Nap Time

/ roughwighting / 9 Comments

Have you noticed how the sleep of babies is so total, so full of abandon? I never tire of watching my grandbabies sleep, although it’s nerve racking.

For instance, near nap time, little year-old Sophie roams the room like a truck driver on 10-cups of coffee, then plops on the floor and exclaims, ‘bitty bah dee duh rre tum tum toe!” She is quite certain that whatever she has said is philosophically salient, and I tend to agree with her.

But when it’s time to put her down for her nap, she fights it like that same truck driver now in his caffeine crash. Sophie is sure that her time would be most well spent continuing to smile and laugh and impart her baby wisdom. But I know better. I know that any second, the baby beauty will become a monster beast, so I am determined to put said baby down for a nap before the ugly transformation occurs.

Sweet Sophie cuddles in my arms until we approach her bedroom and I start closing the blinds; then she cries as if she’s been in this torture chamber before, and she can’t, just can’t have her toes broken again.

I try some sweet talk, which is rejected with vehement protestations, and so I gently release the writhing screaming banshee into the crib. She peers up at me, one tiny baby tear falling down her face, with an expression that says, “How could you do such a horrid horrid thing to me?” The look is so scathing, laced with hurt, that I avert my eyes and whisper, like the coward that I am,  “nighty night, have a good nap!” and race out of there as if being attacked by a host of hungry hornets.

Then the wait begins. Generally, the screams last less than a minute. I stand in the kitchen as if I’m baking or cleaning, but actually I’m just listening attentively. The next 2 minutes are low-pitched complains. “Gr pla koey dkod.” I don’t want to even guess what she’s saying about me.

And finally silence. Now that I’m a seasoned grandmother of three years, I know better, but before, as a newbie, I used to tiptoe in after just 5 minutes of silence and look down at the little angel, sound asleep. Until suddenly, she’d open her huge blue eyes, send a look to me like ‘aha!’ and jump on her knees, rewinding her protests from just a short while earlier.

Now, in my learned wisdom, I find something to do for at least 8 minutes. THEN I tiptoe into my granddaughter’s room, ear pricked for any sound other than the soft sighs of a sleeping baby. If all is clear, I avoid the creaking floorboards and stand on the rug, looking at this new human being who sleeps as if she lives in paradise.

Her arms are flung above her head in complete comfort. Ah, to have shoulders like that once more. Her chubby legs are covered in a soft fuzzy blanket up to her chin. Her mouth puckers into a pink rosebud. Long eyelashes curl over her softly closed eyes, and I thank God for the opportunity to witness this sleeping bundle of love.

Grilled Cheese

/ roughwighting / 16 Comments

“Sit down and don’t move.”

This is the first time in my life I can order my mom around, and she has to listen!

She sits on the couch, back against the long floral armrest, head against an added pillow, legs straight in front of her on the rest of the couch, more pillows raising her feet.

“But,” she protests, “I know where the butter is, and the pan to grill the bread, and don’t use the new tomatoes, use the ones in the vegetable bin, and I’m not sure if the cheddar cheese is on the left side of the refrigerator, or the bottom shelf, and…”

“Stop!” I command. “I can figure it out.”

I’m not a kid any more. In fact, I’ve raised children, now adults, who thrived on my cooking, but my mom still thinks I can’t make a grilled cheese sandwich without her help.

I take a deep breath and look at her sternly but lovingly. “You need to keep your feet up right now. You’ve just had surgery. I have taken a five-hour train trip to stay with you and wait on you. So sit down and enjoy it!” I leave the room with a smirk on my face.

Of course, five minutes later I’m cursing under my breath. Where the hell does she store her pans? Her apartment is small, her kitchen as tiny as an elf’s, and it has already taken me 4 minutes, 38 seconds to find a knife to cut the cheese and a spatula.

No pan = no grilled cheese sandwiches, so I open more cabinets and grit my teeth.

“The bottom of the stove,” mom shouts from the living room.

I open the drawer below the oven, seemingly hidden until now, and sweetly shout out, “got it!” Why she couldn’t have told me that in the first place?  I whistle happily as I slice and melt the butter in the pan.

“Don’t use oil or that spray stuff, butter works best!” she suggests unnecessarily.

I walk briskly back into the living room. Tennis is on the T.V. “Thirty-love,” the commentator whispers excitedly. Yup, I think, it’s 30-0 right here, in this little apartment, and I’m the one not getting my serves in.

“Mom, luv,” I begin.

She looks up at me innocently. I walk over and fluff up the pillows behind her, check her water class. It could use more ice. “Yes?” she asks. “Do you need any help?”

“Not at all!” I answer. I pick up her glass and announce. “You need more water. Ten glasses a day – at least!” I bounce back to the kitchen and notice that the butter is turning brown. Whoops. As I add more ice to her glass, I throw some slices of bread in the pan. Race the ice water back to mom and her tray, then race back to the kitchen. Now the bread is turning brown, and I haven’t added the cheese yet.

“Damn,” I shout out.

Two seconds later, I hear the clip clip clip of her walker, and she is standing beside me, clucking and reaching out for the cheese, the butter, the tomato. In a span of three minutes, the smells of a toasty warm grilled cheese and tomato sandwich is wafting through the small three-room apartment.

“Yum!” she says, turning off the stove top. “Sit down and I’ll fix you a glass of diet coke. I’m starving, aren’t you?”

As she arranges a dish on her walker tray and sashays back toward the couch, I admit defeat, but also realize a cheery thought.

She’s healing quite well, much faster than the doctor’s prediction.

Loud as Snow Hitting Bare Branch

/ roughwighting / 12 Comments

As the snow fell like rain

soft and fast and serious

my family of four sat in front of the fire

warmed by the presence of each other.

 

Soft and fast and serious

our talk ran from weather to food to walks

warmed by the presence of each other

the sight outside was miraculous.

 

Our talk ran from weather to food to walks

and my grown-up son winked at me

the sight outside was miraculous

so he suggested a brisk walk in the woods.

 

And my grown-up son winked at me

as I pulled on heavy jeans and a warm coat

so he suggested a brisk walk in the woods

just mom and son braving the storm.

 

As I pulled on heavy jeans and a warm coat

I felt the frosty air and fierce snow billow round

just the mom and son braving the storm

walking into woods that quietly accepted this gift.

 

I felt the frosty air and fierce snow billow round

as our talk swirled round us likewise

walking into woods that quietly accepted this gift

of silence loud as snow hitting bare branch.

 

As our talk swirled round us likewise

my son told me his thoughts and dreams

of silence loud as snow hitting bare branch

of love and fears and theology.

 

My son told me his thoughts and dreams

as we crunched through tender white ground

of love and fears and theology

of a young man searching for answers to life.

 

As we crunched through the tender white ground

soft and fast and furious

a young man searching for answers to life

warmed by the presence of each other.

Walking the Human

/ roughwighting / 13 Comments

I’m happy to greet you all as a guest blogger of Roughwighting. My best friend (BF as I affectionately call her) is too frazzled with preparations for the holiday to write a post this week. So I get to put in my two cents here, or in my case, two kibbles.

During this season, I try to calm my BF down, explain the true meaning of the holiday, blah blah blah, but she still frantically bakes cookies, shops, wraps gifts, and attends too many parties.

I must admit I also enjoy the excitement and extra vibe in the air, and love the anticipation of the big day when Santa arrives. After all, I have my own stocking (didn’t you know that Santa loves dogs?). I was given a green felt collar with tinkling bells, but fortunately my BF doesn’t make me wear it.

The good news is that with all the baking, my BF feels she needs to walk extra miles to burn off the calories, and that’s just fine by me. I take her for a walk as often as humanly possible (it’s always possible for a dog to walk). My other dog friends and I laugh when we hear our best friends say that they’re going to ‘take the dog for a walk.’ None of us have allowed our BFs to walk us since we were puppies – we take them for a walk, and train them as well as we can.

For instance, my BF reads poetry and recites quotes about ‘stopping to smell the roses,’ but while walking, she only wants to ‘keep up the pace’ and check her pedometer. I, on the other paw, understand the meditative pleasure of stopping to sniff the bushes. It’s been a tough lesson to teach, but I’m patient with her and hope that one of these days, she’ll get it.

In the meantime, I hear the mixer mashing up some butter and sugar in the next room, so I’ll send my goodbyes quickly. I’m a good companion in the kitchen and sit by my BF’s feet whenever cooking commences. She says I’m too close and she’ll trip over me, but I know that, really, she loves my company. As a reward for my loyalty, my BF makes sure I get a lick of batter at the end.

And that’s my wish for you this holiday season. May you always get to lick the batter, sniff the bushes, and enjoy the company of your BF.

Happy Holidays from Henry

Open Mouthed Kisses

/ roughwighting / 8 Comments

I want to blame someone for the horrible cold I got last week. My son is first on the list. We met for lunch in the city the week before. He was sneezing and sniffling and suggested we shouldn’t hug hello or goodbye. But how do you not hug someone you love?

Two days later I still felt just fine. Then I worked at the town’s Holiday Art & Craft Sale, where friends and strangers are all in the holiday spirit and shake hands and laugh and sip on warm spiced cider. After each hand I shook I shuttered – how many germs in that one little shake? I’m not mysophobic, although these days we’re all being bombarded with movies and stories and news articles about ‘the big virus epidemic’ sure to come.

How can we not cringe when we’re flying in a steel tube with 200 strangers and the one sitting next to us coughs loud enough to rattle the entire plane? Yuck! Or when we open a door to a bank or restaurant, following the germy handprints of dozens of others? Or when a well-meaning customer comes in to the office with a smile and a warm moist handshake?

But I believe in being friendly, so I don’t give an air pump or a touchless high five to the sweet neighbor who drops by with a plate of cookies, or the fireman who helps me, once again, turn off my smoke alarm. I give hugs.

Some people are now into the ‘touch-free’ hugs. Remember the ‘air kiss,’ a kind of European sweep to one cheek, purse lips but no contact, stand back and move to the other cheek? I see friends, mostly female, air kiss all the time. Maybe it’s the new hug of the future. Maybe it’s not a bad idea.

But it looks …. Unfriendly. Dare I even say, kind of fake?

Ahhh, now I realize who I need to blame for my horrible terrible no-good sneezing coughing sore-throat cold.

My sweet runny-nosed 18-month-old grandson.

Now he knows how to greet someone and make them feel special. Just a year and a half into this world, he’s figured out that to melt the heart of a human and own her forever, give her a kiss and a hug. But he doesn’t give them out indiscriminately. If you’ve shown him a good time, and maybe read him a book, played race car demon with him for an hour, and offered him a warm gooey chocolate chip cookie, then he dispenses that most precious reward.

The only problem is that he hasn’t figured out how to kiss close-mouthed.

So yes, I spent some time with the toddler on the Friday before ‘the cold,’ and when it was time for him to go home, he opened up his little arms and said, ‘me me kee,’ (interpreted as “Pammy, Kiss!”).  While his mother held him, he leaned way out toward me and met my lips with a large wet “O” of a baby mouth. After a happy loud ‘MOWM’ sound, as if he’d just eaten a piece of high-end dark chocolate, he leaned back into his mom’s arms with an expression of serenity and happiness.

Did I mention he had a cold?

But I wouldn’t give up that open-mouthed kiss for all the germ-free touchless hugs in the world.

Would you?