Now that I have grandchildren, I continue to have
flashbacks to my own childhood and motherhood.
My grandsons are now six, four, and 18 months; my granddaughter,
approaching four. If laughter is the
best medicine, I should be healthy as a horse.
Boone, the just turned six-year-old, is well on his way
to being named Class Clown. He loves to
provoke a laugh and will go to any lengths to bring about that laughter. He once made a video of himself entitled "The Day Boone Had Martin Van Buren Hair." My oldest grandson has been fascinated with the presidents since he was three and laughs every time we go through the president cards when he sees Van Buren and his wild coiffure.
One of his shticks involves putting odd
things on his head, and once, this was a whole grapefruit. He marched into the living room, sporting the
fruit, and I said, “Take that grapefruit off your head right this minute!” The moment those words left my lips, I
laughed aloud, thereby encouraging the bad behavior. What can I say? He makes cracks me up. Today, he wrapped a pompom into copier paper
and taped it securely. Knowing the
desired response, I unwrapped it and put it behind my ear. He laughed.
I laughed. His brother, nearly
four, looked up and said, “That’s not funny.”
Rowan makes me laugh, too. Not too long ago, while he and his brother
were playing dress-up, Boone got into full superhero costume. (He's a stickler for proper superhero attire.) Rowan’s costume consisted of Disney underwear,
a cape, a sword, and a frightfully well-articulated do rag. And, he was astride a rocking
horse. He wasn't laughing. I was.
Recently, he spent three hours with me (and without
Boone). He had brought a
huge cloth shopping bag of toys with him, and I keep a few things here. Rowan emptied out his toys, then built a few structures with blocks. Tiring of that, he next halfheartedly played superheroes with me, and then spotted my stick notes. “Actually, I could play with those,” he said, tossing
aside Superman and Batman. He then spent
an hour applying stick notes to my ottoman.
After this intensely creative project, he said, “There. That looks better, “and then he went over to
the couch, plopped down, and said, “I’m not tired. I’m just doing what Boone does. He sits on the couch after play, right?”
Next comes Greer, the girl among the boys. She’s not yet four but is quite the
fashionista. After she’s bathed and
dressed in pajamas, been read to and tucked in, she waits until everyone is
gone, then gets up and puts on a dress.
It’s a bit of a surprise to see what she’s wearing when morning
comes. She will not wear just any dress
either. It has to have a spin-worthy
aspect to it. If a dress won’t twirl, it
just won’t do.
She’s not too prissy to
play ball or rumble with her brother or cousins. She just likes to look good while she’s at
it. Greer played T-ball and seemed to
love it, but she wore her team jersey with a skirt or atop a dress.
She, like
Rowan, doesn’t always appreciate my sense of humor. While we were playing in her back yard, I
picked up a stick and said, “Bibbity Bobby Boo!” then waved it. “You just turned into a pumpkin,” I
said. “I’m a girl,” she retorted, then
looked at me as if I were quite mad. Apparently, my humor is just too
sophisticated for the three to four-year-old.
Lane is the youngest, and he thinks I’m a riot. He runs everywhere, so much so that his
preschool calls him “Fast Lane.” And no
matter what I do, if I mean to be amusing, he laughs. Since I think I’m funny,
I do like an appreciative audience. If I
make a fish face, he laughs. If I stick
my head around a corner, he laughs. It’s
going to break my heart when he reaches three and finds me less and less
amusing.
I may enjoy the fun of grand-motherhood, but I am also a
stickler for some things, primarily: You make the mess. You clean the mess. I can usually get them to
do this, but not always. A year ago,
Boone would sometimes test me. Once, I’d
told him to pick up his toys, and he told me it wasn't his job. Comments like thus turn me into a principled
but stubborn woman. “It is your job.
I didn't put the cars on the floor.” And on it went. He finally put away the cars, but I longingly
wished he’d reached my grand-nephew’s epiphany:
When Will was about six, his four-year-old sister,
Carter, was arguing with me about doing something she was not permitted to do.
“It’s no use, Carter,” he said. “Keen
always wins.” Now that’s what I call progress.
I’m waiting for the rest of them to reach this conclusion. Ha!
