At Grandma's House

            Except for the very last thing Joelle does as I walk her home, we have a fine time Thursday afternoon.  She is very excited at the prospect of going to Grandma’s house.  As we stroll across the street, she makes conversation in her 2-year-old fashion:  “House?!  Piano.  Tree.  What’s that?”  She squeals in sheer delight as we open the front door.

            For the next hour and a half she keeps me busy.  Naturally, she wants to play the piano.  She loves to get up on the piano bench and hit the keys as well as carefully turn the pages of the beginner’s book I play from.  There is a little confusion over music terminology, though:  when she points at the notes, she says “pictures” or “flute.”  I decide to clear things up by showing her my flute and playing it.  When my back is turned toward my music and she is quiet, I mistakenly think she is a captive audience, but instead she is helping herself to my water at the dining room table.  She loves the straw, and fortunately the plastic glass has a lid.

            Another activity Joelle requests is for me to pick her up in front of the music stand and switch on the stand light.  “On” and “off” are still challenging concepts, so she always asks by saying “Light off.”  Smiles and laughter ensue as I switch the light on.

            When I tell her “no” to her first requests to look at pictures on my smartphone, we explore other pictures instead.  First, we look at the digital picture frame in my kitchen.  Again, I’m holding her so she can see, and today her interest is drawn more to the items on the windowsill and the bunch of bananas on the counter.  When she says, “down,” I comply and follow her back to my office.  There she stands in front of the full-length mirror and talks to herself, gesturing toward my desk and saying “computer.”  Usually it’s just “pewter,” so I happily note the extra syllable.  I hold her on my lap and we peruse her mommy’s Facebook page, which has plenty of pictures and videos of he and her brother.  Her favorite is the one of her playing the piano at my house.

            Now, before I go any further, you have to realize that I am imposing a false order on today’s events.  In reality, just about anything I mention here is done multiple times.  We move fluidly from one activity to the next every couple minutes.  Back and forth, forth and back.  Again and again.

            The toy room does not get much attention today, just a quick look through a couple books.  There are more interesting things to explore at Grandma’s house than the toys that Mommy periodically sends over.  Surprisingly, today Joelle neither asks to color at the table or to touch the seashell decoration that hangs from a ceiling hook in the dining room.

            She goes to stand in front of my closed bedroom door and says, “Room?”  As always, I answer her one-word question with a full-sentence question:  “Do you want to go into Grandma’s bedroom?”  She makes her usual reply, “okay,” adding an affirmative nod of her head.

            There are so many exciting things to explore in my room:  the chapstick, the eyedrops, and the hand lotion on my bedside table; the bench at the end of my bed; the half bath; and the array of items on the antique crates.  She asks for the items she cannot reach.  I get the stacking Russian dolls and we bring them out to the piano bench where she helps me take them apart, pretends to drink from the lower halves—which do look like small cups—and says, “Coffee?”  A little later she finds two cleaning cloths for my glasses as well as my arthritis gloves.  After she wipes her nose with one of the microfiber cloths, I make a mental note to finally wash it.  I put on one of the gloves, and she is entranced.  She holds out her hand, and I pull the other glove on up her arm; then, we wave at each other for a while.  She pretends to talk on the phone, gloved hand to her ear:  “Hello.  Mommy?” followed by her brand of gibberish that she uses so well to fill in the gaps of her sentence skills. 

            But the highlight of the day—after we share a banana—is the old lanyard she finds in a container on the lowest of my crate boxes.  It belonged to my sister, who worked at the University of North Carolina.  I find a small picture to put in the now-empty plastic casing, and Joelle is delighted.  She calls it “new” (I think) as she holds both ends and flings her arms up and down, stomping her feet in a dance.  I smile, thinking how my sister would have enjoyed this moment, so I decide to take a video of Joelle playing with that old lanyard.  Then we must sit on the couch so she can watch herself on my smartphone.  She finds parts of her playtime very funny, so we watch the two-minute video three times in a row.  Before the third viewing, I tell her that this is the last time and then we will go back to her house. (I learned recently that leaving my house is easier for her if I tell her when we are going and if she can take something home.)

            Today that something is the lanyard.  After we cross the street and start walking through the front yard to her house, she stops and reaches down for something she sees in the grass.  It is in her hand before I realize it is a bird’s egg, and before I can take it from her, she squeezes it hard.  Pop!  Rotten slime squirts out, hitting my hand, the lanyard, and my phone.  I get her to drop the broken shell and hurry her along to the front door.  The smell is horrible beyond words, and, I must add, doesn’t not wash off with the slime.  Dana gets Joelle cleaned up, and I wash my hands.  I grab the lanyard and my phone on my way out.  Lanyard, cell phone case, and protective screen are now in the trash.  I’ve wiped down the phone the best I can and have scrubbed my hands with dish soap and then with lemon juice.

            The lanyard is one of those little things I did not have the heart to throw away after my sister died in 2009.  I’m glad it had its last fling with my granddaughter. I hope that the rotten egg smell in both houses dissipates soon.  And even though our afternoon ended on such a slimy note, I am glad I get to enjoy my house through the eyes of my granddaughter.