Memoirous

Want to play a game? Who can resist such an invitation at 6:30 in the morning before tea or coffee? From a five-year-old. That’s how, since getting my eyes fixed, my morning starts. Jack comes over with a floor puzzle, Sneaky, Snaky Squirrel, Pass the Banana, or Animal Wildlife Pawprints match game and I am obliged to play. Sometimes my eyes are still glued shut, my mouth is dry and I need my tea, or I’m in a hurry for the bathroom—no matter! He wants to play! And he’s got a GREAT game! Okay, go get it. It’s right here! Under my arm! he might say with his underwear or shirt on backwards. No biggie! And I think, it won’t always be like this. The late summer day, the bright and shiny blonde head, the childish wonder and delight, the rush of words and loose body (his, not mine)—and I know the only answer is: Yes. As I get down on the hard floor and tuck my legs under me for a few (hundred) rounds of Kid Bingo.

Maybe 6 months ago (not sure) my grandson developed a kind of sign off: Like you, love you, lots He even had his father write that on the valentine Jack gave me on February 14 th . Lately, he’s added to it: I like you, love you, lots, you’re beautiful Which, at first—and I’m dating myself here—sounded very Eddy Haskell (a butt-licker kid from the 50s TV show, Leave it to Beaver )—anyway, I appreciated hearing it from a 4 ½ year old. I believe him to be sincere. Today, he ran over to give me a toilet update, something BTW I really am interested in as he’s been making real progress, before closing the door to my Tiny House, he added after the likeyouloveyoulots And shiny.   Wow. One part of my head asks, What does that mean? While my heart goes, Ahhhh. This is indeed life.

The children paraded around the nursery school in an effort to drive winter away and welcome in spring. It didn’t work. Nevertheless, they each got a crown. The day was warm-ish, not too cold, not too snowy, not too too. Except for the wind. The wind moved through the top of the fir trees, swaying the branches, starting small and then growing into a roar. Mom pushed the baby in the carriage to pick up her boy, who was wearing a yellow crown. They talked over the roar of the wind about lions and parades and the coming spring, until they got home. Walking up the driveway, the mom discovered her boy wasn’t wearing his crown; the wind must have whisked it right off his head. Leaving the children in care of their grandmother, she ran off down the street. She searched and searched. It was a challenge as the utility company had just set out little yellow flags on neighbor’s lawns, marking where the gas pipelines were underground. Everywhere she saw fluttering yellow flags that caught her ...

We’re past the equinox, officially spring—even though we had one of those probable snow storms that always sweep through this time of year. You know, the ones that make us bow our heads in despair, that dashes our hopes. But not the firm and steady stalks of daffodils or grape hyacinth. They know what to expect and are prepared. Oh, we of little faith. With the time change, there’s more light at the end of the day. Thus, I can come home from work and feel like doing something, rather than switching out of work clothes and into pajamas. But the time change has wreaked havoc on my young grandson’s sleep schedule. Remember the Big Boy Bed ? He’s now an apostate after a quick conversion. He will not stay in it for the entire night. No one is getting sleep these days, as the baby is also teething. My son-in-law told me that Jack climbs the stairs up to their room and takes the blankets off his feet and says: It’s looking like daytime. When actually it’s 3 a.m. There’s no invitin...

Finally two days off, in a row. Forty-eight hours to get caught up with Zoom calls, writing, laundry, grocery shopping, maybe a TV program, find something in the shed, rehang the picture that keeps falling down, perhaps go for a run, pick up the handicraft I put down and haven’t picked back up for a month. I checked in with my daughter after breakfast—we live across the back deck from each other. As soon as I slid open the glass door into her kitchen she handed me the baby. Can you hold Remy while I drive Jack to nursery school? Sure. Later, again, can you hold him while I put in a load of laundry. Okay. He has a Bumbo, an activity saucer, and a rocking sling back chair that also plays lullabies, but, hey, he’s cute in his little T-shirt that says I’m New Here. Or the one that says Hello World! Or his Dismantle the Patriarchy onesie. I can’t help but hold him. If I’m home all day long I get pinged to come over for this or that. Sometimes it’s did you eat dinner, do you want to eat ...

I know everyone’s grandchildren are geniuses, smart as a whip—how did this ever get to be a saying?—but my grandson, in particular, is amazing. Sometimes he bursts out the door like a cat on a mission, reacting to movement out in the yard, shouting squirrels! Frantic to catch some wild thing. I worry he’ll fall, miss a step on the cascade of back decks in his hurry to run down a rabbit. I see you! Tonight, released from his bath and newly clean, (I wasn’t supposed to let him get dirty) he suddenly took off like a banshee. Red bird, red bird! He zigzagged from fence post to tree boughs in pursuit of a cardinal. He returned to my arms disappointed. Almost, I soothed him. You were so close.  

Yesterday my daughter and I took Jack to the library for a program. The Music Lady was there as well as a roomful of toddlers. I’ve been at the forefront of taking Jack to the library for storytime—ever since the first disastrous beginning. That first time was pure toddler chaos: hugging other children to the ground, trying to share bottles, picking up other’s people cellphones and carrying them around. The fact that there was a program or agenda meant nothing to Jack. This was my daughter’s first program at the library for Jack. She was horrified by how unfocused he was. Of course, there were other children equally unfocused and not listening. That’s why I’m committed to taking him—to socialize him to the idea of programs, structure, on the art of listening. Some mornings go better than others. She came away dejected—“he’ll never be ready for nursery school!” Maybe not, but I remembered a time when I was quite young, when I went to my first puppet show. I’m not sure where it w...

We’re crossing milestones and land bridges here in Michigan—and it’s all so sweet. I’ve been here for nearly two years. When I arrived the end of September 2021 Jack, my grandson, was an unformed 9 month old mushy mush. We still didn’t have a good bead on his personality or precociousness. Now at 2 ½ we see we’re in for it. He runs headlong  and babbles all day long. There is a lot on his mind and some of his decisions are not well thought through. Maybe that’s why he has so many cuts and bruises. He is getting more and more adventurous. Whereas the world at one time seemed a big place, he has begun to own his own little corners. Such as the territory between his back door and my front door; he navigates across the patio to come find me in the morning. Yesterday as I slept in and was just laying a-bed, I heard a series of faint knocks and a little voice calling out, Grandma, Grandma. I scurried down the ladder from my loft and let him in. Whereupon he needed a cracker and a...

That’s generally what we say, shorthand for the Shorty. We refer to him without name almost in the third person. How’s the baby? meaning: Did you get sleep last night? What’s the baby doing? Or, what I’m really asking: Is he being cute or destructive?—his two main modes. Yesterday the baby turned two. Born the end of December, his birthday and Christmas will always compete for prestige, excitement, for gift haul. We want both to win. Anyway, the baby got his first big-boy haircut and it immediately aged him, made him taller, made me reconsider the board book for maybe an iPhone. He looked like he needed a drink rather than a bottle, which is his secret vice. It didn’t help that he was wearing a Henley shirt and jeans like some MSU student down the street when I first saw him after the haircut. I wanted him to stay a baby while also at the same time I wanted to sit down and have a conversation with him, find out what he’s been thinking about these past couple of years. I was tor...

Last weekend I ran out to the car when the kids pulled up to give them something and opened the back passenger door to say hi to the baby. He was in a bit of a daze then broke into a smile, more than a smile . . . It was a joy quake. Like a muscle strain, his whole body quivered, with excitement at my face. Now, if you lived inside my head—well, you’d move out. It isn’t always pretty with the self-deprecating self-talk. I’ve given up on makeup and expressing any sense of style because—why? No one seems to notice. For years I’ve been invisible. It’s why my job as a retail clerk where now part of my salary is commissions has been so terribly difficult. It’s not a problem for me to greet people. I love to welcome, but it takes a special person to move onto selling someone on something. Luckily, I’ve ended up with the grandmas. More on that later.   Anyway, to be seen by someone who so obviously loves me fills my heart and life. So when I went over to my daughter’s house for my...

An update: I gave up some of the best weather ever in Oregon to move to Michigan were even Michiganders talk bad about their state. My co-workers keep sidewinking and telling me, wait for the snow. My boss cautioned me from riding in the street because Michigan drivers were terrible, then he cautioned me from riding on the sidewalk, to be aware of the walnuts, huge rotting IEDs decomposing beneath trees. Many a cyclist has wrecked from hitting the hard balls and spinning out. Then there are the deer, dying, lying in maggot heaps next to the road. Nothing has prepared me for the autumn leaves. The colors. The ticker-tape leaves. But Jack. He loves his wagon rides where he sits like a prince and watches the school buses go by, the garbage truck ga-chunk the containers into its jaws, or the doggies walked by their masters--both greet him when passing. He loves going to Orlando Park down the street and swinging in the swing, until his nose turns cherry red and his little hands get co...

 Going down Donald Street I hate the name (obviously), yet this is the street I have to go up and down to get to my daughter’s house. Yesterday I rode down the street for the last time. You see, my daughter and her family is moving. I know, I know—I just got here and got settled. I have and I will do it again. But for now I’m staying a few more months, separated. First, let me tell you about Donald Street. Once I crest 53 rd on my way down from Grace’s house, I gently brake coming to the intersection with Donald, gently because as I approach and see no traffic, I let go. And, from there I can coast all the way down, practically to 33 rd . There is one more up before 45 th but the momentum is still carrying me. As I glide down, down, down, I pull my head between my shoulders like a speed racer and scrunch up into a ball on wheels. I do this in order to increase the aerodynamics. To minimize resistance to gravity. It is like hurtling through space. The wind hits my raw ey...

His New Thing *Another Jack Post Almost every day there is a *new thing. Now to be clear his attempts at movement are not a big deal or technically new in the sense of “no one has ever done this before.” Basically he is trying to roll over. But, and here’s the kicker, every day now there is something *new. For instance, last night when my daughter and son-in-law came over for dinner (nevertheless, Jack was on the menu) Dad said, This is his new thing. Jack was on his tummy and when Dad placed his hand on his little diaper butt, Jack would stiffen into like a pizza tray or an airplane attempting lift off, leaving only his belly on the blanket. And this, Grace says is his *new thing: he stiffens every time she tries to put him in his car seat, making it ten times more difficult to maneuver his little 13-pound body into position. For now it’s cute and *new. After a week of this it gets old, and frustrating. Yet, seen through this charmed and loving parental lens everything he do...

My baby has a red cheek from where it rests against the breast His cheek is red when he wakes up from how he lays his head Jack’s rosy cheek is warm and dew-drop soft as I nestle my cheek next to his Baby’s one red cheek melts my heart bursting into tongues                                          of joy

I just found out Maurice Sendak was gay. Not that it matters. I was at the library and there was a new book on the shelf—Maurice Sendak’s last book, My Brother’s Book . I picked it up to read the jacket notes and discovered that the book pays homage to Sendak’s brother, Jack, whom he credited for his passion for writing and drawing. But not only that, it is a memorial to Sendak’s late partner Eugene Glynn. Partner? I wiki’ed Sendak. I had read many articles about Sendak when he was alive and always followed his career, but yet I knew nothing of his personal life. Sendak had lost both his brother and partner before his own death at age 83 last year. And, yet , the saddest part of reading his bio at wiki, was that he’d recently came out (at age 80). From a NYT interview : “All I wanted was to be straight so my parents could be happy. They never, never, never knew.” Mr. Sendak added, “I just didn’t think it was anybody’s business.” I held the book and felt doubly sad...