Survived Day One
School is out, and we're in. As full-time caregivers, that is. Sigh. Not that we don't love her, not that we don't enjoy her company, not that we're "too busy" to attend to our grandchild's needs. Not, not, not. There's a time/space diseqilibrium in there, something like 60 years, so it's difficult, no doubt about it. Serenity, introspection, forget it. Everything must now be considered in the context of how what we do will affect this child, from going out for our daily ravine walks (when she was months old we used to back-pack her into the ravine) to doing the shopping ("Wah! I don't want to go to that store: people bump into me!) to doing summer day-trips, or simply going further afield for hikes than normal. Spontaneity, we miss you already. Hey, it's not that bad, day 1 is over and the rest of the summer will be a breeze. This is what our angelic Angelyne looked like yesterday morning, above. She was wearing one of the new skirts her mother had bought for her at Byward Market, and she kept demonstrating how beautifully it would rise about her as she twirled. This is one girly girl, a newly-hatched age nine.
We'd just come out of the shower, both of us, when she rushed up the stairs just after eight. Our little dogs were delighted, yapping crazily in welcome. She wasn't very hungry, she said, although she'd decided to have breakfast with us, rather than at home. Her mother had a 9:00 a.m. meeting downtown and rushed right out. We explored the possibilities of cereal, nope, juice, nope, orange, nope. "We" decided to take charge, set the table, stirred up a nice big mug of cocoa, defrosted a bowl of frozen blueberries, toasted three slices of eggbraid bread, and once this was consumed, those nine-year-old fingers of acquisition roamed over to her grandfather's toasted onion buns and added those to her plate, ditto orange juice.
No, she definitely did not want to take her own walking stick to the ravine. Instead, she kept "borrowing" her grandfather's once we were in there trekking up hill, down dale. Our usual relaxed pace was notched up a few extra steps-per-second by default, now that our crowd had swelled by one nine-year-old. Although it was hot enough, it lacked the miserable mugginess we've been blessed with of late, and we enjoyed a moderate hike. Out on the street we met up with one of our neighbours who, about fourteen years ago, introduced himself to me as we both walked from the bus stop after work, up the street where we both lived. This young(er) man informed me that he had known my husband many years ago, when my husband had been a departmental senior and this new neighbour had been brought in fresh out of university. Now, isn't that a small world? Bob Becker, for such is his name, captured my husband, and Angelyne and I walked on down the street with the dogs, she anxious to avoid Bob, who always seems to make her uncomfortably conscious of something I can't quite fathom.
Could I cut her hair, she begged. How short, asked I. About to here, she gestured - short, short. Your mother will not be happy, I reminded her. Yes, she admitted. But I want it short. Call your mother, I suggested, and she did. My daughter agreed, but not short, she warned. Oh, I said breezily, I was thinking about 2 inches. Out we went to the deck and I began, regretting my compliance almost immediately, as I raised one hank of curled, burnished hair after another - and cut. The separated skein of hair, lustrous and beautiful, hung in my hand, and a pang of remorse lay heavy on my chest. Ah, she sighed, that feels better already. And I forged on. Two inches? It is to laugh - or cry, if you must. It's great, I love it! she exclaimed, it feels great, I'm not hot. This was one happy little girl, and truth to tell, I don't blame her. The good news is that her long hair will grow again to its former length at least by winter, when it can perform the enviable function of hugging her for warmth when it's needed.
After lunch, we sat out on the deck, swinging on the two-seater, with a chapter book of her choosing. She read one page, I read the other. We went through two stories in this way. She is making a real attempt to ensure that she colours her reading with appropriate emphasis, a reflection of the moods relayed through the story. Her reading is fairly fluid and full of expression. There's a lot of giggling.
Especially later, when we begin a tickling contest. It's rather one-sided, as I do the bulk of the tickling, being infinitely more skilled at it than she is, or even attempts to be. The reason is obvious: she prefers to be the ticklee and is content for me to be the tickler. Ever since she can recall we have shared these moments of ticklese, and she loves them. I have denied them to her of late, but this seemed a splendid opportunity to revive the old contest, however temporarily. For her, a double reward, in keeping with the end of school and the prospect of an endless summer before us....
posted by Pieface @ Saturday, July 02, 2005
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