Tiny toes with chipped red nail polish rest against my leg. I’ve been waiting for my grandchild to fall asleep, lying with her on the bed that used to be Casey’s. Eleanor has had a cold, fever, and double ear infection which have kept her from daycare, so she is with Dave and me, her Tato and LeaLea, for the day.
I’d planned to take a little lie-down myself during Eleanor’s nap, but when she drifts off, I stay. Trying to freeze the moment, I watch the gentle rise and fall of her chest, her fist clutching her flamingo blanket, the frayed bandaid on her knee, and I give thanks that she is healthy. For, two nights ago, I lay beside her in the dark, cooling her too-hot body with damp cloths, and praying that daylight would see her scampering and cheery as usual. She was fitful and hot with periods of such stillness I kept my hand on her back to reassure myself she was breathing.
Darkness lasts long when you’re awake and worried. I didn’t have a baby thermometer, the wonderful kind that requires only a quick swipe across a sick child’s brow, so I couldn’t take her temperature. Were the wet cloths enough or should we call a doctor? I so wanted this night to be a respite for Casey and her husband, but I wondered, at what point should we phone them? I wanted to think Eleanor's skin was cooler, but was it?
In the dark, thoughts spiral. How to distinguish that mental leap to a crisis from what is actually happening? What would my mother have done?
Oh, how I missed her that night!
The joy of being a grandparent is beyond expression, and the love and sense of responsibility is intense. My prayers for Paul, Lexi, and Eleanor’s health, safety, and happiness fly heavenward in a daily stream, a flurry that must be exhausting for God. Keeping little ones safe is a job too big for humans alone.
Beyond that, I want to be the grandmother my Byeo was to me. Whether I popped the blossoms on Mom’s hostas, scratched Dad’s new bike by mistake, or blew a spelling test, I knew I was Byeo’s “lamb,” bathed in “oceans of love.”
When Eleanor was an infant, Casey invited me to join her as she sang her baby to sleep. I put my arms around the two of them as we swayed in the dark near the crib, Casey singing “Byeo Bye,” the lullaby my grandmother sang to me. I was so touched that Casey had listened to my reminiscences and resuscitated this song that my throat tightened, and I couldn’t get the words out to sing with her. I hoped Byeo was smiling from her heavenly perch.
Casey has asked, “Do you look at Eleanor and see baby Casey?” And sometimes, yes: in her build, the color and scent of her hair, the rounded cheeks and pouty lips. But while my daughter was theatrical as a child, she has imbued in her little one an animation and expression more apparent in Casey now: in the rise of Eleanor’s eyebrows and knowing grin as she angles for a treat; in her arch retorts and quips; in her stance as she poses, allowing time for a photo. As this 2 ½ year old crosses her arms over her chest and gives us a withering look, or hugs us tight, teeth clenched in “aggressive love,” Casey sighs and admits, “she gets that from me.”
This morning, Eleanor arrived wearing a red Weekapaug tee-shirt that was Casey’s when she was little. Paired with a blue denim skirt, she looked like a mini-camper, and Dave and I tried to fill her day accordingly, mindful of making summer memories that might last even after we’re gone.
First, we walked down to the swamp to pick raspberries. Like me, Eleanor is not a fan of wet grass, and wanted to be carried. She tucked her feet up and squeezed hold when I tried to encourage her to walk, but no. And by the way, she is not a featherweight.
The three of us peered through the tangle of shrub and vine, searching for “mumba-wumbas” – big, ripe raspberries, ready to eat. We cautioned her about prickers and pointed out the pale orange of berries that weren’t quite ready. From then on, she was an able judge; “Nope. Too orange.”
When mosquitoes buzzed round and the heat ramped up, Eleanor announced, “I want to paint!” A capital idea! We retreated to the room that used to be Casey’s, and Eleanor demonstrated her new proficiency in pouring, filling the water cup without spilling a drop. She painted precise, beautiful swaths of magenta and green, then washed her brush, observing with a giggle that the brown of the water “looks like poop!”
Painting was enthralling for maybe seven minutes, then we headed to the playground.
During the fifties, how many afternoons at playgrounds ended in hospital trips after spine-jarring falls when kids jumped off seesaws, scraped knees, and broke bones in tumbles on asphalt? Now playgrounds are carpeted with a spongy layer, and see-saw butt-whumps are cushioned with rubber padding. Playgrounds without pain: a wonderful concept!
When we arrived, Eleanor mounted a colorful zebra that bounced on a sizable spring. Until she was ready for action, she rocked thoughtfully, surveying the unfamiliar kids scrabbling up the slides and spinning on the merry-go-round. Then she was off! As she hung from the monkey bars, Dave and I assumed catcher position, urging her to say, “Ready!” before she dropped. Failing that warning, we managed to catch her every time.
In a triumphant first, she climbed a swervy ladder to the top of the big kids’ slide and sat, so proud, calling, “Look at me!” to our whoops and applause. Gratefully, just when her aging grandparents hit a wall of fatigue, she’d had enough. “I want to go back to Lealea and Tato’s house.” On the way, we stopped at Sherwood Farms so Eleanor could hug Claudia, the cashier, and buy some cherries and broccoli. At such times, I feel my own childhood summers.
At home after a snack, it was time for everyone to rest. Eleanor wrapped her flamingo blanket around her arm, said, “Night-night Tato,” and without any fuss, took my hand and headed for the stairs. So here we are on Casey’s old bed, the blinds drawn to shield us from light. The fan whirs, one of my favorite summer sounds, and I pause awhile longer to watch my little one sleep.
