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.