beautiful bundle

“Can you believe I did this?” 

Wisdom from the cool lips of a new father.  Johnny — the baby of our family — the last one in a lineup of five in seven years led by me. 

Laid-back, life-of-the-party, steal-your-heart Johnny turned daddy at 41. 

“Wanna hold her?”

I shake my head, shrug my shoulders to say “Ooooh, I don’t know — I’m a little afraid.”

“Aw, come on — you can’t do anything to hurt her — she’s wrapped like a football.”

(She’s not the one I’m worried about.)

“Ok.”

I catch the easy pass from the quarterback in the room, albeit reluctantly.   I haven’t put myself in the position of holding a baby since — well — 

Since I let myself consider the probability that — I’d never hold one of my own.

But this is Johnny’s baby.  And what am I afraid of anyway? 

The beautiful bundle rests in my arms, her dreamy eyelids drawn down sweetly on her three-hour-old face.  When she stirs a tiny bit, I’m just a tiny bit alarmed.  But look at her, just look at her. 

She’s perfectly amazing, and yes, can I say it?

“I can believe you did this.”

sorry with you

 

“Should we go fast Grandma?”

“Yes.  Run — run — run!”

I put some speed behind her and feel tickled about giving her a little thrill.  We sail past the nurses’ station and whipsaw through the resident la-la-land with its bird cage, big screen and parking lot of wheel chairs.  

Thinking about the big kick she gets out of ”being naughty,” I’m kinda hoping someone will yell at us — but we get a rise outta no one.

Back at her room, I hunt for a tissue at her request and settle on a wad of toilet paper that she quickly saturates and holds out for me to take from her.  I attempt to tweezer a corner of it between the very tips of thumb and forefinger, believing there’s a way to accomplish this without getting snot on my own hands.  But it drops to the floor, and then I just grab it.

“Now put me in bed where it’s nice and warm.”

This is not a small request.  Kinda like trying to sink a free throw with a 150 lb. lead basketball.   I land her butt about six inches short of the target and can’t boost her up any further so I move her pillow down instead.  She’s quite happy as I begin to make her a Lalapalooza Blanket Sundae — synthetic plushy, knitted afghan, knotted edge fleece, cotton down duvet, and finally flannel down duvet. 

Now we can talk.  Me in her wheel chair and her in a position that resembles a coffin rehearsal way too much.  Please don’t shut your eyes Grandma.

We pace slowly, in a relaxed comfortable fashion, through our favorite themes.  She leads the way with her questions.

“Well I know you’re Julie.  You lived with me when you were a baby, but whose daughter are you?”

“Nick’s”

“Why do you think you divorced?  Was he Catholic?”

“No.  Maybe that’s why.”

“I would think you’d be hurt.  Were you?”

“Yes, but I had my family and I lived with my sister afterward for awhile.  That helped.”

“She felt sorry with you, huh?”

“Yes, that’s a good way to put it Grandma —”

I do believe she felt very sorry with me.  And that made all the difference in the world.

beepbeep-boopboop-bopbop

Translation: “too much noise.” 

Said in a commanding voice while scrunching up and covering your ears, this amusing signature of a friend’s little South Brooklyn Italian father works great to express annoyance at anything disruptive that might come into your world. 

I’ve used it liberally with moderate passion since I heard it on Halloween.  And it felt good.  Worked like a charm.

beepbeep-boopboop-bopbop — visions of cute little Italian man in distress.  Ahhh — all better. 

That is, until today.  With six shopping days ’til Christmas and me – the hesitant cautious dreamy driver - freaking out behind the wheel on jammed roadways and parking lots, it became apparent that the holidays require a stronger version of this expression – one with more aggressive hand motions.

beepbeep!!!boopboop!!!bopbop!!!

For the love of God, gimme some mercy mild!!! 

goes down good

My friend Lindu’s father-in-law is a grateful man.

His son Jeff might have trouble agreeing with this statement as it applies to fine wines. 

Jeff excels at anything he gives his attention to and several years ago he added wine scholar to his impressive repertoire.  He is as generous with sharing his knowledge as he is with using the cork screw and I’ve been an eager student on many occasions.

Last summer before enjoying a grillful of steaks and “mama du’s” famous parmesan roasted potatoes, Jeff’s dad gave thanks for the food and the blessing of family and friends who were present at his Brainerd Lakes cabin.  Jeff opened and poured a special wine he selected, explaining its distinctive features.  We adults toasted and sipped.

“Goes down good,” the head of the table announced.

Gasp —-

When his father’s glass was dry, Jeff jumped up to retrieve a vintage that had been breathing a good two days on the red formica counter in the sweltering cabin kitchen. 

Goes down good?  Smoking Loon for you!

He drank it cheerfully with gratitude and equal praise.  Yes, he is a grateful man.

sniffing like a bunny

My 12-year-old niece wrote:  “the sound of a baby sniffing like a bunny in a garden full of its favorite vegetables.” 

Her English teacher crossed it out and “babies crying, people laughing and music playing overhead” was what was read to me as a guest in her classroom on “Grand People Day.”

After the formal reading she told me how much she loved her original metaphor and peeled back a page to show me her handwritten first draft where the baby was sniffing like a bunny and popcorn smelled like it wanted to fly. 

She beamed right past the teacher’s red pen on the page.  I want to be more like her!