Verily Doth the Heart Grow Fonder
Well, perhaps not fonder, for how could any Bubbe's or Zayde's heart be more filled with love for a grandchild in any event? It's natural, it's the order of things. So while the heart cannot conceivably grow any fonder, it can, will and often does become more anxious. She's no longer in our direct purview. No longer do we receive this child after school, feed her, pamper her, hear all of her little stories from school and beyond.
The structure of our days has altered, we have adjusted. It's not entirely unpleasant, truth to tell, since now we are no longer, after nine years of rapt attention to this growing intelligence wrapped inside the package of a beautiful being, wired toward her every need. Our eyes are no longer on the clock, we can go where we please when we desire.
And criminy! that child is no longer here on a daily basis to be blathered at, nagged, noodged, entreated with, tempted by, implored to do things to improve her busy little mind. Read a book, I urged her endlessly, after having read to her daily over the previous eight years. She now eschews being read to, insists on reading to instead. And that's fine, but implausibly, incredibly, she is not self-motivated to pick up one of her many book choices to read to herself for pleasure, entertainment and to while away a pleasant hour.
Instead of attending her Bubbe and Zayde's house pre-and post-school she now attends a day care. In the company of a number of her classmates, some in grade 4 like her, some in grade 5, one of whom has offered to coach her in math. This day care employs a cook, and the children are offered morning meals, after-school snacks. At this day care the choices are muffins, chopped-egg sandwiches, cantaloupe, yoghurt, rice cakes. Moreover, even her new school has a breakfast club where children who, for whatever reason have not had breakfast may indulge themselves at school, courtesy of a local village initiative.
Two weeks away from us. We have not yet suffered symptoms of withdrawal, nor will we. Spontanaiety was missing in our lives while we showered time, attention and boundless love upon this child. We're luxuriating in the discovery yet again of our own world, sans child care.
But she's not going to get away from her Bubbe that easily. Last week I wrote her a letter, enclosed a stamped, self-addressed envelope into which was inserted a five dollar bill as "allowance" (a great big step up from the twonie she used to get from me every Friday) and an invitation to reciprocate. I mailed the letter on a Thursday morning, she received it the following Monday, sat right down to write a response (two pages!), her mother posted it, and today I received her reply.
She likes my letters to her, they're replete with puzzles, jokes, including deliberately mis-spelled words and joshing corrections, the pages decorated with apt cartoon figures. We'll see how long her acceptance of this ritual-in-the-bud lasts. She enjoyed writing her letter to me, she said. So the purpose is twofold; she must read through my letter to grasp its content, then set herself the task of responding in kind.
I'd like to think the novelty of the exchange will grow on her and give her pleasure, encourage her to continue. Of course there's always the nagging thought that the inserted "allowance" as bait is also an enticement to continue. We'll see.
posted by Pieface @ Wednesday, March 01, 2006
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