As I write this, my wife Jan and I just completed three days of babysitting for my grandson Noah. His parents - my son Matthew and daughter-in-law Crystal - left town on vacation. We stayed at their home. They rolled in last night after midnight, and Noah continued sleeping. Noah has a video and audio monitor in his bedroom that enables us to see and to hear what's going on. My wife and I watched him on the monitor after we put him down for the night, and it was a stitch. This morning, my wife returned to work for the day, and I joined her.
I use the word babysitting, but my wife does the heavy lifting – diaper changes, feeding, sleep time, baths. I'm kinda the good-time Charlie, helping her out and keeping Noah amused. Relative to amusement, however, I'm surprised to say that Noah does the heavy lifting, not me. If I introduce something new to him, he picks up on it right away, remembers it, and we do it again and again.
I have a silly gene in myself that lies dormant most of the time. I have watched shows like Saturday Night Live almost since its beginning in 1975, and am riotously amused by sight and sound gags on television comedies. “Seinfeld” is a favorite, as were the shows “Taxi,” “Cheers,” “The Mary Tyler Moore Show,” and others. I have on occasion replayed their best scenes several times after I first see them, and laugh each time as I watch the scene unfold.
Case in point: the Reverend Jim Ignatowski on the TV show “Taxi” is taking the written exam to become a cab driver. He doesn't know the answer to one of the questions, and whispers to his cohorts a few feet away, “What does a yellow light mean?”
To which they reply, also whispering, “Slow down!” Jim looks puzzled, a little exasperated, and asks them again, this time more slowly, “WHAT...DOES...A...YELLLOOOWWW...” This goes on two or three more times, and I can't contain myself. I am consumed by idiot laughter, and I play it again and again, just to laugh some more. My wife wonders sometimes about me.
The silliness within has begun to re-emerge with Noah. A couple weeks ago – I don't know where it came from – I was standing in the doorway of his bedroom, and he was in the center of the room, a foot or two away from me.
I looked at him, and said “Jump,” and I jumped a few inches in the air. When I landed, Noah was consumed by idiot laughter. When he collected himself, he looked at me and shouted “Jump!” We both leaped into the air, and had a good laugh at ourselves. He's since elaborated on the game by saying “Ready?” (It comes out like “Weddy?”) and bends his knees, ready to jump. I, of course, bend my knees as well, and together we jump, and laugh.
He is fascinated by what appear to an adult to be the simplest things – the opening and closing of a door, for instance. He has a game now where I sit on a chair in his bedroom. He goes to the door, shuts it, runs down the hallway to his “Amma,” (my wife Jan), and runs back down the hallway toward the bedroom where I sit, waiting. He opens the door slowly, and I feign surprise and fear. He is contorted by laughter and repeats the drill, again and again. We have a ball.
Yesterday, I took him outside, and we went for a walk in his wagon. As we always do, I found a small broken stick on the sidewalk, and gave it to him. As he rolls down the sidewalk in the wagon, he drags the stick, and we talk about what we see – the 16-year-old friendly cat a couple doors down, who sidles over to greet us, the spooky decorations on the houses for Halloween, the ambulance with its sirens, the concrete pig decorating a lawn, the black squirrel running by.
The talk is almost nonstop, mostly by me. In between our conversations, I sing a couple verses of “Elmo's Song” to him, and he appears to like it. He almost never complains, and is almost always in a good mood. And I couldn't care less who hears me sing.
Yesterday, in the backyard, he noticed his dog Gretta rubbing the side of her body along a cyclone fence, itching herself. The bottom of the fence is less than a foot away from the edge of the driveway, and a narrow strip of grass lies between. Its width varies along its length, so it's tricky for him to walk the strip of grass along the fence. At times he can place both his feet in the strip and walk forward slowly, at other times he has to lift one foot to the driveway, leaving the other foot below on the grass.
He appears to be genuinely challenged by the uneven surfaces, and will do this for up to 15 minutes. I hold his hand to break a potential fall to the concrete, but the perambulation is all his.
Yesterday, it reminded me of a wonderful novel I read years ago, in which the protagonist practices a physical move with a friend many times over the years, as they grow up together. In the climax of the book, they find themselves in a situation in which the move is essential to saving the lives of several young children.
Tonight, my wife and I are heading back up to Noah's home, to see him go out for Trick or Treat. He says something that sounds like “Dwick u Dwee.” We will be there for only 20 minutes. At 18 months old, Noah doesn't get to go to many houses, but I want to see him in his costume, and to see him enjoy himself. It's only been a few hours, and I miss him already.
I remember reading years ago an article about broken families, and the notion of “quality” time that a non-resident dad may use to maximize enjoyment with his children – a trip to the zoo, say, or going to get ice cream. And I say Amen to that – it's gotta be a tough situation.
But I had to agree with the author's conclusion that it's quantity time that often makes the difference in a relationship. It's the downtime when you're talking with each other, it's the silence in the room, it's laughing together at a funny scene on TV. Even, say, just jumping together.
I use the word babysitting, but my wife does the heavy lifting – diaper changes, feeding, sleep time, baths. I'm kinda the good-time Charlie, helping her out and keeping Noah amused. Relative to amusement, however, I'm surprised to say that Noah does the heavy lifting, not me. If I introduce something new to him, he picks up on it right away, remembers it, and we do it again and again.
I have a silly gene in myself that lies dormant most of the time. I have watched shows like Saturday Night Live almost since its beginning in 1975, and am riotously amused by sight and sound gags on television comedies. “Seinfeld” is a favorite, as were the shows “Taxi,” “Cheers,” “The Mary Tyler Moore Show,” and others. I have on occasion replayed their best scenes several times after I first see them, and laugh each time as I watch the scene unfold.
Case in point: the Reverend Jim Ignatowski on the TV show “Taxi” is taking the written exam to become a cab driver. He doesn't know the answer to one of the questions, and whispers to his cohorts a few feet away, “What does a yellow light mean?”
To which they reply, also whispering, “Slow down!” Jim looks puzzled, a little exasperated, and asks them again, this time more slowly, “WHAT...DOES...A...YELLLOOOWWW...” This goes on two or three more times, and I can't contain myself. I am consumed by idiot laughter, and I play it again and again, just to laugh some more. My wife wonders sometimes about me.
The silliness within has begun to re-emerge with Noah. A couple weeks ago – I don't know where it came from – I was standing in the doorway of his bedroom, and he was in the center of the room, a foot or two away from me.
I looked at him, and said “Jump,” and I jumped a few inches in the air. When I landed, Noah was consumed by idiot laughter. When he collected himself, he looked at me and shouted “Jump!” We both leaped into the air, and had a good laugh at ourselves. He's since elaborated on the game by saying “Ready?” (It comes out like “Weddy?”) and bends his knees, ready to jump. I, of course, bend my knees as well, and together we jump, and laugh.
He is fascinated by what appear to an adult to be the simplest things – the opening and closing of a door, for instance. He has a game now where I sit on a chair in his bedroom. He goes to the door, shuts it, runs down the hallway to his “Amma,” (my wife Jan), and runs back down the hallway toward the bedroom where I sit, waiting. He opens the door slowly, and I feign surprise and fear. He is contorted by laughter and repeats the drill, again and again. We have a ball.
Yesterday, I took him outside, and we went for a walk in his wagon. As we always do, I found a small broken stick on the sidewalk, and gave it to him. As he rolls down the sidewalk in the wagon, he drags the stick, and we talk about what we see – the 16-year-old friendly cat a couple doors down, who sidles over to greet us, the spooky decorations on the houses for Halloween, the ambulance with its sirens, the concrete pig decorating a lawn, the black squirrel running by.
The talk is almost nonstop, mostly by me. In between our conversations, I sing a couple verses of “Elmo's Song” to him, and he appears to like it. He almost never complains, and is almost always in a good mood. And I couldn't care less who hears me sing.
Yesterday, in the backyard, he noticed his dog Gretta rubbing the side of her body along a cyclone fence, itching herself. The bottom of the fence is less than a foot away from the edge of the driveway, and a narrow strip of grass lies between. Its width varies along its length, so it's tricky for him to walk the strip of grass along the fence. At times he can place both his feet in the strip and walk forward slowly, at other times he has to lift one foot to the driveway, leaving the other foot below on the grass.
He appears to be genuinely challenged by the uneven surfaces, and will do this for up to 15 minutes. I hold his hand to break a potential fall to the concrete, but the perambulation is all his.
Yesterday, it reminded me of a wonderful novel I read years ago, in which the protagonist practices a physical move with a friend many times over the years, as they grow up together. In the climax of the book, they find themselves in a situation in which the move is essential to saving the lives of several young children.
Tonight, my wife and I are heading back up to Noah's home, to see him go out for Trick or Treat. He says something that sounds like “Dwick u Dwee.” We will be there for only 20 minutes. At 18 months old, Noah doesn't get to go to many houses, but I want to see him in his costume, and to see him enjoy himself. It's only been a few hours, and I miss him already.
I remember reading years ago an article about broken families, and the notion of “quality” time that a non-resident dad may use to maximize enjoyment with his children – a trip to the zoo, say, or going to get ice cream. And I say Amen to that – it's gotta be a tough situation.
But I had to agree with the author's conclusion that it's quantity time that often makes the difference in a relationship. It's the downtime when you're talking with each other, it's the silence in the room, it's laughing together at a funny scene on TV. Even, say, just jumping together.
Beautiful--how blessed you and Jan have been by that one life, so much fun. Enjoy him and wishing you many more! We've learned through our own children growing up how quickly they grow.
ReplyDeleteLove it. Keep up with the blog.
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