Adella's Stash

In my basement, Adella found a folded up rolling file box from my teaching days. I showed her how to open it up and position the bottom to make it a fully functional box with wheels. Big mistake. Too late did I realize I was clearly enabling her, for my dear, sweet four-year-old granddaughter has a a touch of kleptomania mixed with a bit of hoarding disorder. (Perhaps the same impulse that compels children to fill their pockets with rocks.)

Adella has a habit of going through the rooms of my house "lifting" things and placing them in her latest collection receptacle--bag, backpack, basket, and now file box. This habit is not unlike that of her mother who stole Barbie clothes on play dates, Tic Tacs from Bradlees, and a rubber stamp from Treasure Island. (I do not think the bankruptcies of either establishment is directly related to Chrissy's petty crimes.) The increased carrying capacity of her new box allows Adella not only to greatly expand her growing collection, but to also cart her goods much more efficiently throughout the house.

There is no rhyme or reason to Adella's pilfering, as is evidenced by this most recent inventory of the box:

 

• Novel Sea-Wolf by Jack London (not one of my favorites--leftover from a naturalism class in graduate school) 
• Miniature copy of The Declaration of Independence
• The Red Prophet by Orson Scott Card 
• The Giraffe and the Pelly and Me by Roald Dahl  
• Pink Floyd, Pulse CD 
• Mozart CD 
• Mormon Tabernacle Choir Christmas CD 
• A recorder (musical, not mechanical)
• Random USB cord 
• Star Craft Strategy Guide 
• A Hewlett Packard printer ink cartridge, unused
• 3- 3 1/2 inch floppy drive disks 
• Vintage plastic Pokemon wallet 
• This year's new Christmas ornament from my visit to James Madison's home Montpelier 
• Barbie picture frame (from a Happy Meal 20-25 years ago)

And this is just today's haul. 

As I consider the stash, I conclude Adella clearly must be planning for her future. She does not yet know how to read, nor can she operate a CD player--should she be able to find one in the house and add it to her box. Nonetheless, she will be prepared for the day when her abilities allow her to fully access the treasures hidden in her collection. Although I suspect by the time she learns to read or she finds a CD player, she will no longer be interested, for much of her eclectic collecting style is most undoubtedly related to the fact she finds an object with reasonably compelling cover art that she can add to her collection without being detected. 

I am still not sure how to explain her attraction to the printer cartridge and the floppy drive disks. But someday I will tell her what the disks were used for in the "old days."

I should put her haul away. But I am not actually sure just where she found everything, and she would only collect it again anyway. For now we will let her stash be. I take heart in the fact that Chrissy, her mother, in her pursuit of happiness, clearly overcame her kleptomania and has become an outstanding, contributing member of society. 

Up and Down

I was washing dishes at the kitchen sink. Adella and Marshall were eating a roving breakfast. Each had started breakfast with a cup-size bowl of Rice Chex (No milk, please—Adella does not like soggy cereal) at the kitchen table, but soon Adella, bowl in hand, had migrated to the family room and Marshall was ambling around the kitchen with his bowl. Then suddenly my Spidey-sense kicked in. Marshall was quiet. Too quiet.

Now Marshall is an unusually contented toddler. As his grandmother, however, I recognize that his happy-to-be-alive worldview is nonetheless tempered with an ounce of stealth. I immediately looked up from my dishes to see him huddled over the decorative heat register in the floor near the kitchen table. I rushed over to find him intently pushing his Rice Chex, one by one, through the varying rectangles and squares of the Art Deco register.

Quickly I assessed the situation. Thankfully, for some unknown reason, the register was closed (as it shall stay until Marshall outgrows this stage) and the crumbs were accumulating on the plane created by the closed vents underneath the cover. So I let him continue, and I watched. He was not playing an analytical game seeking to match the square pieces of the cereal to the square grate openings as I would have expected. Rather he was engaged in a trial-and-error effort, pushing, shoving and crumbling the different cereal pillows through all of the holes, an effort requiring more toddler brawn than brain. He delighted in watching the crumbs drop through the holes, and he continued dispatching the Chex until there was none left, stood up and moved on to the toy corner in the family room

And as I looked at the cereal dust, I was left to contemplate. I obviously had not given much thought to that heat register since purchasing it a few years back, or I would have opened it to allow the heat to take the edge off the morning chill of the late fall crispness that morning. I was more focused on the items in my adult field of vision—the cluttered counter, the dirty dishes, the unopened mail. I certainly never could have imagined how attractive a heat register in my kitchen floor would be to Marshall.

There must be something about being almost two and a half feet tall, nearly half my size, I conclude. Living life closer to the ground offers him a perspective of the world far different from mine. He sees things I do not see, finds things I cannot find. A few mini tootsie pops a few days earlier further proved this. Marshall brought me a cherry one for me to open for him. I was puzzled. I had no idea where he had found the sucker. I considered it a random anomaly until he brought me a grape one a little while later after he had finished the cherry one. I was perplexed. Was he privy to some secret Halloween cache of Adella’s hidden under the family room couch or behind the dining room curtains? Or had Pop Pop carelessly spilled a few in the mudroom when preparing a reward for a student? Certainly if I had not been so busy (or tired or lazy or old), I would have gotten down on all fours and discovered the source of his treasure. But I did not. I never saw what Marshall (and his cousin Jim, who found an orange tootsie pop the next day) saw.

As I considered Marshall's fascination with the grate, I remembered a similar incident with Nathan on a bright, September morn twenty-five years ago in upstate New York. I was trying to hurry Nathan, a toddler, along the pathway as we returned from the top of a hill to the parking lot. But Nathan was oblivious to my pleas. I looked back at him, squatting down, looking intently at the pathway. I would have appreciated the juxtaposition of my squatting son against the backdrop of the golden statue of the Angel Moroni pointing heavenward had I not been in such a hurry.

Naturally, I assumed Nathan’s squatting stance signaled a poopy diaper in progress, so I rushed back to pick him up. But when I reached down to pick him up, I saw what he saw: a frog so small only one so close to the ground would have seen it. So I stopped. And together we studied that frog and its tiny toes and bulging, shiny eyes. We looked at its glossy skin and noted its camouflaging colors and marveled at the intricacy of the patterns on its back. And then we delighted at the trajectory of its hops as it escaped to the grass. All this we saw when we looked down together.

And as I think of Marshall and Nathan, I contemplate the chaos and busyness of my life. Modern life is often lived looking up. Look forward and stand up straight, our schoolteachers direct us as we march single-file down our school halls. Things will look up, our mothers console us after our first failed romances. And our religious leaders entreat us to look up toward the heavens for the strength to face life’s challenges. And all this is very good. But sometimes there is value in looking down. While it is true that we see the broad sweep of God’s grandeur when we look up, we also see the delicate strokes of God’s finger in the intricate complexities of the minute when we look down. This I learned from my son and a frog in a place where my religious tradition tells me both the heavens and the earth revealed the wonders and mysteries of God.

It happened again. I caught Marshall fascinated with yet another heat register. But this time it was not a decorative grate, but a boring one with simple, straight, narrow openings. It was not Rice Chex, but a gingerbread man, and this time I had to stop him because I knew the register was open, not closed. My rescue was a bit too late for the gingerbread man—he will not live another day to taunt “Catch me if you can.” Just in time, I pulled out pieces of the gingerbread man’s arms and legs before they slid down the heating vent. And I sighed. I appreciate Marshall’s fascination with dropping things down. I just hope he outgrows this fascination soon enough to save my heating system.  

Let Them Eat Cake

I suppose I took far too long going to the bathroom, as only one who cares for a preschooler and toddler is wont to do. During that time, Adella went through the mudroom door to the garage, rummaged through the large freezer there, found the remains of her pumpkin-shaped ice cream birthday cake from her party the night before, put the cake on the kitchen table, and was searching for spoons and plates.

“Granma,” she says, “I want some birthday cake for breakfast.”

So I do my grandparent calculations.

Is it harmful? No, not unless you consider a possible brain freeze a hazard.

Would her mother allow it? Probably not. Although, I think, she is my daughter.

Will Adella tell her mother? Undoubtedly. A four-year-old does not yet comprehend the concept that what happens at grandma’s house should stay at grandma’s house.

Will my saying “yes” create future unrealistic expectations? Probably not. Her birthday only comes once a year. I can clearly justify saying “No” if she asks again for such a breakfast next week.

“Sure,” I say.

So we three merrily eat the rest of her pumpkin shaped ice cream birthday cake. At least it’s a dairy product, I rationalize. And it tastes good.

I enjoy the sweet smooth ice cream almost as much as I enjoy the moment. After all, what are grandmothers for if not for unexpected indulgences?

I've Still Got It

“Look at me, Granma,” Adella jubilantly shouts.

I look. Adella is poised mid-somersault, her head, slightly tucked pressing against the family room rug, her toes flexing, her legs stretching long, and her bottom pointing high in the air.

“Are you doing a somersault?” I ask.

“Yes,” she replies. “See!”

“Yes, I see,” I say.  Then I wait, expectantly.  But her toes never push that little bit to propel her legs over her head to complete her somersault. It seems she does not know what a somersault is after all. If I had asked if she were doing the  “Biles,” a double layout with a half-twist and a blind landing, she undoubtedly would have answered affirmatively.

It is her vantage point, looking at the world upside down as the blood rushes to her head, that is her trick. She remains delightedly poised, mid-somersault. She has no inkling that she is on the very cusp of completing a somersault. Adella is a girl who thrives on dizzy thrills—she loves to twirl and twirl and twirl in my family room until she falls and then gets up to do it all over again. If she only knew, I think.

“Let me help you,” I say. I put one hand on her head, another on her bottom, and gently push her over. And she experiences that glorious topsy-turvy moment for the first time.

She looks up at me, surprised, ecstatic. “Let’s do it again, Granma.”

We do it again. And again and again. Because Adella is only three and a half, she has an endless capacity for repetition. She does not quite master the somersault on her own, but she is on her way.

Jim has observed us from the other side of the family room. Soon he too wants to do a somersault. From his two-year-old perspective, there is nothing that Adella does that he cannot do. I have my doubts. Adella has the lithe body of a gymnast; Jim is a thirty-five pound linebacker, unwieldy and unmovable. But he is determined. He stands next to me and bows his head.

“You need to get on the floor, honey,” I say.

He then lies flat on the floor. I am not sure if he believes he is imitating Adella’s pre-somersault position. But he most definitely is not.

“You’ve got to bend your knees up, “ I say as I put one arm under his trunk and attempt to tuck in his resistant knees under his bottom.

“Look at me, Jim,” Adella shouts. “Like me.”

The position of his body looks nothing like her. “Bring your arms in next to your body,” I urge and try to curl them next to his sides. As he focuses on his arms, his legs shoot out of its tucked position.

“Let’s tuck your head,” I say and as I gently press his forehead against the rug, his arms pop out of position. I feel like I am playing Whack-a-mole. Each time I position one body part another body part pops out of position. He has no conception of the how to position himself for a somersault, much less execute it. He only knows that he wants to do what Adella is doing.

I just decide to flip him over, which is no simple task. It is like flipping over a thirty-five pound walrus. Pure nonmalleable dead weight, waiting to be acted upon. It takes a few tries, but finally, I awkwardly flip him over.

He looks up, ebullient. “Again,” he says.

So I spend the next several minutes, helping Jim and Adella do somersaults. Thankfully Marshall does not join us. If truth be told, one-year-old Marshall is a wisp. I could easily flip him over and over again without much effort. But he is preoccupied—delighted to be lord over all the toys in the toy corner—oblivious to his cousins’ Olympic gymnastic feats.

Finally I tire. I redirect Adella and Jim toward the bouncy balls after refereeing a dispute between the blue and the highly desired cloudy ball. As they play, I sit back self-satisfied. I might be a grandmother, I think, but I’ve still got it. I feel like that mom wearing torn pajama pants and a t-shirt with three spit up stains, returning from a school drop-off with an infant and a toddler in the car seats in the back of her mom van, who, after rolling down her car window while stopped at a stoplight to clear the air of diaper stink, unconsciously runs her fingers through the clumped oatmeal in her unruly mane, eliciting a glorious, flirtatious smile from the attractive young male in a sports car in the lane next to her.

Yes, I’ve still got it. I may be a grandmother. I may not attract flirtatious glances. But I’ve still got the mom gene. I can recognize a child poised on the precipice of discovery and gently nudge her over. And in my triumphant moment, I revel in a montage of moments long past, first steps and first dates, phonics and sonnets, training wheels and first drives, all moments with my children on the brink of discovery.

And then my self-satisfaction begins to wane, and I begin to wonder: If I’ve still got it, how much do I got it? Do I got it enough to continue recognizing these brief snatches of opportunity? Or will I be so inured by the commonness of daily living—so caught up in my grandma stuff—that I will miss the tiny, quiet, teachable moments? 

I am not sure. But at least for today, I've still got it. My mom gene might be a bit rusty and out of practice, but its got a lifetime worth of nurturing to rely on.

Unscripted

Every Sunday afternoon our family tries to be like Tom Selleck’s family in the television series Blue Bloods. We gather around my dining room table after Sunday church services and break bread. Of course, our family is only three generations not four. (Unless you factor in the ghosts—our dining room table belonged to both my grandmother and mother—in which case we trump the Reagan family as there are, theoretically, five generations sitting at our dinner table.) Our table does not seat as many as the Reagans, even if you count the high chairs, although we do have a table leaf or two reserved should we be blessed with more grandchildren. And our family business is not law enforcement but education. But because I am a romantic, I like to imagine we are a picture-perfect family just like the Reagans bonding over Sunday dinner.

Like, the Reagans, we too are a praying family. Scott, my husband, presides at the table, much like Frank Reagan, and each Sunday he asks one of us to say grace. Last Sunday, three-and-a-half-year old Adella arrived early at the table and tried to circumvent tradition. Anxious to get on with dinner—Aunt Justine had made kid friendly pasta and meatballs—Adella announced her intentions to say the prayer.

Scott is not one to easily cede his control as patriarch. So he looked at Adella, after everyone was seated, and asked, “Would you like to give the prayer, Adella?”

“Yes,” she replied immediately and buried her head into her arms that were folded on the table and started.

There was a muffled “Heavenly Father.” Then “Grateful day,” and “Grateful food.” Then a phrase that ended with “Grandma.”

I smiled. Adella was praying independently. Usually she prayed by repeating whatever words her parents whispered in her ear. Today she prayed unprompted. Although she was repeating phrases she might have learned from her parents, she clearly chose what to pray by herself. There was also a hint of smugness in my smile—I was the first family member for whom she prayed.

Suddenly she sat up. With her folded arms still covering her closed eyes and with great vigor she proclaimed. “Mom is happy. So happy.”

Then she added triumphantly, “So happy I peed in the potty.”

And there it was. The unbridled enthusiasm of a child sharing her triumph with the Almighty. I closed my lips tightly, trying to stifle a snicker. I raised my bowed head and opened my eyes in order to peer out at my children. Nathan’s hand was over his mouth trying to contain his laughter. Chrissy was hunched over the table shaking as she too held in her laughter. Justine and Christian were also doing their best not to disrupt the prayer.

Adella undaunted continued on with her prayer. Although I heard a few words like grateful and bless, I did not quite catch much else. My efforts were focused on controlling my urge to laugh. As I was seated next to Adella, I did not want my reaction to her words to deter her intimacy with deity.

And then two-year-old Jim, who had opted to stand on the other side of me during the prayer, decided to join in. I am not sure whether it was his intent to hurry Adella along or to simply participate with her in prayer.

“Mommy,” he said. Then, “Daddy.” It was clear he had been taught to pray for those he loved.

Adella continued on with her thanks and her petitions.

“Anma. Pop-pop.” Jim also continued on with his list, punctuating each name with great aplomb.

We adults redoubled our efforts to contain our laughter.

“Adella, Marshall,” Jim continued against the backdrop of Adella’s supplications.

“Basketball,” Jim added.

My resolve began to crumble. A few giggles escaped. Nonetheless, I was overjoyed to see that I rated higher in Jim's list than his basketball, his most prized possession.

I looked at Pop-pop, the serious patriarch of our clan, who was now cracking a smile. I was surprised. I had expected him, the paragon of brevity and directness as well as control, to intercede. And yet he did not. He felt, he later admitted, it was not his place to interrupt a conversation between Adella and her Father in Heaven.

Finally, Chrissy, Adella’s mother, saved us adults from asphyxiation due to suppressed laughter, stepping in to help Adella finish. “In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen,” she offered.

Adella repeated the phrase and Jim burst out with a loud “Amen,” and exuberant applause.

And we adults all exhaled in unison, releasing what seemed an eternity of pent-up laughter. And as we passed the pasta and the salad and the strawberries, we laughed together engaging in a verbal instant replay, each adult adding his or her own perspective to our communal play-by-play commentary about the prayer to end all prayers.

And so it began. An unpredictable start to yet another predictable Stornetta clan dinner. As always, Marshall tested the law of gravity. Adella hogged all the strawberries. Jim clamored for refills of his juice. Pop-pop gave his weekly inspirational message. And the adults discussed Brexit, the morning’s sermons, and the first recorded fart joke from Mesoptoamia. Not quite the Reagans. But three generations of a happy, loving family, nonetheless.

Spalding, Not Wilson: A Day with Jim

Jim loves basketball. He really loves basketball. If his passion were raw ability that could be fashioned into talent, he would be the next Stephen Curry, and I would be narrowing down the perfect locale for the perfect house he would be buying his dear sweet Anma in twenty years. We are not sure just how a child who is not yet two developed this passion. His parents do not watch basketball on television. He does not have an older sibling whose games he is dragged to on weekends. He does not even own a basketball. Cannot wait to see his surprise when he opens his birthdays presents at his second birthday party next month. (Shh!! Don’t tell.)

It could be Jim’s interest was sparked watching pick up games at the local park. Or perhaps it was that early spring day when Pop-pop put Jim on his shoulders and helped him dunk a few baskets in our rickety hoop out back. More likely it was his favorite, ever attentive caregiver at the YMCA who fueled his passion. It is the case that whenever Jim pops into the babysitting center, this energetic, twenty-something young man diverts—some might use a stronger word like forces—all the other children, who are not yet verbal enough to object to this display of overt favoritism, from the toddler hoop.  Whatever the source, we know Jim is a toddler obsessed.

I did not know the depth of his obsession until I spent the day with Jim. When we returned home after dropping off his parents at the train station, I made the mistake of entering the house through the garage.  Jim made a beeline for the basketball bin in the corner in the garage, grabbed a Spalding basketball, and was headed out to shoot some hoops.

I, however, was hungry. I wanted breakfast. And several tasks needed my attention in the house. So I used all my powers of persuasion to get Jim in the house. Ultimately I convinced him to come in the house by pointing to the picture on the box of the toddler basketball set that I needed to assemble for his cousin Marshall’s first birthday party the day after next. He and his regulation Spalding basketball came inside and waited an eternity as I threaded the net through the hoop, attached the hoop to the backboard, slipped the backboard into the pole, and secured the pole into the stand. And then he was in basketball heaven.

He spent the morning shooting hoops, alternating between the toddler basketball and the Spalding. Although the Spalding always got stuck in the small hoop, he did not care. He had figured out how to get it unstuck and he was quite satisfied. I ate breakfast at my leisure. I also washed the dishes, wiped the counters, and mopped the floor. And the morning wore away, basket by basket, as Jim inaugurated Marshall’s basketball hoop. (Shh! Don’t tell Marshall!)

At lunchtime I announced to Jim we would be making our obligatory trip to Wendy’s for lunch. Jim needed a nap, and I have long since calculated that the car ride home from the closest Wendy’s is just long enough to induce sleep in even the most resistant toddler provided he is sufficiently sated. Jim walked toward the door leading from the kitchen to the garage carrying his Spalding with him.

I opened the door. Jim paused, his arms wrapped around the basketball partially perched on his toddler belly as he looked at the three steps down to the garage floor. He recognized the need to descend those three steps in order to get to the car, but he was not sure how to do it without abandoning his beloved ball. He surveyed the steps, calculating the risks of  descending them while clutching the ball. Habit and safety required him to hold the handrail. But holding the rail would mean dropping the ball.

Had I been in a hurry, I would have simply lifted him down the stairs and whisked him into the car. But I had time. And I was curious. I wanted to see how he would solve his great dilemma. So I watched as he stood, presumably considering his options. He could throw the ball down into the garage, ahead of himself, and then retrieve it. He could leave the ball at the top of the stairs and then grab it after he had descended. He could hand the ball to me. Or he could simply abandon it. Each option, however, required him to let go of the basketball.

After a minute, he leaned against the wall and very carefully lifted his first leg over the door saddle down and onto the first step, then he lifted his other leg, all while clutching Spalding. Then he sat down. Very carefully he scooted his bottom down the first step, then the next, and after reaching the final step, he stood up and proceeded walking to my car.  He had seen a solution I had not even considered and was able to descend the stairs without loosening his grip on his Spalding. 

The trip to Wendy’s was not without its own drama. After we arrived, I removed Jim from his car seat and put him down to shut the car door, leaving the basketball safe in the car seat.

“Basketball, ” he started wailing.

“Hamburgers,” I countered. “And ice cream.”

“Basketball,” he continued, reaching for the handle that was beyond his grasp.

“We can have lots and lots of ice cream once we go in.”

“Basketball,” he cried, pounding on the car door.

“And the basketball will be safe in Anma’s car. We will get it as soon as we are finished with lunch,” I promised. “Besides,” I said trying to reason with him, “We wouldn’t want to lose your basketball at Wendy’s.”

But Jim was inconsolable at the separation from his beloved basketball. The scene was not unlike that of Tom Hank’s character Chuck Noland in the film Castaway, who was consumed with grief as he watched his only companion, his beloved volleyball Wilson, drift away in the open sea. Except Jim mourned a Spalding basketball, not a Wilson volleyball. Except that it was only a door that separated Jim and his ball, not an expansive ocean. Except that Jim was standing next to a car in a suburban parking lot and Chuck was clinging to life on a raft in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Except that Jim and his ball would be reunited after lunch. But try telling that to a distraught Jim. The depth of his anguish was surely equal to that of Chuck’s. To Jim, the door separating him from his beloved ball was as broad and deep a barrier as that of a vast and endless sea.

Now I am generally an indulgent grandma. But I did not intend to allow Jim to take that basketball into the Wendy’s. It was not a point of principle, rather a point of practicality. I easily could imagine the havoc Jim and his basketball could create, and I was not prepared to pay for the damages. So I picked up the sobbing Jim and carried him into the Wendy’s where he eventually calmed down and enjoyed his hamburger, fries and Frosty.

Although the nap in the car ride home did not go as intended (Note to self: do not give a 12-ounce lemonade to a child in a car seat if you do not expect him to get drenched), the rest of the day was uneventful for the stripped down Jim. That is, until it was time to pick up his parents after a day away from them.

“It’s time to go get Mommy and Daddy,” I announced, expecting him to be ecstatic at the idea of being reunited with his parents.

“No,” he replied. “Basketball.” He shot a basket.

“You can take the basketball with you,” I offered.

“No, basketball,” he replied. And it was clear that although he was using the same word that he had used earlier in the parking lot encounter, basketball now meant something entirely different. It was not a noun signifying his beloved Spalding, but a verb describing the game in which he was absorbed. He did not want his game interrupted.

Once again I tried reasoning with him, never a wise strategy with a toddler when you do not intend to allow him any choice in the matter. “But Mommy and Daddy miss you. They want to see you.”

“No. Basketball,” he repeated, shooting yet another basket.

“Let’s go see Mommy,” I said, changing my strategy slightly. Jim is a mama’s boy. I hoped this appeal might work. “Mommy really wants to see you.”

“No. Basketball.” He picked up Spalding.

So I pulled the grandma card and sweetened the deal. “We need to go. Grandma has some fruit snacks you can eat when we get in the car.”

His interest was piqued. He looked at me. Then he looked down at the basketball he was clutching.

 “You can bring the basketball,” I said. After our drama at Wendy’s, I had no intention of separating him from his beloved ball. As I dangled those fruit snacks in front of him, I got him out the door and into his car seat.

We did make it to the train station, albeit a tad late. He was indeed happy to see his parents. But he never gave up his grip on Spalding. He fell asleep in his car seat on the return trip, still clutching it. As we drove home, I regaled his parents with the details of our day and I began to wonder just where my place in his passion is.

Oh, how I wish I had a crystal ball. Is Jim destined for the basketball hall of fame? Certainly he has the requisite passion and drive. But genetics are not necessarily in his favor. His mother stands only a little over 5 feet tall. His father is over 6'1", his uncle is 6’4”, but alas Jim looks more like a linebacker than a power forward. Nonetheless, I wonder if I will someday find myself moving heaven and earth to encourage his passion. On the other hand,  I might myself trying to direct him away from basketball down a more stable, sensible, scholarly path. And more importantly, will he, I wonder,  even respond to me, his dear sweet Anma, when the allure of fruit snacks has long since worn off.

So I muse. Thoughts far too premature for a fine summer day like today.  Thankfully, those questions are years away. For now, I am awaiting my Amazon delivery of the Little Tykes TotSports Easy Score Basketball set. Can’t wait. (Shh! Don’t tell.)

You Know You Are a Granny Nanny If . . .

Granny nannies come in all shapes and sizes: young and old, male and female, paid and unpaid. Some granny nannies babysit in their own homes, others travel to their grandchildren’s homes. Some watch their charges every other weekend, others are on duty every workday Monday to Friday from 9 to 5. Still others watch their grandchildren on a regular basis for parents who are not employed outside the home.

Fundamentally, there are only two defining factors for a granny nanny. First, a granny nanny must be a relative from a generation older than the child’s parent—grandparent or great-grandparent, great aunt or uncle or first cousin, once removed. Second, the granny nanny must watch this child on a regular basis.

Being a granny nanny is more a state of mind than a state of being. Ultimately, anyone can choose to self-identify as a granny nanny. Should you choose to self-identify as a granny nanny? The following list, far from comprehensive, might help you decide. 

You know you are a granny nanny if

  

—You instinctively point to a passing train and exclaim, “Look a Choo-Choo,” when there are only adult passengers in your car.

—Offering to drive more than one of your friends requires uninstalling all the car seats in the back.

—A school of goldfish swims amongst the graveyard of juice boxes on the floor in the backseat of your car.

—No trip, whether it is to the bathroom or to the grocery store, is complete without significant logistical planning. Inevitably, you find yourself always forgetting the same crucial step.

—You constantly find yourself monologuing, often when no one is around: “Now Grandma is putting on her socks. Now she is putting on her shoes. Now we can go outside . . . ”

—Whenever you stuff your hands in your pockets, you usually pull out at least one pacifier, two dry wipes, and several used tissues.

—Your trips to the bathroom in the middle of the night require you to navigate a minefield of Duplo blocks and vintage Fisher Price Little People.

—Your alarm clock is a relic—you are now awakened to the sounds of the garage door opening and the patter of little feet across the floor to your bedroom.

—You keep forgetting that you have banished the scissors to the top of the refrigerator.

—The crunchy sounds and sticky, resistant pull on your sneakers as you walk across your kitchen floor on Thursday night, even though you washed it on Wednesday afternoon, remind you of exiting a movie theatre aisle after a late Saturday evening show.

—Sippy cups have invaded your cupboards.

—You look longingly at the “Dry Clean Only” clothes in your closet.

—Multiple wardrobe changes each day are a necessity, not a choice.

—You have reacquainted yourself with the fine art of removing peanut butter, grape juice, spit up and poop stains.

—Crusty, sticky bits hamper your usual quick swipe across your iPad screen, reminding you that someone forgot to wash your grandchildren’s hands after their snack.

—The videocassette library you collected each time the Disney Vault opened and saved all these years for when you had grandchildren sits on dusty, forgotten shelves, unused and irrelevant.

—You find random hieroglyphics throughout your house—on the countertop, bathroom walls, closet doors, and windows.

—The three-foot-mark on your sliding glass door often boasts the stylings of an avant-garde, yogurt-fingerpaint artist.

—Most importantly, you considered yourself blessed because you are never lonely or bereft of kisses.