Reversal

In some ways it was a sick perversion. I, the father, stood by laughing as she, the grandmother, struggled through endless Cinderella reenactments. "No, Grammy, you forgot to say your line." "No stand here, Grammy." "Now you're the mouse."

I laughed--evil, ungrateful son--and read the newspaper. THE NEWSPAPER! I'm home, and I'm reading the newspaper! How can I keep from singing?

But am I not occupying the grandparent's role, I wondered. Nevermind, I have a newspaper to read. And she's doing a fine job as the prince...fairy godmother...evil stepmother...

Grammy and Fast Planes

Sunday

Maddie: When is Grammy coming?
Dad: Tomorrow.
M: Why isn't she coming today?
D: Because she lives so far away.
M: Why does she live so far away?
D: That's just where she lives.
M: But why isn't she here now?
D: Because she has to take an airplane.
M: Does it fly fast, fast, fast, fa, fa, fa, ffffffff? (with hand spinning in a tiny circle in front of her eyes)
D: Yes.

Monday

M: Is today tomorrow?
D: Yes.
M: Where's Grammy?
D: She comes today.
M: But why isn't she here now?
D: Because she has to take a plane.
M: Does it fly fast, fast, fast, fa, fa, fa, ffffffff? (hand spinning again)
D: Yes.

Caleb at Two

Caleb turned two on Monday. Madeline helped wrap his presents: Bright red paper quilted over the gift in ill-fitting patches, blotches of tape all adrift.

To Caleb, they were the most immaculately wrapped gifts since the dawn of the Martha Stewart era. Upon seeing the two globs of tape and red paper, his eyes widened and his chin dropped. He cast nervous looks to mom. Are they really mine? What's the catch?

No catch, kiddo. Welcome to the joy of birthdays.

The next several minutes were awkward as brother and sister insisted it was pure insanity for mom and dad to assemble the toy before use. "Caleb, no. Give me back the screwdriver." "Madeline, please, I need that piece." "Stop touching that." "Sit. SIT. Would you...Hey, you guys want a lollipop?"

Then, thirty minutes of parental bliss as two silent children discovered the inexplicable joy of putting toy cars into a garage, and then taking them out again.

The Aboriginal Bedtime Dance

It's a very complex ritual. Like something you might find among bees and their decision-making dances and wiggles.

1) Family prayer: circling, running away, coming together, it's like a flock of birds trying to gather in the middle of the living room...somehow, through this intricate pattern of arm grabs, false starts, redos, standing and kneeling, exhausted glances between parents, meaning is conveyed: they are a family.

2) Story time: first, the number of books is meticulously negotiated. It always settles on three, but both parties have to start at one and five respectively or entire ritual explodes into noisy confusion. The first book, then a cheese stick. The second book, then a sippy cup. During the third book, the female brushes her front teeth. After the third, dad brushes her back teeth.

3) Pajamas: with the male it's a matter of force, but as demanded by the strict code of ritual, he makes the obligatory kicks and screams. Then there is a feigned decision process between whether mom or dad will put him to bed. It will be mom but the question must be asked. One song. Lay him down. He's out for the night. For the female, more negotiations. It ends with her wearing a sun dress with leggings underneath. But again, it has to start with pajamas versus Cinderella dress, otherwise neither party will know the script and the process will fall into choas.

4) Bedtime for the female: two stories, four songs, three kisses and a bonus kiss from mom. Two stories, four songs, three kisses and a bonus kiss from dad. This is followed by ten minutes of playing in her room alone with the doll house. Then she retrieves three books from the living room and returns to her bedroom. Eventually she turns of the light and goes to sleep on a pile of books on her floor.