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April 16, 2006

Holidays are for making memories

We all slept late. My daughter is away, on a trip planned before she realized it would include Easter. Her son, Dylan, is staying with Joe and me, and eggs and chocolate are up to us. This weekend we have been to a reptile zoo, colored eggs, played video games, and hung out together, all three of us reading books while the blues played in the background.

Dylan wakes up to his Easter basket, a shower, an organic chocolate-chip muffin and orange juice in quick succession. His father is coming to take him around to see other relatives before Easter dinner,

John remembers his own childhood, always a new suit for Easter, and has bought his son a brand new suit -- his first since infancy -- and new socks and shoes.

I was present at Dylan's difficult birth, and I will always be in his corner. I am very kind to him, never harsh or critical. I do not have to discipline him, I'm Grandma. I defend him fiercely, and tell him the truth. He looks me in the eye, checking for signals in strange situations, trusting. He is polite, agreeable, intelligent and direct. And a lot of fun.

When his sleepover friend fell asleep Friday night and Dylan lay next to him, resigned but not tired, I asked in a whisper if he wanted to bake cookies with me. It's the sort of surprise I like to be.

So when I suggest he needs to take a shower and put on the suit, he agrees, and just does it. I never had a little boy, so we figure out the pre-tied necktie together. I do know about pockets sewn shut, and cut them open. I take a picture of him in his Easter outfit, one I know will be looked at frequently through the years.

Dressed and waiting, Dylan is more interested in the toys in his Easter basket than in the candy -- a Yo-Yo, a foot bag, and especially a little electronic recall game. When I asked last night if he wanted to put out carrots for the Easter bunny, he nodded and raided the fridge. I do not know if he still believes, but we pretend.

Later, when that handsome little dude has left for his round of visiting, I'm pouring marinade over lamb and a rush of pure love brings fierce tears to my eyes. I hope he smiles at his memories of Grandma after I'm gone.

Posted by Sheila Lennon  at 1:58 PM | Permalink

Comments

Posted by: Alan Fraser on April 16, 2006 3:40 PM

Posted by: donna on April 16, 2006 4:35 PM

Posted by: Sheila on April 16, 2006 9:59 PM