Our First Wednesday Together. Captions, Anyone?

Luca at 7 months

"My grandmother??? What have you done with my parents???"

"Somebody call 911."

 

(Feel free to add your own captions.)

   

  Dear Luca,

    I was really happy and also nervous when your dad, André (my son) texted to ask if I could be with you on Wednesday afternoons when your mom, Eileen, goes to work as an acupuncturist and before your dad gets home, about three and a half hours. Of course. Of course, I can. I thought he'd never ask.

    I showed up early and learned about all your various ways of being in the house--your crib, your changing station, your high chair, your stroller, which also doubles as your car seat. For these last two, I mainly had to learn how to operate the various "quick release" buckles, and, frankly, I'd like to have a talk with whoever invented those so-called "quick release" buckles. I've struggled with them on backpacks and dog collars and money belts, and now, with you. I don't worry about getting you buckled in. I worry about getting you out of these contraptions. 

    As your mom was getting ready for work, it was clear you weren't happy with this arrangement and pretty put out that no one had cleared it with you, and you made that known to me, your mom, the dogs, and the neighbors. We buckled you into your stroller, and I took you outside as your mom left for work.

    I know your parents were worried about how you and I might get along. I wasn't worried. Or, I should say, I was far less worried about your crying than I was about unbuckling you from that stroller. But let's face it. I'll be 83 in October. My hearing is impaired, and I have really, really expensive hearing aids, but still. I'm pretty short, at 5'1", so I have to make sure everything I need for you is in my reach. Yet, let me say this. I walk about 4 miles a day, I have dance classes about 3 times a week, I do strength training.  I'm a pretty fit 83-year-old, but I have to be honest.  I have achy bones, knees that take turns slipping our of joint, and I get tired more often. I am not easily daunted, however.

    Let's get back to your mom leaving for work and me pushing you up the hill in your stroller and you letting everyone know, at the top of your lungs, that this is not at all what you had planned for your day.

    It took about ten minutes, or maybe fifteen. I sang to you, repeating over and over, "every little thing's gonna be all right." I apologize to Marley, but you seem to think I have a beautiful voice. It'll be a while before you learn that I don't, but until then, you and I are going to sing and walk, walk and sing. Every little thing's gonna be all right. It helps that you live in a beautiful mountain home, where I can walk you on these mountain roads among the Ponderosa pines under a clear blue Colorado sky. 

    In about ten minutes, you quit crying and began looking around. About ten minutes later, your eyes started getting heavy, and about ten minutes after that, you're asleep. I keep walking and singing and the world transforms into a peaceful place. I could walk forever on these mountain roads, but it looked like rain, and then, just as we got back to your house, it started pouring down. So we scurried inside, and you woke up.

    You woke up to find out I was still here, and you have no idea who I am, but it doesn't matter because I'm not your mom or your dad or your brother Legend, who are the only people who live in this house. 

"My grandmother??? What have you done with my parents???"

"Somebody call 911." 

    It falls apart. I unbuckle you (with a silent prayer of thanks that I could do that), and offer you a bottle. You want it, but you don't want it from me.  It's your nap time, so I put you in your little sleep gown as you protest loudly. I put you in your crib, which makes you furious. I pick you up and walk around, rubbing your back. I place you in a little seat that rocks when I push it. "Uh-uh!" I pick you up again, and try the rocker. "Absolutely not!" 

    We're walking around. I'm rubbing your back. You're crying. Your dad walks in the door. In an instant, things change:

    Just like that, all is well with your world. You even look at me as if I might actually be all right, since it appears that I know your dad. 

    As I head down Boulder Canyon toward home, my heart is inexplicably full with the moments I've shared with you. I'm a little frazzled, but mostly I feel serene, calm, ready to try this again.

        Love,

        Grandma Kay