I picked her up in the late afternoon.
I was tired and just wanted to go for a walk, start dinner, open a bottle of wine, relax – finally. But my daughter had called me in a panic earlier in the day: “Can you pick up Sophie from Russian math later today? I overbooked with the two boys.”
Being a woman who always wants to be a “good mom” and an even better grandmother, I said yes even before I asked “where?” Continue reading
The day begins with anticipation, which makes me chuckle.
Gone is the time when I looked forward to a young man arriving at the doorstep for a date. Now, I’m anxious for the arrival of a 7-year-old boy and hours of Uno and giggles.
Sure enough, 90 minutes into my grandson’s visit, the score is Madre 540, genius boy 35.
The winner is the one with the lowest score.
This kid is killing me, particularly as he rubs his hands before each new game and says gleefully, “The cards just love me, Madre,” with a shrug and a wink. Continue reading
My 7-year-old granddaughter Sophie shakes her head at me in loving mocking distress. “Madre, really? You’re lost again?”
I had hoped she couldn’t tell. After all, she’s in the back seat of my SUV, munching on the brownie I gave her, looking through her bag to see if she remembered to pack her ballet shoes.
Every Tuesday I do this. In fact, she reminds me of this fact now. “Madre, how many times have you driven me to ballet school?” Continue reading
I heard it could be done, but never had proof until this week.
In fact, I never really tried until my little grandson broke his leg.
But when a grandson with a smile that turns stone into molten lava gets hurt, what else can a far-away grandmother (known in his world as Grammy Pammy) do?
So yes, I sneak down to the dark corner of my basement, where I hide the thick ancient texts on “cooking magic” and “baking love,” the texts that my family know nothing about. Continue reading
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