A long week with the babies

There should be some rule in nature that gives grandparents an extra boost of strength when their grandbabies are at their fastest. Instead, just at the time the little ones are adding speed to cunning, their seniors are being slowed by arthritis or some other geriatric malady.

We were staying with the boys while Jean was firefighting in southern Georgia. I couldn’t believe how they wore us out. There were times when I knew stopping even for a moment would drop me in my tracks, never to rise again.

But there were good times. They’re starting to come back to me, but it took two weeks of bed rest since we’ve been home. (Kidding, kidding.)

The high point of the week was Saturday. Brian was home, so Dave and I took Samuel out for lunch. We’ve always tried to take the big kids out, by themselves, at least once when we visit, but I think this may have been Sam’s first time anywhere without either parent.

He was such a good little boy, almost beside himself as we walked from the car, just quivering with excitement, letting out occasional whoops of sheer joy. We sat in a booth, and he declined a booster seat or high chair. He did very well, but it was hard to keep him from turning around to see what was going on behind him. Not to worry: It was just another little boy whose parents didn’t mind either.

There were few such memorable moments in what I believe was the longest week of our lives. We were exhausted after only a couple of days. How does Jean do this, day after day, week after week, keeping her tots alive despite their determination to hurt themselves, while making a wedding dress, home schooling, and laying tile on the entry floor?

Our adoration of those boys is infinite, and reciprocated as well as a nearly 4-year-old and a 16-month old can reciprocate. Dave is the grandpa who takes them for walks. Their house is small and there’s no room to flat-out run, as they want to do. It’s a shame growing kids have to hear, a dozen times a day, “No running in the house!” But neither takes it too seriously, just pauses for a moment, and, when they figure no one is really paying attention, off they go again.

So when Grandpa says, “C’mon, boys, let’s go for a walk,” a mighty flurry ensues in search of shoes or sandals. Remarkably, they can usually locate a pair that match, although knowing for sure whose they are is not so simple.

They are surprisingly patient as shoes are buckled or tied, jackets found, and at least one last-minute diaper changed. And off they go, down to where the sidewalk ends in broad swales of grass between the townhouses and the parkway. Thank God, and I mean that sincerely, both of them stop short when they approach a curb and Grandpa calls to them. Neither of us is fast enough to catch them when they really take off.

I’m grateful to Leesburg’s planning board which requires broad expanses of grass and trees between blocks of townhouses. There’s room for wee boys to just run unbridled, and if they trip, they roll like Easter eggs in a cool green basket.

On one such outing, Samuel learned to blow dandelion fluff. I doubt the neighbors appreciate that, but it gave him as much pleasure as watching him gave us.

We both go out when it’s both boys. It’s too scary for just one of us to try to keep up with two of them. You imagine all sorts of things: a car out of control, pink toes and broken glass, a pervert behind a tree, a baby heading for the street.

Bubba – my nickname for the younger – is a climber. He rarely falls and cries perfunctorily when he does. It’s common to find him sitting on the dinner table, but the family is pretty well trained not to leave dangerous things there. That meant all the cutting and pinning of his sister’s wedding dress had to be accomplished after he’s down for the night.

The neighbors on each side have fences all the way to their back property lines, effectively fencing in two sides of Brian and Jean’s yard. I let both boys play in the backyard one sunny day, while I sat at the door to watch. Samuel is good about staying between the fences and not going more than a few feet into the common grassy area.

Bubba’s not so disciplined. I saw him heading for the neighbor’s house behind ours, and when I realized he had spotted the wooden deck steps, I was out the door, calling his name.

It takes me forever to slide open the heavy kitchen door, and the three steps to the ground are steep and narrow. By the time I was on the run, he was halfway up the neighbor’s stairs.

He stopped for a second, looked over his shoulder, figured he could beat me, and gave it the gun. I don’t know these neighbors, but had no qualms about climbing their stairs yelling at Bubba. He was on their deck when I finally caught up with him. He hadn’t broken a sweat. I thought my knees were going to crumple where I stood.

I counted later; there are 16 steps up to that deck. I don’t know how we got down from there – I’m a bit of a wuss about heights. I can barely lift that brown-haired boy, so I couldn’t have carried him. I don’t know how I got myself down, for Pete’s sake, much less with that lard bucket.

Don’t tell Jean, but if he were mine, I’d have probably let him come down by himself. That’s one of those things you let your own kids do – childhood survival training – but not your grandchild.

Never your grandchild.