Quiet Time in NJ

Playing Patty Cake with Dziadziu

My wife and I went to visit our grandkids over the weekend last February. It is always a wonderful, crazy, busy time. My grandson is three years old, and his sister is seven months old. During the day, there is nonstop activity. The early morning may be the only quiet time.  

I was up at about five o'clock this morning. The house was dark and nearly silent.  The only sound was the hum of white-noise generators in the kids' rooms coming over the baby monitor speaker and the occasional sound of the furnace engaging.

Often, I would have been outside running around the lake at this time, or at least preparing to run as I awaited the first light of dawn.  This morning was rainy and cold, though, and I told myself that running in less-than-familiar places in the rain while snow still covered the ground might be dangerous.  The sensibility of this decision was demonstrated when I snuck out to pick up some coffee and fresh bagels.  I discovered that the front walk was ice-covered with a thin veneer of rainwater on top.  I took a single step onto that surface, and my shoes had no chance to grip; in a split second, I found myself on my back, looking up at the sky. I laid there for a moment, doing a quick inventory of joints and bones before I rolled off the pavement onto the grass, where I could regain my footing and maybe a little pride.  Fortunately, there was no injury and no audience for this slapstick routine at that hour of the morning.

I continued on my quest and returned to the house just as quietly but a little more carefully with 13 bagels and a cup of Dunkin Donuts Coffee. On my return, I circumnavigated the front walk, realizing now how treacherous and invisible any ice spots would be.  That was when I officially waved off my morning run.

I got settled on the couch with my hot coffee and toasted bagel. I sat in the dark, quiet, comfortable house, recharging my batteries for the day ahead.  I thought about the games we'd play, books we'd read, and musical instruments of all sorts to play and pretend.  I admire my grandson's current and recurring fascination with musical instruments.  I reinforce it whenever the opportunity allows.  I was also looking forward to both the rough-housing and tender cuddle moments.   My granddaughter, still not quite mobile, observes all the activity with a keen eye on how her big brother manages to move so constantly.  She will be chasing him around very soon, I'm sure.

As I sat and absorbed the quiet calm of this early morning, sipping my coffee and working on various essays and journals, there was a disturbance in the force.  I heard my granddaughter begin to make noise in the next room.  She wined quietly and made a short little cry, and then the quiet returned, but not for long.  She repeated this sequence a couple of times, so I looked at the monitor and saw her rolling around in the crib from one side to the other, stopping to make it clear that she desired a change in her circumstances.  The rest of the house was still sleeping, so I went to her room and lifted her out of the crib before she got frustrated and released that ear-piercing scream, which cannot be ignored and would undoubtedly summon Mom and Dad.

Standing there by the crib, I held her to my chest, and she snuggled under my chin, but she noticed the unfamiliar whiskers tickling the top of her head.  She leaned back and looked up at me in the dim night light of the nursery. Her eyes open wide with wonder. She reached up and tried to grab my beard, but, unlike her dad, mine was too tightly trimmed to grasp, even with her tiny fingers.  The process of running her fingers across my beard calmed her, though, and she dropped her head again and snuggled under my chin with more purpose; her little body so warm, soft, and cuddly, clad in dainty, pink, footy pajamas.  She seemed resolved to cuddle up with her Dziadziu (Grandpa) and go back to sleep.  This moment was pure bliss.

I looked at my watch and remembered my son's instructions that if she woke after 6:30am, she should be up for the day.  It was 6:35am, so we headed into the living room to find a book, and she became a little more alert.  I selected a book with 100 baby words/pictures.  We sat on the couch. She snuggled into the crook of my arm, resting quietly on my lap, reaching out to explore random pictures with her fingers and occasionally yawning, which always ended with a quiet squeak.  We leisurely explored pictures, and my heart overflowed.  Occasionally, she glanced up at my face and reached back, continuing valiantly to try to capture my beard in her tiny fingers. She never succeeded but seemed reassured by the feeling of running her hand through my beard, and then she returned her attention to the colorful pictures in the book.  These moments are etched on my soul.

I whispered the name of each picture, trying not to disturb this quiet, predawn cuddle time. She smiled at some words and explored the book through a gentle touch or a taste of its corner when she could manage it. When she began to fidget a little, we decided a diaper change was a good course of action.  We had just gotten to the changing table when my son appeared from around the corner with a bottle of milk in hand, just in time to do the honors.  My granddaughter's face lit up in recognition of Dad and food. Babaci (grandma) was up now, too, and relieved my son of the bottle and the morning feeding responsibility, so he moved on to my grandson's bedroom to wake him for the day while his Mom prepared some toddler-friendly breakfast in the kitchen.  

That is how the day began, and I would have it no other way.