Giraffes and Tigers and Bears! Oh My!

“What am I, Granma?” Adella asks as she hops around the room. I am in luck—I have a point of reference. A moment earlier she was pretending to be a bunny. And last Friday, we watched Zootopia together. I know she likes its bouncy rabbit protagonist Judy Hopps.

“A bunny,” I say.

“Yes.” She smiles, triumphant. “Now your turn, Granma.”

I am confined to the rocking chair with Marshall, feeding him a bottle. He is in that fragile stage between wakefulness and sleep, blissfully content. For fear of nudging him toward wakefulness, I choose not to pantomime, settling for mere sound effects.

“Ribbit, ribbit,” I say.

“An elephant,” she guesses. Elephants have long been one of Adella’s favorite animals. She has a big stuffed elephant and elephant pajamas. Jumbo, as in the song Jumbo Elephant, was one of her first words.

“No,” I reply. “Ribbit, ribbit,” I repeat.

“A hippopotamus,” she guesses. I am perplexed. I do not even know what sound a hippopotamus makes. Does she know what sound a hippopotamus makes? I do know that I am always stretched to my capacity whenever I come to the hippopotamus in the book Polar Bear, Polar Bear What Do You Hear? The sounds I make for it each time vary vastly.

“Ribbit, ribbit,” I repeat once more. Somehow I think scrunching up my shoulders so that my neck disappears, making my lips protrude, and puffing out my cheeks to create a jowl-like appearance will give me the appearance of a frog.

“A butterfly,” she quickly guesses.

Perhaps my “ribbits” are not very expressive, I conclude. Or at least my particular vocalization for a frog is not in her repertoire. It is clear she has no idea. But she does not care. The fun of the game is in the guessing.

“I am a frog,” I say.

Adella does not acknowledge my answer. She does not say, “Oh, I see,” or “I should have known.” She does not care that I have preempted her guessing. She is excited because it is once again her turn to act.

“Now, Granma, it’s my turn.” She moves from one end of the family room to the other, her arms flapping as she twirls around and around.

“A butterfly,” I guess, once more aided by the fact that she has shown her hand in her previous guess about my frog.

“You’re right, Granma.” She is beaming—she has given a clue and I have guessed it. It is a moment of connection with the adult world. “Your turn.”

I am determined to give her a better clue this time. Marshall has nodded off, so I settle him firmly in my lap. I arch my arms over my head, my hands curled threateningly claw-like. “Grrr,” I whisper-roar with great ferocity.  I think my imitation of a bear is spot on.

“A dinosaur,” she says.

“No,” I reply, “but that’s a good guess.” She is used to going on dinosaur hunts with Uncle Daniel, a game he and Pop-pop invented to entertain Adella one Sunday afternoon when they were babysitting and Pop-pop wanted a few extra moments to nap. Uncle Daniel and Adella searched the house for dinosaurs until they found Pop-pop, the sleeping dinosaur. They poked and prodded the sleeping dinosaur, who then roared to life and then like a Tyrannasours Rex, slowly lumbered after a delighted, squealing Adella.

“A monkey,” she guesses next. From her perspective, another reasonable guess. She likes Curious George and often pretends to be a monkey when she eats a banana. Sometimes, she too has an impish way of getting into predicaments.

“No,” I reply again.

“A giraffe,” she guesses next. And I am reminded of a friend’s description of playing the parlor game Twenty Questions with his young children. Rather than asking logical yes-no questions, trying to deduce what object he was thinking about, his children would go straight to random guesses. Usually their first question was, “Is it a bear?” Perhaps that is why I have chosen a bear.

Then I decide to take a different track, make this a teaching moment.

“No,” I say, adding, “but the name of my animal starts with a B, the sound buh.”

I realize this clue is beyond Adella’s ability. She does know her alphabet. She can sing her ABCs. And she does associate some letters with names—A is for Adella, M is for Marshall. But she is egocentric—she has not yet grasped that the letter A is ubiquitous, not unique to her name, a letter essential to playing Hangman or that all those other letters work together to create words and sentences without end. But how will she ever know if I do not teach her. Pushing a child just beyond her borders of knowledge is an important part of teaching.

“A bee,” she replies ecstatically. “You’re a bee.”

“Nooooo.” I reply in that encouraging tone of voice which conveys the message “Welll…., not exactly, that’s a good try, you are almost right,” while voicing the word no. After all, she has drawn the connection between my letter B and the insect. Round One of my teaching moment has not gone as planned, but it does have a positive result I decide to go in for Round Two.

“I’m a Buh eh…,” trailing off, hoping she will add an rrr and complete the word.

“A tiger,” she guesses.

Maybe I am not giving her enough context, I decide. Undaunted, I rush in for Round Three, stretching out all three phonemes of the word bear.

“No, I’m a buh-eh-rr.”

She jumps up and down, excitedly. “I know. I know. You’re a buh-eh-rr,” she says, simply repeating me, clueless as to what kind of animal a buh-eh-rr is.

“You’re right,” I say, laughing as I surrender to the moment. “A bear. A bear,” I say, drawing the connection for her. “Grrr. I am a bear.”  

But Adella does not really hear me. She has moved on, completely missing the connection between the word she has said and the animal she knows. My turn has occupied far too much of her time. She has lost interest. I retreat to the safety of my corner, metaphorically speaking—I have never really left my rocking chair. At least Marshall is still sleeping.

And such are the nature of teaching moments with a preschooler: pure trial and error, over and over again. She keeps guessing and guessing and guessing until something sticks. And I keep trying and trying until something connects. One day, when she is a little older and her cognitive abilities a little more developed, this grandmother will more easily be able to teach Adella, helping her connect all kinds of dots. Maybe then I will be able to share my wisdom. But will it be as much fun? 

Big Sister

Marshall woke up this morning with a howl. I am not quite ready to greet the day, so I try snuggling under my covers to comfort him. Next I try the pacifier, his blanket, and cuddles. Then soothing words and pats on his back. But he is inconsolable. Finally, I enlist Adella.

“Adella,” I call. “Marshall’s unhappy. Can you please come into Grandma’s room and make him happy?” Marshall stops crying when he hears me call Adella’s name.

“Sure,” she replies. Sure is one of her favorite response words to requests. Although she has learned to mimic the inflection of a preoccupied adult, her sure has sincerity. I hear her little feet running down the hall. Marshall turns his head, listening and waiting. She comes into the room. In a split second Infant Hyde becomes Infant Jekyll, all giggles and smiles.

“Mar-shall,” she sings. His body wriggles happiness. My bed that had seemed a prison to him seconds before becomes a playground. They play together amid the hills and valleys of my comforter.

I rely on Adella. I am grateful she takes seriously her role as big sister. She is Marshall’s comforter when he cries. She is his protector when he is in danger, whisking away small toys, marbles and pennies. Above all, she is his spokesperson, informing me when he needs a white cupcake with sprinkles, wants to go outside to play on the slide, or needs an adult to pick him up when he has awakened from his nap.

Marshall, for his part, is enamored of her. He babbles at her as he watches her from his high chair perch at mealtimes. He laughs at her antics. He patiently endures her ferrying him from place to place. And without much coaxing, he will follow her up a flight of stairs. Unlike Adella, he is not interested in playing in the bright sunlight on the landing or surveying the neighborhood from the window. He is just interested in being where she is.

As I watch their dynamic, I am reminded of the Kindergarten journal of her Uncle Nathan that I unearthed from the bowels of my basement a few days ago. (Is it a tribute to my motherly sentiments or a condemnation of my hoarding instincts that I still have these journals twenty-one years after the fact?) Given Nathan’s prodigious output in these journals, I presume the students were assigned to write and draw every day in Mrs. Harris’s class. Given the formulaic nature of his daily entries, I also presume Nathan’s creativity was somewhat limited by both his spelling ability and his lack of syntactic prowess. Most entries read, “Guinea pigs (or dogs or cats or flowers or rainbows or football) are nice. I like guinea pigs (or dogs or cats or flowers or rainbows or football). My sister likes guinea pigs (or dogs or cats or flowers or rainbows or football).”

For Nathan, it was his big sister who was the arbiter of taste. Not me, his mother, nor his father, nor his best friend Matt. It was she who he wrote about day after day. What she thought mattered in his five-year-old world. (I confess, however, that I suspect that after a few months, Nathan started dialing in his entries—I know for a fact that as a child Chrissy never ever liked football.)

Big sisters, whether they are three or thirty, watch out for little brothers. Like her mother, Adella has ably assumed her role as big sister. Marshall, too, assumes his role as her companion, observing and learning. Me? As their sometime caregiver, I assume the role as facilitator, balancing the needs of them both. As I referee each interaction, I hope to subtly nourish their sibling bonds.

“Under the arms. Carry him under the arms, not around the neck.”

“Don't cry, Marshall. Adella still loves you. She shut the door because she needs some alone time.”

“No, Marshall can’t have a cupcake.”

“Gentle, Marshall. Don’t pull Adella’s hair.”

“Are you sure you did not just wake up Marshall? Why don’t we let him take his nap? Maybe I can play with you.”

Ultimately, I am a grandmother. I might spend time each week wrangling Marshall and Adella, but I am not their mother. It is my job to trust. To trust that I did my job when I reared my daughter and sons. To trust that I taught my children to love and respect and depend upon each other, to be a good big sister and little brothers. And to trust that my daughter will teach her children to do the same.

Pockets

Little Jim surprised me with a visit. Actually, from his perspective, he does not come to visit me, Anma, but rather Adella, his three-year-old cousin. His mother notes that when their car pulled up to my house, he excitedly remarks, “Adella’s house.” Because it is a cruel, cold April morning, he is wearing his grey Yahoo sweatshirt. The pointed top of his hood peaks over his head and the sides envelope his chubby cheeks, giving him the appearance of a Jawa, one of those short, hooded figures roaming the Tatooine deserts in Star Wars.

My little Jawa joins us downstairs playing. Although the cousins are happy to see each other, and often spend time chasing each other through my house, today turns out to be a day devoted to parallel play, Adella is absorbed with her treasures in a basket, Jim with the vintage (at least according to eBay) Fisher Price Little People. Jim, twenty months old, has learned the natural hierarchy of the cousins, and he comes up smack dab in the middle. Adella is bigger, more verbal, and not above grabbing a toy from him. Marshall is smaller, newly mobile, and not above grabbing for Jim’s nose or eyes. So as Jim plays with his Little People, he is quite guarded. Afraid to lose the toys he has claimed, he occasionally looks to find Adella’s and Marshall’s locations. But today he is safe and he plays uninterrupted.

After a few minutes, I see my little Jawa sitting on the stairs, along with one of the Little People, a small orange ball, and a toy cup. His arms are full—he has three items, and only two hands. He holds the toys closely to his chest.  He is a bit like a monkey caught in a monkey trap, who remains trapped only because he will not release his grip. Jim is determined to keep his hold on these items even if it means he can do little else but sit on the stairs with them. So there he sits. Uninterrupted, but unable to do little else but sit and hold his treasures.

It is my duty as his Anma to teach him the value of his pockets in his sweatshirt. I am reminded of a grandfather at the turn of the last century (19^th not 20^th), Joseph F. Smith, a patriarch of dozens and dozens of grandchildren. When he encountered his granddaughter Edith who had no pocket for her handkerchief, he insisted her mother sew a pocket in the girl’s dress. He felt all children should have pockets.

“Jim,” I say, “You have pockets. You can carry your toys in your pockets, so your hands are free.” Of course, I know that more than likely, putting his treasures in his pockets will not necessarily free his hands. Undoubtedly, he will take the opportunity to pick up more toys.

“Pockets,” he repeats, intrigued. His hooded head bends far forward over his little belly toward his pockets as he watches me put his toys one-by-one into his pockets. Unfortunately, his objects are large, the fabric soft, and his hands small, so he cannot maneuver the items into and out of the pockets himself. He needs my help. For some time, together, we put the toys in and pull them out of his pockets.

Eventually we leave the basement stairs and the downstairs toys. Jim eats lunch, and all too soon it is time for him to go home. Time to empty his pockets. It will not be long before his pockets are full of rocks and sticks and leaves, just like his father’s pockets once were. But for now I remove the toys, leaving the orange ball in his pocket.

“Pockets,” he says with his hand on the ball in his pocket.  And his mother whisks him out the door. He is undoubtedly too young to remember that his Anma has taught him how to use his pockets. The deep pockets of Joseph F. Smith, full of candy--peppermints, licorice, rock candy, and musks--was the common memory his grandchildren shared. But our pocket memory will be mine, not his.

Two days later, wearing his sweatshirt, Jim comes to my house again. His hood is down; he is no longer my little Jawa, but my sweet little boy with cherubic cheeks. There are no bulges in his pocket. Somehow he has managed to retrieve his ball from his pocket. But when I look again, I spy a Littlest Pet Shop piece peeking out from his pocket. I smile. Aw, pockets.

Not a Housekeeper

“Granma,” Adella says, “I want to play the Pokémon game. “

I am stuck in that nebulous middle period of my granny nanny day, hours  four and five out of seven. I am drained of the energy of the first few hours. Yet that magical seventh hour—the anticipation hour when I mark the time until their father’s arrival in in five-minute increments—seems an eternity away. The family room is a disaster. The kitchen cluttered. And I have not even ventured upstairs where Adella played while I fed Marshall his bottle. Chaos is inevitable. As Marshall and I rocked, she showed me the paper she had found to color on from my husband’s office, two pages of our 2015 tax statement.

“Adella, I’m sorry,” I reply.  “But we cannot play the Pokémon game. We have to clean up. The family room is a mess. There’s really no room anywhere to play.”  Besides, I think, only Uncle Daniel knows the rules they have invented to match the board game and only he has the patience to clean up its many, many pieces.

“Here’s a space, Granma,“ Adella announces with a grand gesture, worthy of a Price is Right model, showcasing the lone bare spot on the family room floor. “We can play here.”

I laugh.  She reminds me of her mother, persistent, ever solving problems, and always attempting to reason with me.

I do not relent. Finally she does and asks me to move an armchair in the corner out from the wall instead. She hides behind it and peacefully plays with the ragtag remnants of her mother’s Littlest Pet Shop animals.

Marshall is content cruising the coffee table. I start vacuuming the rug under my kitchen table.

“What are you doing Granma?” Adella asks. She knows very well what I am doing. I think she is really asking why I am doing it. Is it really so surprising to her that I am vacuuming? Her question reminds me of the time her father asked who I was expecting when he caught me washing the kitchen floor.

“I am vacuuming, Silly,” I say, but I really am just determined to reclaim a small island of clean from the crumbs and the crayons.

Satisfied, Adella announces, “I need a basket.” She then proceeds to dump the entire red toy basket full of toys on the lone clean space in the family room.

I frown. She giggles. I abandon the vacuum.

“When you make a mess, it makes grandma very, very sad.” I say, and then with great drama I add, ”I am so sad.”

She receives my message, but not my intent. Adella begins singing, “Be happy, Granma. Be happy. This is my happy song. Be happy, Granma.”

I crack a smile.  I am reluctant to admit it, but her happy song worked.  And yet I am not willing to let her entirely win her way.

“We need to put the toys back in the basket,” I say. I start putting them back in.

“No,” she protests.

“Honey, this is where the toys belong. Grandma wants them in the basket.”

“But I need a basket for my things,” she pleads. I do not doubt her need. Of late she has been appropriating different baskets throughout the house to carry her current menagerie of treasured things. Two weeks ago, it was the catchall basket on the stairs. Last week, it was a basket of books she emptied. But my need for a clean spot trumps her need for a basket.

“Adella,” I say loudly and firmly.

“No, no, no,” she wails, crumpling on the floor. I have crossed the line. At her age, her greatest need is the approval of her caregiver. And I have just withdrawn it. Her world, as she knows it, has ended.

I get down on the floor and cradle her in my arms. “Grandma loves you. I’m sorry.” As we cuddle, Marshall crawls over, scales me, and joins our hug for a moment. Then he moves on to the diaper basket and begins pulling out diapers. Does he know he is furthering Adella's agenda by emptying yet another basket, I wonder.

“Look Granma! See those stickers,” Adella says as she points to a black cabinet under which the diaper basket is stored. All is forgiven, she has moved on.

I look. I am very well aware of the stickers, which are actually Christmas stamps. A few weeks ago, she decorated the glass doors of the cabinet with the “stickers," $4.90  worth. The cabinet is my one possession destined to continue to rise in value—they are Forever Stamps.

“Look Granma,” she says. “I added a flag one, too.” I had not yet noticed that the value of the cabinet had been pushed up over $5.  “There are more flag stickers up there on top, Granma. I can put some more stickers on,” she says excitedly as she begins looking for the roll of flag stamps in my letter box.

“No, no, no,” I say, but my tone is softer, gentler. We are much closer to the magical hour. “Grandma needs the stamps so that she can send some letters.”

Marshall has now emptied the diaper basket. Mainly size 3s with a few 4s and 5s. So much for my careful sorting and stacking of the diapers.

I look at the clock.  And then I surrender to the chaos. I have just entered the magical final hour. Only 60 minutes until pick up.

I stack the diapers on the kitchen table. Curiously, I note, the animals of Littlest Pet Shop have taken up residence in the diaper basket. I look at the sea of books and toys littering the family room. But I hear two happy children. Marshall is gurgling. Adella is singing another song.

And I remind myself of my favorite motherhood mantra. When I was young (so very long ago), when I was a mother of young children (children who now have children of their own), I repeated my mantra ad nauseum to my husband whenever he surveyed a sea of books and toys: I am a childcare provider, not a housekeeper.