Perhaps it’s big magic, perhaps it’s many small great things, but for the good of the commonwealth, I choose to think it’s the origin of us all.
Before the fall, when the summer sun seems like the light of Paris, and cerulean and lavender seem like every day true colors, circumstances of childhood don’t matter. If we have bags, we travel. Our nemesis – winter – is conquered, and we believe that today will be different. 
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I flew to California this summer and survived the flight by reading a big thick book: Small Great Things by Jodi Picoult. The book caught me, like the way we get a hitch to our voice when something hits us profoundly.
I thought I knew and understood about race. About how unfair racism is. About how I’m not racist, because I don’t see the color of someone’s skin.
For instance, I was talking to “my” Starbucks barista today about a man who had entered the café at 6 the previous morning singing a Broadway tune in a much too elevated mood for most humans at that time of day. Continue reading
Truly, madly, and a bit guilty, I sit on one of my favorite benches and ponder the fates and furies that have followed me over the year.
Although I faithfully follow a life of joy, I’m nobody’s fool. Some days give me heartburn, as if I’ve just swallowed vinegar. Some days I wonder if god is in ruins, even when the nights are tender. Sometimes I feel like a distinguished guest in my own home, but then, suddenly…. Continue reading
Do you have a “first” moment – the moment you first remember as a child?
Most of us can’t recall the first few years of our life – the babyhood of crying or teething or ruining our parents’ sleep. We can only believe our moms when they tell us that if they didn’t give us enough attention we emptied the flower pot, then played with the dirt on the rug, or how we crawled out of our crib at nighttime and slid under the card table during bridge night, refusing to come out.
Fortunately, my first moment is not of getting spanked or being denied a second cookie.
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A few weeks ago my man and I take two of our son’s three little boys for four hours of fun, fun, fun with PaPa and Pammy.
We drive the 45-mintues to pick them up, making plans along the way: walk in the park, an hour in the new playground near our house, a swim at the local pool, maybe we’d even have time to bake cookies!
After car seats are maneuvered into the back seat, the 3-year-old and 4-year-old grandsons are strapped in, and we make the noisy ride back to our place amidst:
“When are we getting there?” “Where’s Henry the dog?” “Can we sit on Henry?” How does a dog get arthritis?” “What IS arthritis?” “Can I have a drink?” “I’m hungry!” “How much longer?”
When we arrive, the 4-year-old plops himself on the lounge chair in our deck overlooking the Bay, puts his hand behind his head, and exclaims, “What a view! I’m going to sit here allll day.”
The 3-year-old has found the puzzles I store in the kids’ closet and throws the pieces of all three, together, across the living room floor.
“Man-to-man coverage,” my guy suggests. He takes the puzzle tot, I take the “unmovable boy” who now has found the bookcase in the hallway and asks, to my delight, “Read this one, Pammy!”
Six books later, the 4-year-old insists he wants to read all day.
“Let’s go to the playground,” I suggest.
“No! I want Llama Llama Time to Share again!”
In the meantime, Henry the dog has a puzzle piece in his ear, and the man-to-man defense is weakening.
We squeeze in a 15-minute trip to the pool and a few bites of peanut butter and jelly, but it’s close to nap time, when we promised the munchkins’ parents we’d bring them home.
The 4-year-old begs, “can’t we stay and reeeeeaaaaaaaadddddddddd?”
The 3-year-old insists: “I want my mommy!”
So we hustle to the car and begin the ride back.
Five minutes into the drive a sound as loud as 20 chalk pieces screeching on a board emits from the back seat. My guy and I jump so high our heads hit the car roof.
“What’s the matter?” I ask, turning around to check on the distressed 3-year-old.
“I WANT MY NAAAPPPPP!” he screams.
Huh. I thought parents begged children to nap, not the other way around.
The 4-year-old consoles his brother: “It’s okay, you can nap in the car.”
“NOOO!” his younger brother retorts. “I need my MOMMY, then I can NAP!”
A tense ride ensues, with a strangled sound coming from the 3-year-old’s side every so often: “Naaaaaappppppp!!!”
In a record 39.5 minutes, we deliver our charming grandchildren to their relieved parents.
“You’re late!” our son exclaims.
As I unbuckle the blonde-haired, sweet-as a-snowball 3-year-old from his seat, he strokes my face lightly.
“Pammy?” he says softly.
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
Ah, I’m a good grandmother, I sigh to myself, until the little one continues: “But I’m not coming to your house ever again.”
Defeated, I give him a light kiss with a chuckle and hand him off to his mother for a long afternoon’s nap.
On the way home, my guy drives over the speed limit. I gaze at him quizzically.
“I need my nap, NOW,” he exclaims.
Which only proves that little boys never truly grow up.
Hmmm, is it nap time?
roughwighting 