Memoirs of a Grumpa

My Weekend with the Grandkids

Or

It Ain't Over 'Til the Little Girl Cries

“You do remember that we agreed to take care of Caden and Emily while Cynthia and Cullen celebrate their Tenth Wedding Anniversary in Napa, don’t you?” my wife inquired.

I could tell that this was just a pro forma question, and that ‘no I don’t’ would be a problematic answer.

“Of course, Diane,” I said, “but remind me when that will be.”

“Oh, you know it’s next weekend and it will be for a full three days and nights.  I want them to have a really great get-away,” she said, with excitement in her voice.

Oh boy, I was staring at a big deal and it was just a week away.  I had not been directly involved with child care, let alone young children ages five and three, for many years.  Did I still have what takes?  What does it take, anyhow?

Diane assured me that as a team, we should be able to handle a three and five-year-old, especially since they go to bed early. "How early?” I asked.

“Oh, I think around 7 pm,” she guessed. This guess turned out to be incorrect.

The other shoe fell the next day when Diane casually mentioned, “You should know that I’ve been invited to an important baby shower over the weekend that we will be caring for the kids.  You’re comfortable with that I hope?”

This meant that she would be gone for about three hours midday on Saturday. The stakes were going up.  Was I being set up to fail? “I can hire a babysitter if you can’t handle it.  Would that be better for you?” she continued.

 I had no answer to this question.

My daughter and son-in-law had come and gone during the day. Game on. I came home from work on Friday and was greeted by smiles and hugs from Diane and the two kids. The weather was warm, and the water temperature in the pool still allowed swimming for the kids. Of course swimming was a red-alert condition, needing at least one adult supervisor, who would be prohibited from reading the paper, talking on the phone or anything else relaxing in nature. The preference was actually for two adults.

“How would you guys like to play a game?” I asked the kids.  “I am going to give you a grade of A, B, C, D, or F, based on the quality of your swim strokes and on how long you can stay under water without breathing.”

“That sounds fun, but what is an A?” said Caden.

It turned out that their Montessori School didn't believe in grading, so they had not been exposed to ranked evaluations. It was amazing how quickly Caden picked up the nuance between grades, and being competitive. He compulsively began working to get A's. This went on for some time, until my wife said, “Come on in and clean up for dinner.”

I had suggested to her earlier that grilling hot dogs and eating outside might be festive, and she had purchased two of the largest and most expensive hot dogs I had ever seen. The dogs cost $6.99 a pound. I grilled the dogs, and we sat and looked at the dogs for a while as they cooled off. But we weren't alone.

The first yellow jacket arrived about one minute after dinner was served. Let there be no mistake about it. In all fair battles between bees, yellow jackets, hornets, wasps and the like, versus man, the fanner always wins. They have too many weapons. Only traps and sprays might swing the odds in man's favor, but then that isn't a fair mano a mano battle. As more yellow jackets arrived on the hot dog scene, I lit our "bug candle" and announced, “There, that should do the trick.”

I have heard louder noises just a few times in my life. For example, when the air-raid horn went off in a noon test in my hometown and I was only half a block away from the horn; and, sitting in the front row at a Jimi Hendrix concert, with speakers at full blast. However, coming in at third place for loud was the scream emanating from the mouth of Emily at the table. Her eyes were round. Her nostrils were round. And her mouth was perfectly round and emitting an unrelenting and fierce scream that literally scared everyone. No one saw the yellow jacket that had stung her on the left hand.

I went to the hardware store the next day and purchased a bee trap declaring the yellow jackets winner of the battle, but I would win the war.

After bedtime stories were done that evening, and Caden was tucked in, he suddenly presented himself outside his room and declared, "I need to go potty.”

Since he hadn't gone for two days, this seemed like good news. I got him on the pot and left him alone to do his business. When he called out that he was done, I asked, “Did you do number one or number two?”

“What is number one and number two?” he inquired.

 I explained yet another scoring system to Caden that day.

Dawn appeared on day two.  This was the day I feared most. The important baby shower would occur midday, and I would be on my own with the kids. Necessity is the mother of invention. I had come up with a plan.

We completed the first activity of the day, prior to my wife leaving for the shower. Our little town has a town sponsored event each year called, ‘The Festival.’ About three blocks of downtown are blocked off from traffic and dozens of stalls/booths are set up for people to show off arts, handicraft, wine tasting, and a wide variety of very unhealthy looking food for purchase. After a breakfast of my special hot cakes, we bundled the kids into their car seats for the short ride to the Festival. To prevent fatigue, the kids were strapped into strollers for this outing.

I was never sure whether or not the kids enjoyed the Festival, but at least they got some take-away items. The first take-away was a free helium-filled balloon for each kid. The balloons were inscribed with "Golden State Warriors" and were being handed out by what appeared to be a Warrior Girl. My wife confidently declared that she had tied the balloon string to the wrist of each kid. About 30 seconds later, I turned around to see where everyone was and noted that Caden no longer had his balloon. I asked where it was and he pointed up. I saw nothing.  Both kids began to cry.

I think my wife saw him first. While most of the vendors/booth tenders looked like and dressed like suburban people, this guy looked exactly like someone you remember running the hoop-toss or roller coaster at a carnival. He had dirty pants, was wearing a black no-sleeve tee shirt, and his hair was black-grey, thin, and greasy.  He was being very friendly with my wife as he demonstrated the string puppet dogs he was selling for $15 each. He said these are realistic.  “Real dogs will take interest,” he said… whatever that meant.

If operated properly, the dog puppets would walk along the street. ‘Properly’ meant painstakingly careful manipulation of a wooden handle device, with four ultra-thin strings attached. It was my new job to be the puppet master, and do all needed repairs and care and handling of the almost real ‘dogs.’ Soon the ‘dogs’ began having a nap in the bottom rack of the strollers.

At last it was time to wheel the kids back to the car and for me to face the music.

As my wife left for the important shower, she gave me a last chance. “I can still get a sitter over here for you,” she offered.