A Legendary Day

“Marshall’s cheating,” Adella  yells out. “It’s not fair.”

It is only seven o’clock in the morning. I do not have time for arguments. Arguments explode, creating bruised egos. And bruised egos need to be coaxed back to normality. These two cherubs need to eat breakfast, get dressed, comb their hair, and get out the door by 8:15. 

Will this altercation pass, I wonder. Or do I need to address it head on? 

My question is soon answered. Adella will not let it drop.

“I’m not playing with you. You’re not following the rules!”  

They are playing with Marshall’s Pokemon cards, and I am pretty sure there are no rules. Unless Adella, the alpha, first-child, has made up some arbitrary rules that Marshall, the diplomatic second child, must follow. I am pretty sure that despite all her seven-year-old erudition, even Adella has no idea what the real rules are for playing with a deck of Pokemon cards. 

“But who will play with me?” Marshall asks.

There are so many things I need to do: finish washing some dishes left from last night, empty the dishwasher, clean off the kitchen table, help Marshall and Adella with their morning tasks, make myself presenable, pack my swimming bag, and maybe if there is any extra time, pack my suitcase for a flight to Seattle that afternoon. 

But his plea is so plaintive. And I realize if I do not take the time to play with Marshall, we will never get out the door. Playing Pokemon is a stitch in time. I turn off the faucet, wipe my hands, and head for the family room.

“I will play with you Marshall,” I say. 

“You have to sit here, Granma,” he says pointing to a spot next to a black folder he has placed on the carpet as a playing mat. He sits opposite me.

Drats, I think. Sitting criss-cross applesauce on the floor greatly limits my ability to multi-task. I cannot help but wonder if this is part of his plan. Does he know how much effort it takes me to get up off the floor?

“You get four cards and I get four cards,” Marshall directs.

Well, maybe there are some rules, I think. I simply need to figure them out quickly enough to lose as quickly as possible so I can get back to my tasks. 

“You put down a card. I put down a card and we see who wins,” he says.

Simple enough. Except that I am unsure what criteria determines who wins these battles. 

He puts down a Mewtwo with 130 HP. I deliberately chose a Wartortle with only 70. 

“You win Granma,” Marshall says genuinely excited, his diplomacy shining.

And I am reminded that he is only four. Marshall can only count to 20. He still says “One zero” when he sees the number 10. He has no idea that 130 number is greater than 70. 

He puts my winning cards to the side of the mat. “Let’s do it again,” he says as he lays another card down.

It is a fire Pokemon. Perhaps he is using card type to determine which card wins. Surely a Vulpix, a fire pokemon, will destory a grass Pokemon, I reason. I play a Bulbasaur.

But in Marshall’s world, the Bulbasaur wins.

“You win again, Granma,” he says, overjoyed, as he places my winning hand to the side, atop my previous hand. 

This is not going as planned at all. I am never going to lose at this rate. So I abandon reason and settle in. 

He puts down another card. I randomly pick another one. It looks weak. But who am I to judge?

“You win again, Granma,” Marshall squeals for a third time. Is he trying to make sure I win as much as I am trying to make sure I lose, I wonder.

We each have one card left. Perhaps I will bring this game to a quick finish by winning. I can only hope.

But not to be. Marshall decides we need more cards, so he picks up the discarded cards and hands half of them to me. Clearly the rules of this game are fluid. 

The redistribution of the cards works in Marshall’s favor. He rallies, winning three battles in a row. And just as I think he is about to win the game, he announces, “We need more cards.” This time, he gets up and runs downstairs, searching for some of his secret stashes.

Is it worth the effort in getting my sluggish, grandma body off the floor, only to have to sit back down again, I wonder. I decide to give Marshall a few minutes.

And as I wait, in-between reviewing my stymied to-do lists, I reminisce about my son Daniel. Twenty years ago, he had a Pokemon poster with all 151 Generation 1 Pokemon on the bedroom wall next to his bed. Daniel earnestly tried to school me at bedtime, teaching me all the Pokemons’ names, their types, their strengths and weakenesses, their stages of evolution. Daniel was a third child, so I confess that most nights I often employed the tried-and-true parental skill of feigned interest: I repeated names and words just enough to appear to be listening. So, despite Daniel’s constant drilling, I never really got beyond mimicking Pikachu’s stoccato lilt when saying its name, and recognizing that Charizard, the Pokemon on his most valued card, had evolved from a Charmander and Charmeleon.

Who knew I would live to rue my inattention? That a fad that I thought had long since passed would be new once again. 

“I found some more cards,” Marshall says as he runs back holding up two more cards. “And this one is legendary.” He hands me the other, non-legendary card.

“Legendary?” I question, hoping for clarification. But there is none. 

“Yes, legendary,” he says as he plays it.

Where has he learned this word, I wonder. From Adella? Or a friend at preschool? I look at card. Is it truly legendary? I can see nothing that distinguishes it from any of the other cards. 

Alas, its legendary status does not help it, for my card beats it.

“You win, Granma,” Marshall shouts. “You win the game.” 

He celebrates. He is truly happy for me. I am just baffled. Clearly he is a second child, I think. Adella never would have let me win the first hand.

“Let’s play again,” Marshall says.

And I am caught. I have no choice but to play again. How can I not? What self-respecting grandmother could walk away? Marshall needs his turn to win, his turn to shine. 

Then I wonder, is this all part of his plan. Does he let me win because he knows I will not be able to walk away? Is this his strategy to keep me playing? Surely he must be bound for a career in the diplomatic service in a post-Trumpian world. Or am I getting ahead of myself? My world view must be a bit askew if I am attributing such subtle, sophisticated machinations to a four-year-old.  

Nonetheless, we play another game, much like the first. We play several more hands. Never am I able to discern any pattern to the winning hands. And just when I am certain he will claim victory this time, he throws his hands up and enthusiastically shouts, “It’s a tie. Granma, we tied.” 

This time I cannot allow his winsome wiles to derail us. We have miles to go. I need to be proactive, to squelch any tugs at my heartstrings.

“That was fun,” I say and before he has time to suggest a third round, I add, “But we can’t play any more. We must hurry to make it to your swimming lesson. ” 

So we send Adella off with Pop Pop and we scurry out the door into the car, legendary card and all. And as we debate whether one stops or goes at red traffic lights (our ritual every car ride), I briefly glance back to see him admiring his legendary Pokemon card, holding it up to the car window. Because my part of our debate is rote, having learned it over many drives, I have time to ponder today’s Pokemon game, indeed, a game for the ages. 

Not only was Marshall able to entice me to begin the game, but he was also able to entrance me to continue. Is it an innate trait in the wiring of a second child that enables him to elicit my grandmaternal instincts?  After all, cuteness in babies, and puppies for that matter, is an evolutionary trait according to a recent study out of Oxford University that concluded “cuteness helps infants to survive by eliciting care-giving,” Is Marshall a highly evolved, cute second-child eliciting attention?

Or has the constant tug-of-war for adult attention with his elder sister pushed him to learn this behavior? His mother tells me that he has long since learned to concede to Adella as he vies with her for the best car seat, the remote control or the opportunity to explain something to an adult. Not able to command attention as quickly or as completely as a first-child, has he learned the dance of acquiescence and negotiations, and the subtleties of charming adults?

“Granma, help!” Marshall wails, ending my ruminating. “My legendary Pokemon--it’s gone.”

His joy, delight, and diplomacy have evaporated. Just tears and raw emotion. He is distraught. I pull over. I stop the car and turn around to assess. That legendary Pokemon that he had been balancing on the lip of the weatherstripping that does not quite hug the car window has slipped down into that narrow space between it and the window. It is gone. 

I get out and go around to open his car door. I roll the window up and down several times, hoping the card will somehow magically appear. (Is it not legendary, after all?) It does not. It is forever lost to the abyss of the car door innards.

“I’m sorry I can’t get it,” I say.

Marshall is inconsolable. “Maybe you can get Pop Pop to smash the door in. Then we can get it,” he suggests through his sobs.

“I don’t think we can do that,” I say. Despite its legendary status, I suspect the value of this Pokemon card is not equal to the expense of destroying a car door. “Maybe I can buy you a new legendary Pokemon,” I suggest. “Will that work?” 

What I do not say is that his tears have kicked my grandmaternal instinct into high gear. I am ready to buy him a hundred legendary Pokemon. Provided they are as inexpensive as I think they are.

He nods through his sniffles, satisfied that his grandmother can make his loss whole.

And I will. After swimming lessons. That is, if I can figure out just what a legendary Pokemon is. Oh, if I’d only listened to Daniel all those years ago.

Christmas Present

Decades ago, my mother-in-law Alberta Stornetta purchased an advent calendar in Denmark and a tradition was born. The calendar had twenty-four tiny rings to attach twenty-four tiny gifts. Alberta’s children, my children, and now my grandchildren have counted the days to Christmas by opening a tiny present each day in December. All the presents for 2019 were wrapped yesterday afternoon and it was Pop Pop’s job to get them tied to the calendar. When inclement weather prevented the grandchildren from coming for Sunday dinner, he postponed his task. 

It is the first thing Adella noticed when she came in the house today. 

“There are only six presents on the calendar, Granma,” she says.

“Don’t worry,” I reply. “All the gifts are wrapped. And you can help me put them on the calendar.”

No school today. It is a snow day. And I need her help to get them all up before the boys show up with her parents.

"Why do we always start with the youngest child?" she asks as she hands me a present for Max.

“Because Max is a baby. He can’t be as patient as you,” I reply. “Besides you get to have the special last present on Christmas Eve.” 

Not entirely a satisfactory answer. But she drops the subject. I dread the day she figures out that I send her cousin Jim, an only child, twenty-four gifts, while she gets just eight because she has two siblings. On that day, I intend to argue that she gets double the presents because her parents also have a Christmas calendar. I hope that answer will satisfy her for at least a few more years, and that by the time her math skills advance to the level that she realizes she’s still at a net loss compared to Jim, she won’t care.

She moves on. 

“I know what this one is,” she says. “It’s socks.” 

I guess I am a little predictable, I think, as I tie them to the calendar. Target predictably has inexpensive Christmas socks at the front of the store. And I predictably shop at Target each year for very predictable Christmas calendar gifts.

“Oh, oh,” she squeals as she brings another gift to me to tie. “This one’s a gift card. Let’s put it up on the third, so I can open it tomorrow.” 

Hmm, I think. That’s the first time I’ve given a gift card. Maybe it’s less about predictability and more about her ever improving ability to guess. And then I think she probably won’t be as as excited when she realizes what the cash equivalent is on the card. There was no Kristen Wiig at the Target counter when I purchased it. The salesperson stared at me unbelieving when I asked how little money I could put on a card.

“Granma, this one’s a chocolate Santa,” Adella says as she hands it to me.

I marvel at her tacticle skills. Guess she must have used a little logic as well.

“This one can’t be a chocolate bar or it would break,” she says as she hands me the largest present. Then she adds, “Oops. Guess it is a chocolate bar.”

In fact, it was Marshall’s chocolate bar. “We just won’t tell him. Perhaps he won’t notice,” I suggest as I tie it on.

“What’s this one?” she asks and I delight that I have finally stumped her. Perhaps it is interfaith confusion. It is Hanukkah geld, neatly stacked so I could wrap it.

At last, a present she doesn’t know. “I won’t tell,” I say. I am tempted to add a line from Santa in one of our favorite Christmas books, Santa Calls: “Some secrets are best left unsolved.” But I know this secret will be solved soon enough.

Then the boys jumble into the room, wet and animated from the snow. Adella and I rush to tie the last two presents on the calendar. 

And I sigh. A sigh of relief because for the thirty-sixth year I have managed to tie twenty-four presents on the calendar lovingly made by my mother-in-law. But my sigh is also tinged with sadness as I realize that Adella, analytical and observant, is on the cusp of making discoveries. Discoveries that will change not only the nature of her Christmas futures, but also mine.

Our Moment

 

When my daughter talked about not attending her graduation, I said, “No. You will attend.” That is because I am a romantic. And I envisioned a grand moment during this momentous occasion. I am also a mother who happens to believe that I play the central role in all of my children’s greatest achievements.

I, not my daughter, wanted her children to watch their mother receive her diploma. I wanted them to appreciate the achievement of their working mother completing a master’s degree in Applied Statistics that she had started while her Adella, her eldest, was a toddler and finished while nursing Max, her third child. I was looking for that grand moment.

I planned it well. We played with the children the day before graduation at Hershey Park. They swam in the swimming pool at the motel that night. And Granma and Pop Pop plied them with donuts and McDonald’s the next day in the hours before the graduation. I had prepared for my moment. Not quite as much as Chrissy. But I had done my part.

I wondered, however, about the wisdom of bringing three small children to the center of Pennsylvania to watch their mother shake a dean’s hand when I saw the sea of mortar boards on the main floor of the Penn State Bryant Jordan Center. I knew it would be a long evening. The commencement speaker was thankfully succinct, the handshakes brief, and the announcer efficient. And yet there were hundreds of graduate students.

Pop Pop, Christian, the kids and I had a nice little perch in a handicapped balcony in the arena, which was designated for families. It had room for the stroller and gave the kids a little more room in which to move. We handed the kids electronics, doled out Sour Patch Kids (their favorites), and fed the baby a bottle. And yet, the line of graduates slowly moved forward like an interminably long inchworm. A surfeit of scholars. And Chrissy was in the last row of master’s students.

We made multiple trips to the bathroom, walked the baby back and forth, and got sodas from the concessions stand. My romantic vision quickly began to evaporate as I toiled in the trenches of childcare. The incongruity of hot dogs and pretzels amidst all the pomp and circumstance blew away any remaining glints.

Then Chrissy stood up. She turned. She waved. And Adella saw her. Adella waved back. I waved. For that brief moment we all connected, mothers and daughters. And I had the moment for which I had come.

Our moment was oh-so-brief. We then had to listen to the names of the doctoral students, and we made a few more trips to the bathroom and concession stand. We soldiered on. And by the time it was all over, we marked the occasion with obligatory but far too perfunctory photos, for Granma and Pop Pop still had to drive across Pennsylvania that night. The kids went back for one more night at their country home, as Adella calls hotels, and for a morning of splashing in the pool.

Driving that Tesla still requires some effort and thought and Pop Pop and Granma, who did not arrive home until 2am, were both very tired this morning when we got up at 6:30 to go teach.

“I’m glad we went,” Pop Pop said after a shower to wake himself up. “It was important to recognize Chrissy’s achievement.”

I, too, am glad. I think. If I weren't so tired, I would revel in the memory of my brief and fleeting moment. One that took years for which to prepare. 

Yes, it was a moment to remember. I think. I am very tired, my mind is foggy, and I'm rushing to make it to my substitute teaching assignment. For you see, while Chrissy is taking a well deserved personal day with her family, I'm still taking care of her kids--her students, that is. Gotta get that BC Calculus quiz printed off before class.

Congratulations, Chrissy.

Do You Know Where Your Son Is?

There was an insistent, authoritative knock on my hotel room door at 7 o'clock this morning. The kind of knock that is accompanied by a police officer shouting, "Open up. This is the police."

Startled at the clatter on this fine Saturday morning, I suspected it was not the police. For I am no criminal. And my three children, two in-laws, and four grandchildren were all sleeping in adjacent rooms. All part of an after Christmas visit to Great-grandmother Stornetta in Annapolis, Maryland.

I sprang from my bed and flew to the door in hopes the knocking would not wake the other guests. Alas, too slow. A second pounding resounded through the hall.

I threw open the door.

There was Jim, my robust, four-year-old grandson, his rocket ship and astronaut in hand.

"Good morning, Granma," he said sweetly. Then he ambled in. It was as though we were repeating a daily ritual.

"Hmmm," I said, with just a more pronounced hint of suspicion in my voice.

He put his rocket ship on the coffee table, knelt down next to it, and set about the business of playing. His astronaut danced in the air around his spaceship.

"Hmmm," I said, this time with a bit of disapproval. My "granma sense" was tingling.

But Jim was tone-deaf.

"Granma," he said, "Can you put this piece away for me. I don't want to lose it."

"Jim," I replied, addressing the matter head on. "Do your parents know where you are?"

"They told me I could come to your room," he replied, quietly, his head down.

My "granma sense" was more than tingling. It was shouting. I suspected that his parents had granted their permission yesterday afternoon, not this morning. Justine and Nathan reside in a different time zone, and they like to slumber late when they are on vacation. I knew they must be nestled in their beds dreaming of empty nests. Or a least the advent on Kindergarten.

I texted them, letting them know I was in possession of their son.

"Hmmm," I said again when there was no response. I decided to let sleeping parents lie.

So they slept and Jim played on. Until he got hungry. Only then did I notice he was shoeless.

I called Nathan. My phone rang several times until it went to voice mail. I called a second time.

"Mmrphrmp," Nathan finally said. Clearly he did not appreciate being so rudely torn from his dreams.

"Do you know where your son is?" I asked. I sounded a bit like the judgmental television announcer on those old public service announcements that used to run at 10 pm, asking parents if they knew where their children were.

"No?" he said, wary of my question and unsure of his answer. He knew Jim.

"Well, he's with me," I said. "And if you give me his shoes I will take him to breakfast."

So after the shoes were passed through the door crack, and after they were donned, Jim and I went to breakfast. Merrily Jim ate his way through eggs, three sausage, two cups of cranberry juice, and a waffle. (He does love his breakfast.)

And as I nursed a cup of orange juice, intermittently cutting a sausage or pouring some syrup, I had an epiphany about those ubiquitous hotel door latches, high above a child's reach. Indeed, when a Stornetta is in residence, those latches are not intended to keep burglars and criminals at bay, nor to allow one to prop open the door in order to quickly grab a bucket of ice from the machine down the hall without having to use a key. Rather the purpose of such latches is to keep Jim in.

Be Mine Forever

Adella found it. The large pink Valentine heart—a Valentine person actually with eyes and smile, dangling arms and legs—in my mudroom. Even though I had tucked it away in a box, waiting for that perfect moment to sneak it into the trash. November is just beginning. And she found it.

Adella had proudly given me the heart on Valentine’s Day. And that Valentine took up residence on my refrigerator for the month of February and most of March.

“Do you think she’ll notice?” I asked my husband as I scratched and pulled in order to peel the tape holding the heart from my refrigerator door. (Clearly I had not anticipated grandchildren and the need for a refrigerator magnet art gallery when I had purchased the refrigerator with the sleek stainless steel, unmagnetized door a few years back.)

“Not sure,” Pop Pop said. “Nothing gets past her,” he added.

True, I thought. So I hedged my my bets. I did not want any grandchild of mine to think I had rejected her work. So I stashed Mr. Valentine (or is it a Ms?) in a box in my mudroom. If the Valentine’s eviction from prime refrigerator door space went unnoticed, then I had hoped to quietly slip him or her into the trash a week or two later.

And she had not noticed. Until today. If only I had stuck to the original plan. If only I had not forgotten to dispose of it. I should have known leaving the little red stool in my mud room so that I could reach the highest shelves would only encourage her snooping.

There was no blame nor shame. No “Hey, Granma, what’s this doing here?” Adella simply took matters into her own hands.

She rummaged through my junk drawer and found the tape. Using the little red stool, she restored that Valentine to its proper place. And for good measure, she drew four more pictures and enlisted her brother Marshall to draw one as well. Then she taped them up all up on my refrigerator. A stunning gallery of preschool art.

So now the time clock on my refrigerator gallery is reset and I must consider when I can once more polish my sleek stainless refrigerator door.

What is the statute of limitations on a Valentine, I wonder. Especially one that has already been recycled once. One that carries the taint of having been discovered hidden away. Perhaps I should view it as a boon: Art so easily hides tiny fingerprints. 

I ponder for a few days. Perhaps Thanksgiving, I think. And then I realize the relatives are coming. Practicality defenestrates my guilt. Grandma Kemp and Grandpa Kemp, Uncle Ethan, Uncle Jonathan and Aunt Sarah, ( my daughter’s in-laws) and cousins Katherine, Rebecca, Jonathan and Nathan, all will descend upon my house to celebrate the naming and blessing of baby Max, Adella’s infant brother. The refrigerator door must be polished sleek and clean.

This time I slide the art directly into the trash. Underneath a cereal box and three pieces of junk mail, lest the eagle-eyed Adella discover my subterfuge. Then, for good measure, I empty the trash, watching sadly as the wee heart-shaped hand of Mr. (or Ms.) Valentine reaches out above an envelope, frailly, almost desperately waving, as I cinch the trash bag closed.

At least I took a picture. Should Adella ask.