Monday, September 3, 2018
Today I am grateful for the grandma chair. Notice I didn’t say “grandma’s chair” because the chair is me and not the structure I sit in. I am the grandma chair and I’m happy to be here.
We’ve been watching our youngest, two-and-a-half year old granddaughter more than usual these days, while her parents ready their house to move in soon. What a hoot. I forgot what a sponge a little one can be. She absorbs. . .and repeats every single thing a bazillion times a day. It’s wonderful. And exhausting. And it’s got me watching my language which is a real challenge for me. So I don’t watch the news when she’s here, which is the best.
She rarely gets cranky, but when she gets up from her nap, or is a little tired or out of sorts, I say, “Do you need some time in the grandma chair?” She grabs a pillow and climbs up on me, in my recliner, tucking herself between my puffy legs in her own little nest. If I put “Ice Age” aka “Acorn Man” on the TV she’s there for the duration.
After a recent zoo trip we stopped in the gift store so she could pick out two toys. She got three. C’mon, they were smaller than I expected so there. She chose a little lion, a little bird and a little monkey. The next day, while she was sitting in the grandma chair I started to crochet.
“What you doing?” she asked.
“I’m crocheting,” I said.
“What you doing?”
“I’m crocheting sleep sacks for your little guys.”
“What you doing?”
It goes on like this until I have one of the little sleep sacks done and shove the lion in it. She is thrilled and starts tossing the others at me and grabbing the yarn bag to choose which yarn I should use for the others.
“This one, Gramma!” By now she is turned around and sitting on my knee facing me, watching every stitch and tangling herself up in strings of yarn, trying unsuccessfully to re-wrap it around the original ball, which she finally just bunches up and shoves at me.
She still uses a pacifier sometimes and with all of the turmoil in her life these days, I don’t blame her. I thought of getting one for me, but so far vodka and cake are doing the trick. But when she has “pop-O” in her mouth and tries to talk I can’t understand a word.
When I’m done crocheting and all of the little guys have their sleep sacks on I expect her to leave, crawl off of me and go play with them. But she doesn’t. She sits very close, staring at me.
“Iblsm uopbokor” she says.
“I can’t understand you with pop-O in your mouth,” I say.
“ilsm uopbokor” she repeats.
“You’re going to have to take pop-O out, sweetie.” We play this game a lot. She finally pulls it out, leans in closer and in a whisper, says, “I have boogers.” Like it’s the best kept secret in town.
“You do? How do you know?” I ask, because I don’t see anything. She whispers again, “I have boogers. I need a tissue, please.”
I give her a tissue which she sort of rubs over her nose, producing nothing. So she goes in there with a finger and pulls out said booger, holding it up for me to see, as if she needs to prove her point. “Okay then,” I say. “Wrap that thing up in the tissue and put it on my tray.”
Then she’s off, playing with her little animals, pulling those sleep sacks off, then desperately trying to get them back on, yelling, “I need HELP!” in frustration. I show her how to do it again. But when she can’t quite make it happen she clutches them all and climbs back onto the grandma chair, where all problems are solved.