 2 began as a surprise ride in Grandfather’s truck. We went directly to the largest store with the largest toy department in the area, Super Target. I put the little girl in the basket seat and off we went. After travelling about twenty feet, she spotted a display of “Stickers.” With Valentine’s Day almost upon us, I could not resist her request to “pull over!” After considering her choices, she picked out some princess stickers for herself and a batch of care bear stickers for her big brother. “Aw, how thoughtful,” I reflected.
Step 3 involved slowly making our way along every aisle in the toy department. Most of the “toys” currently for sale would give nightmares to a combat Marine. It took quite a bit of searching before we discovered a box of puzzles with a princess motif for my granddaughter. Not wanting to be left out, I added a deluxe Wiffle Ball set to the basket. We have needed one of these for several years, y’know.
Step 4 was lunch. I was really in the mood for Bar-B-Que, so I headed for “Memphis Red Hot ‘n Blue.” (MRH&B) I was sure we could find something for Sophia, too.
We did. She slurped her milk and snacked on cheese fries until her creamy macaroni and cheese arrived with a side of, you guessed it, more French fries. I will not even attempt to describe my meal. If you have even been to MRH&B, you can imagine. If not, you would never understand. [urp.]
Step 5 should have been a nap, but it was not. Instead, we visited Remus the dog at my son’s house. It was a stroke of luck that Sophia’s boy cousins, August and Joshua, had just awakened from their naps when we arrived. The two boys and the two girls, Sophia and Remus, played at full throttle for the next two hours. The entire mansion shook in their gleeful swath of destruction. My son and I sat in the den, watching TV and dozing as peacefully as we could under the circumstances. After about two hours, I captured my charge and ruined their fun. After lots of hugging and waving, we pulled out of the driveway and headed home.
Step 6 began when we reached my dwelling on the edge of the forest. We were both showing signs of fatigue. I prepared cookies and milk for my girl and set about picking up some debris in the den.
A small voice said “Grandfather, I frew up.”
“Huh?” I said, looking around.
“I frew up.”
Then, I looked down. “What happened?”
“I frew up, Grandfather.”
She was drooling and her little eyes were watery. Clearly, she did not feel well.
“Uh Oh. Where did you throw up, sweetie?”
“Right there,” she said indicating the floor between us.
Well, it was not my office, so she got credit there. It was only the carpet in the den. As I considered my next move, Sophia stuck her delicate finger down her throat and began again.
“NOOOOOooooo!” I said as soothingly as I could.
Showing posts with label babysitting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label babysitting. Show all posts
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Small Adventures: The Crescendo
…
On Tuesday following Memorial Day, I “sat on” my daughter’s two angels. My daughter pressed me into service during an extraordinary confluence of circumstances. She was busy at work and the local jails and schools closed. I sketched the experience in my last post, Small Adventures I.
Now, let us fast forward to last Friday, the final day of the “Child Care Crisis,” as I call it and as seen on CNN.
My daughter agreed to deliver my charges early Friday morning. This was a big help, saving me from rising before dawn and driving forty-five minutes while sound asleep. Promptly at 0900, the back door swung open and the grandchildren, their possessions and mommy flooded through. In a few seconds, we were on our own and Mommy was laying rubber down my driveway.
“Good morning, children,” I said cheerfully. I was still rubbing sleep from my eyes, but I wanted to get off to a good start.
“We’re hungry! Would you fix us pancakes?” They spoke in a tone suitable for starving children in one of those loser countries. It is fair to note I brought this on myself. Months ago, I made pancakes for them using my secret recipe. They have not forgotten.
“Uh, I suppose. Have you not had breakfast?”
The two looking up at me were models for a Margaret Keane print. You know, the pictures of large-eyed children looking like they just learned their puppy died. It was clearly a ploy to take advantage of grandfather’s softhearted nature.
“Okay, you two sit at the table and I’ll make pancakes. “ Let us face it. I was surrounded.
The children retired to the kitchen table while I retrieved bacon and pancake mix. I covered the griddle with bacon and whipped up a bowl of my secret recipe.
The bacon had just begun sizzling when the backdoor opened once more. It was my son and his eldest who is two and change.
In 30 seconds, I acquired a third starving child who was willing to try a pancake. 20 minutes later, the crew followed me out the backdoor and down the terrace to the picnic table. Each of my arms carried carefully balanced plates with hot cakes and bacon. I was careful not to allow the syrup to slosh over the edge of the plate. Pouring syrup onto pancakes until they float is a favorite of the grandchildren.
The four of us enjoyed our syrupy bacon and pancakes al fresco. Chilled orange juice helped dissolve the sugar from our throats. After ten minutes, the flies became an issue, so I shooed the pests away. I have not seen a fly here in years. I guess they have been biding their time until the right moment and this was it.
The children ate every crumb and licked the syrup from their plates before we went inside.
Filled with sugary goodness, they were content to remain in the playroom, but only so long as I was with them. If one needed to visit the bathroom, the others would come with, waiting patiently outside the door until grandfather and grandchild emerged in a cloud of relief. This is full-on togetherness.
At play, the children sorted themselves out. The eldest (5) selected a suitcase of Legos. His little sister (3) chose Play Doh. The youngest played with tiny cars that are actually characters from the animated movie of the same name.
Me? I moved among the children, first finding a door for a Lego castle, then pressing a giraffe from Play Doh and finally yelling “Vrrooom!” as I pushed a little car toward the little guy.
By mid afternoon, grandfather was having sinking spells. I made excuses to check my emails, bring in the mail, brush my teeth and any other thing I could think of to enjoy a five-minute collapse.
I was considering running away from home when my son showed up and retrieved his boy.
An hour later, Mommy arrived. We fed the children frozen chicken parts and milk before packing them back into the car for the trip home.
Finally, the house was empty. Puzzles, cars, and Legos were scattered in the playroom. Flecks of color marked the Play Doh area. Storybooks covered every flat surface. The ‘fridge and pantry were decimated. Grandfather was a wreck.
Still, victory was mine. I had survived a full day with three sweet but deadly grandchildren. I cannot help wondering how mothers routinely survive decades of unrelenting devotion required to raise a child to early adulthood.
I was lucky to last the week.
…
On Tuesday following Memorial Day, I “sat on” my daughter’s two angels. My daughter pressed me into service during an extraordinary confluence of circumstances. She was busy at work and the local jails and schools closed. I sketched the experience in my last post, Small Adventures I.
Now, let us fast forward to last Friday, the final day of the “Child Care Crisis,” as I call it and as seen on CNN.
My daughter agreed to deliver my charges early Friday morning. This was a big help, saving me from rising before dawn and driving forty-five minutes while sound asleep. Promptly at 0900, the back door swung open and the grandchildren, their possessions and mommy flooded through. In a few seconds, we were on our own and Mommy was laying rubber down my driveway.
“Good morning, children,” I said cheerfully. I was still rubbing sleep from my eyes, but I wanted to get off to a good start.
“We’re hungry! Would you fix us pancakes?” They spoke in a tone suitable for starving children in one of those loser countries. It is fair to note I brought this on myself. Months ago, I made pancakes for them using my secret recipe. They have not forgotten.
“Uh, I suppose. Have you not had breakfast?”
The two looking up at me were models for a Margaret Keane print. You know, the pictures of large-eyed children looking like they just learned their puppy died. It was clearly a ploy to take advantage of grandfather’s softhearted nature.
“Okay, you two sit at the table and I’ll make pancakes. “ Let us face it. I was surrounded.
The children retired to the kitchen table while I retrieved bacon and pancake mix. I covered the griddle with bacon and whipped up a bowl of my secret recipe.
The bacon had just begun sizzling when the backdoor opened once more. It was my son and his eldest who is two and change.
In 30 seconds, I acquired a third starving child who was willing to try a pancake. 20 minutes later, the crew followed me out the backdoor and down the terrace to the picnic table. Each of my arms carried carefully balanced plates with hot cakes and bacon. I was careful not to allow the syrup to slosh over the edge of the plate. Pouring syrup onto pancakes until they float is a favorite of the grandchildren.
The four of us enjoyed our syrupy bacon and pancakes al fresco. Chilled orange juice helped dissolve the sugar from our throats. After ten minutes, the flies became an issue, so I shooed the pests away. I have not seen a fly here in years. I guess they have been biding their time until the right moment and this was it.
The children ate every crumb and licked the syrup from their plates before we went inside.
Filled with sugary goodness, they were content to remain in the playroom, but only so long as I was with them. If one needed to visit the bathroom, the others would come with, waiting patiently outside the door until grandfather and grandchild emerged in a cloud of relief. This is full-on togetherness.
At play, the children sorted themselves out. The eldest (5) selected a suitcase of Legos. His little sister (3) chose Play Doh. The youngest played with tiny cars that are actually characters from the animated movie of the same name.
Me? I moved among the children, first finding a door for a Lego castle, then pressing a giraffe from Play Doh and finally yelling “Vrrooom!” as I pushed a little car toward the little guy.
By mid afternoon, grandfather was having sinking spells. I made excuses to check my emails, bring in the mail, brush my teeth and any other thing I could think of to enjoy a five-minute collapse.
I was considering running away from home when my son showed up and retrieved his boy.
An hour later, Mommy arrived. We fed the children frozen chicken parts and milk before packing them back into the car for the trip home.
Finally, the house was empty. Puzzles, cars, and Legos were scattered in the playroom. Flecks of color marked the Play Doh area. Storybooks covered every flat surface. The ‘fridge and pantry were decimated. Grandfather was a wreck.
Still, victory was mine. I had survived a full day with three sweet but deadly grandchildren. I cannot help wondering how mothers routinely survive decades of unrelenting devotion required to raise a child to early adulthood.
I was lucky to last the week.
…
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Weekend at Grandfather's
[Monday, Nov. 23, 2009] My lovely daughter and her husband just left with their two delightful children. Thank goodness. I watched over the two angels since last Friday afternoon and I am completely whipped.
A few weeks ago one of my loyal readers suggested I have a “massive sleepover” for my grandchildren. Naturally, I dismissed the idea as madness. Don’t get me wrong. I love the grandchildren with all my heart. I am also fond of nights of uninterrupted sleep, violent TV programs, spicy food and adult beverages. I also enjoy intervals of silence lasting more than ten seconds. In short, all the things that are good for grandfather are anathema to the children. Imagine my surprise when I found myself agreeing to keep my daughter’s two babies over a long weekend. I found myself saying “Sure.” when I expected to say “Oh, Hell no!”
It is too late to cry over spilled milk. The children dribbled, sprayed and splashed more than a quart of the stuff about the house over the weekend. It won’t help to cry over the chicken fingers, macaroni and cheese, apples, juice, chocolate kisses, popcorn or any other foodstuff, either. They simply disappeared. The ants who come in to clean will find them, eventually.
When they arrived, a sense of excitement over the upcoming adventure filled their little hearts. “They’ve been looking forward to this all week.” Said Mommy. Looking back, maybe the parents should have brought Rhinoceros grade tranquilizer darts as part of the kit. I would have shot myself almost immediately after their departure, if only I had them available.
When it was time for mom and dad to leave, all bets were off. The sense of adventure vanished and a sense of abandonment and terror set in. I have seldom heard such wailing and pleading in my life. Somehow, mom and dad bore up under the emotional assault and fled for a romantic escape to the snowy slopes of Utah. Me? I continued to wail and plead for some time after they drove away.
My daughter furnished manuals describing bedtime and other essential rituals. It said, “Bedtime is between 7:30 and 8:00 p.m.” At the appropriate time, I jammied the two urchins and brushed their tiny teeth. Then I popped them in bed where they continued howling for mommy for the next few hours. When mommy did not appear, they wept as if I murdered a puppy before their innocent little eyes. I began feeling panic and depression. At dawn, the little ones capitulated and slept the rest of the night.
“That went well.” I lied.
Ultimately, I abandoned hope and devoted myself to getting through ten-minute intervals, one after the other. My life became a predictable series of chicken strips, apple juice, clean-ups, diapers, oatmeal, lost toys, clean-ups, boo-boos, snits, spats, clean-ups, bribes, heart-warming smiles and loving hugs.
When the parents returned on Monday afternoon, I noticed some remarkable changes. First, I learned some people are born mothers and others have motherhood thrust upon them. Even though it almost [?] cost me my sanity, I became a mom (or dad), pro tempore. Even the grandchildren slipped up and called me “Mommy” or “Daddy” a couple of times. We shall disregard the other names.
Second, I am certain I shall need a vacation in the immediate future. I am thinking of snowy Utah, or perhaps Banff, Canada. In six weeks, I could be as good as new. Almost. Mothers are certainly made of stern stuff.
Eva, how can I ever repay you?
A few weeks ago one of my loyal readers suggested I have a “massive sleepover” for my grandchildren. Naturally, I dismissed the idea as madness. Don’t get me wrong. I love the grandchildren with all my heart. I am also fond of nights of uninterrupted sleep, violent TV programs, spicy food and adult beverages. I also enjoy intervals of silence lasting more than ten seconds. In short, all the things that are good for grandfather are anathema to the children. Imagine my surprise when I found myself agreeing to keep my daughter’s two babies over a long weekend. I found myself saying “Sure.” when I expected to say “Oh, Hell no!”
It is too late to cry over spilled milk. The children dribbled, sprayed and splashed more than a quart of the stuff about the house over the weekend. It won’t help to cry over the chicken fingers, macaroni and cheese, apples, juice, chocolate kisses, popcorn or any other foodstuff, either. They simply disappeared. The ants who come in to clean will find them, eventually.
When they arrived, a sense of excitement over the upcoming adventure filled their little hearts. “They’ve been looking forward to this all week.” Said Mommy. Looking back, maybe the parents should have brought Rhinoceros grade tranquilizer darts as part of the kit. I would have shot myself almost immediately after their departure, if only I had them available.
My daughter furnished manuals describing bedtime and other essential rituals. It said, “Bedtime is between 7:30 and 8:00 p.m.” At the appropriate time, I jammied the two urchins and brushed their tiny teeth. Then I popped them in bed where they continued howling for mommy for the next few hours. When mommy did not appear, they wept as if I murdered a puppy before their innocent little eyes. I began feeling panic and depression. At dawn, the little ones capitulated and slept the rest of the night.
“That went well.” I lied.
Ultimately, I abandoned hope and devoted myself to getting through ten-minute intervals, one after the other. My life became a predictable series of chicken strips, apple juice, clean-ups, diapers, oatmeal, lost toys, clean-ups, boo-boos, snits, spats, clean-ups, bribes, heart-warming smiles and loving hugs.
When the parents returned on Monday afternoon, I noticed some remarkable changes. First, I learned some people are born mothers and others have motherhood thrust upon them. Even though it almost [?] cost me my sanity, I became a mom (or dad), pro tempore. Even the grandchildren slipped up and called me “Mommy” or “Daddy” a couple of times. We shall disregard the other names.
Second, I am certain I shall need a vacation in the immediate future. I am thinking of snowy Utah, or perhaps Banff, Canada. In six weeks, I could be as good as new. Almost. Mothers are certainly made of stern stuff.
Eva, how can I ever repay you?
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