Life Unencumbered

“Oh, no,” Adella says as a box of Kix cereal slips from her hands and scatters all over my clean (for once) kitchen floor.

“Don’t worry,” I calmly assure her. “We’ll clean it up.”

And then I hurriedly rush to sweep up the balls of cereal. It is a race against time. Adella’s cry most certainly has alerted Marshall, who is in the family room, that something has happened. I know Marshall will soon be in the kitchen to investigate. I also know how much Marshall would enjoy the crunchy sound of stomping all these little balls of cereal.

I empty my dust pan into the trash and breathe a sigh of relief just as he arrives. Today, at least, I was faster than Marshall. He surveys the kitchen and then sees a lone Kix in the middle of the floor that I had missed in my sweep. But rather than stomping it, he falls to the floor. He lies flat, arms at his sides, his face next to the ball. For just a second, he stares at it, then he inhales it, gets up, and is off to play with Adella.

I laugh. (I did say my kitchen floor was clean.) I admire his ingenuity and efficiency. I would have bent over and picked up that lone, errant Kix ball. But he cut out an unnecessary middleman--his hands--and sent that Kix straight to his mouth. Unconstrained by adult convention and expectation, he dealt with that cereal ball in a way I never could have imagined. The world he sees is far different from mine.

A few days later, Marshall has found the tall, bright yellow, Fisher Price plastic sorting canister his mother played with three decades ago. He shakes it up and down, delighting in the rumble the shapes inside create. I too am delighted, for I sense a teaching moment. Perhaps I can eke out a little more value from an overpriced educational toy I had purchased as a poor student when I could ill afford it.

I empty the canister, dumping out the red, blue, green and yellow cylinders, rectangular prisms, and cubes onto the floor. I replace the blue sorting lid. Then I show Marshall how to sort the shapes into the canister. First, I pick up a blue plastic cube and exaggeratedly try to push it first through the circular and rectangular shaped holes in the lid. Then I smoothly slip it into the square hole. The cube kerplunks into the canister.

I clap. “Hooray,” I say. Marshall giggles and claps as well.

I hand him a yellow cylinder. He tries pushing the round peg into the square hole. It does not fit. It does not fit through the round hole either. Marshall lacks the dexterity to align the cylinder with the circular hole and push it through. So I help him position it directly over the hole, and together we push it into the canister. It kerplunks into the canister.

“Hooray,” I say again. Together we clap. I hug him as he giggles.

I hand him a red cylinder. I watch. I have modeled how to sort for Marshall. We have sorted together. He is in his zone of proximal development. I am curious to see if he can now match the cylinder to the circular hole and push it through himself.

He randomly tries pushing the cylinder through all three holes without success. Then he pauses. He looks carefully at the bucket and its lid. Then he does the obvious. He pulls off the blue top, drops all of the remaining shapes into the bucket, replaces the top, and begins shaking the bucket again, returning to what he had been doing before I had interrupted him with a teaching moment. Once more, he delights in the rumbling of the bucket.

Thus two-year-old Marshall schools me. Twice. And “my heart leaps up.” For he reminds me to behold life as a little child, unfiltered, without the constructs of adulthood. To see the world fresh and anew. In those moments, “the child,” Marshall, “is the father of the man” (me).  

Of course, the most frequent interpretation of this oft quoted line is that the adult Wordsworth hopes to retain the awe and Joy he felt for Nature as a child. The quotation is also often used to convey the sentiment that an adult man (or woman) is the product of the behaviors and habits he (or she) has developed as a child. But when I think of this line I think of my grandchildren and how they teach me to view the world more simply. Marshall and Adella and Jim teach me to cut through the clutter and constraint of my adult life to see a world of Joy and whimsy. And this is why I revel in being a granny nanny.

My education continues every day. This morning Pop Pop left for work as soon as I emerged from my shower. I can hear Marshall babbling in the family room, so I take a few minutes to throw on a bathrobe, brush my teeth and quickly run a comb through my wet hair. By the time I walk into the family room, however, I can no longer hear him. Adella is absorbed in her menagerie of Littlest Pet Shop pets, carefully arranging them on the coffee table for what looks like feeding time.

“Where’s Marshall?’ I ask.

“Don’t know,” she replies, distracted. The animals are restless.

I immediately begin calling for Marshall. I expect to hear a giggle or a babble in response. But there is none. I go upstairs to the bedrooms, downstairs to the play area and laundry room. I look in the living room and the dining room. Still no Marshall.

My threat level moves from yellow to orange. I redouble my efforts. I check favorite hiding spots--the curtains in the dining room, the kitchen cabinets, a favorite nook behind a chair in the family room, my laundry basket, and my bedroom closet. I check the backyard and the basketball bin in the garage. Still no Marshall. Only a deafening silence. I am worried. Two-year-olds cannot not giggle when hiding.

My threat level rises to red as I consider possibilities. Has he crawled in some nook where I cannot hear him? Or is it possible that Marshall slipped out the garage door unnoticed when Pop Pop left for work? Is Marshall roaming my neighborhood?

Then Adella, who has left her pets to join in the search, yells through the kitchen door. “I found him. He’s on your playground.”

I rush outside onto the deck. And sure enough, there he is. Hidden inside the Little Tykes play structure in the backyard, he is merrily playing. He has escaped through the kitchen door someone has left unlocked.

From my perch on the deck, I try to coax Marshall to leave the play structure, climb the stairs and come inside. I am still in my bathrobe and I do not have the luxury of a secluded backyard. Only a split rail fence separates my backyard from those of my three neighbors. I am really hoping they are all at work.

Sensing my frustration, Adella offers a solution.

“I know, Granma,” she says. “Let’s just play outside.”

“Great idea,” I say. “But I’m not dressed yet. I’m still in my bathrobe. I need to put some clothes on before we can play outside.”

I continue practicing the art of gentle persuasion on Marshall. He is not not swayed. He continues playing.

I up the ante. “I have fruit snacks,” I say.

Marshall still does not budge. I am resigned to going down the deck stairs and marching across the yard in all my sartorial glory to grab Marshall. I imagine his kicking and squirming as we return to the house, creating a wardrobe malfunction à la Janet Jackson. Should I offer ice cream?

And then from behind me I hear Adella triumphantly say,  “Here you go, Granma.”

I turn. There she is proudly holding a pair of my jeans in one hand and one of my T-shirts in the other. She has retrieved both from my dirty clothes basket.

“Here’s some clothes for you,” she continues. “Now we can play in the backyard.”

Problem solved. No matter that the clothes are dirty, stinky and wet. No matter that she neglected to bring me any underwear, clean or dirty, along with the clothes. No matter that I do not have the slightest inclination to give my neighbors on three sides, who I am still hoping are not home, a peep show as I dress. (Although when the headliner is as old and wrinkly as I, can it truly be called a peep show?)  No matter. Adella has taken my seemingly complex adult problem, reduced it to its bare essentials, and solved it ignoring the constraints of my adult conventions.

Life simple. Life stripped. Life unencumbered.

And my heart leaps up.