Last October, my life changed — for the better — when two tiny boys popped into the world eight weeks early, weighing approximately 3 pounds each. Since then, I’ve discovered that enchantment comes in small packages.
In spite of glowing reports I’d heard over the years from grandparents, whose faces brightened whenever the subject reared its lovely head — formerly with snapshots from a wallet, now an entire photo gallery on smartphones — I had my doubts because their explanations invariably reduced the experience to a cliché: “You get to spoil them, then hand them back and go home.”
It’s so much more than that.
Endorphins, for instance, the bliss hormone. After each visit, I feel the fountain of youth coursing through me — offset by the “sweep” of personal history. Grandparents are the middle strata of five generations. From our own grandparents to our grandchildren, we are the bridge between those still alive in memory and those just beginning life. In my case, that’s six generations. My great-grandmother, Susie Simpson, was alive until I was 9 and used to walk from her Austin Boulevard apartment to our bungalow on Lyman Avenue to visit us. If my grandsons live to be 87, the history with which I am personally acquainted will extend from roughly six years after the Civil War into the 22nd century.
That’s context.
But enchantment is not about the future or the past. It’s all in the present, which lasts six hours, two Saturday mornings a month — my babysitting gig in Palos Hills while mom is at work.
My alarm goes off at 4:30 a.m. I could probably sleep an extra hour, but I shower and shave because I don’t want to be scratchy when I kiss those softest of cheeks or blow razzberries on their stomachs on the changing table. I eat breakfast because I want to be fortified, and I slather on the sun block ahead of our stroller walk through the neighborhood. Distractions need to be kept to a minimum when you’re babysitting for two. One needs total focus.
When I arrive at 6:30, I find two wide-eyed faces, studying me. “You look familiar,” they seem to say. “Nice of you to drop in.” With the first smile, the endorphins flow. All kids are cute, but these two are preternaturally cute. Maybe we’re just hard-wired to go soft over our descendents.
Whatever distance may have grown between my ego and my humanity from a couple of weeks in the world, it melts away. We listen to music and dance. They bounce on my knee (sometimes both knees at once). I spend plenty of time on the floor and I bend to pick them up, so my limbs get limber.
It’s lovely to be outside with them in this forested stretch of suburbia even though they always fall asleep in the stroller, so I imagine future walks as they learn the names of what surrounds us.
Testaments to their mom’s nurturing care, they are happy and healthy, none the worse for their prematurity and Tyler’s extended stay in the hospital. Their innocence remains unspoiled. There is no meanness in them. Spending time with such beings is a privilege and a tonic.
Bryce, tireless explorer, is all reach and tactility. Whatever can be grasped gives him joy. Tyler is a thinker — pondering, considering, contemplating. He does things in his own time, when he’s ready — like opening his mouth for a spoonful of food. Sometimes he turns his head away. Sometimes he swats the spoon (tolerance of mess is a babysitting prerequisite). Mostly he regards me calmly, mouth closed to the food at his lips, as if to say, “You realize who’s in control here, don’t you?”
He’s right. I don’t need to be in control. I wasn’t so patient 30 years ago when terror was a steady undercurrent. Makes me wish I could go back and do it all over without the fear.
Back then, even with a partner and an only child, I was scared. Now I’m alone with two and enjoying it. It’s fun detecting the differences.
Of course at 1 p.m., I get to hand them over and go home — tired but happy.
Watching them grow and change and master tasks is part of the enchantment. They’re both crawling now, skittering down the hallway, looking for doors to open and buttons to push.
And there are mini-miracles. A month ago, I was pushing Tyler in the swing, facing him, while Bryce played on the floor underneath. Motion, of course, is their sedative, and as Tyler relaxed, I started whistling some spontaneously composed lullaby. He listened intently, and suddenly I realized he was humming — just one note, but holding it.
Bryce, meanwhile, was looking up at me with his mouth pursed in a tight circle, imitating mine, trying to whistle too.
A moment to remember, with many more to come, I hope.
There will never be another year like year one. Enchantment gives way to challenges, and they will never fit so perfectly in the crook of my arm. Last Sunday at their first birthday party, Bryce was a little overwhelmed by the overly loving attention of one of his cousins. He put his arms up to be rescued, so I whisked him away and we made the rounds.
As I supported him with my right arm, he put his hand down and held onto my thumb. He was feeling secure.
Grandparenting is a hands-on experience.
But it’s also hand-in-hand.
