Sunday, September 17, 2017

bouncing around

The weather gods are showing me who's boss! If I thought the night would cool off the bedrooms of the farmhouse -- I was wrong. As Snowdrop's room registered 83 and she followed her routine of snuggling in long sleeved pj's under a quilt, I could see that a brief spell of air conditioning would help her and therefore me and everyone else in the house sleep.

Fine. But this morning, the cool-off finally came. So much so that Ed commented -- my, but it's cold in here!

I was tempted to turn on the heat.

Except that looking ahead, I see another heat spell inching toward us, so that my the end of the week, I may be wishing for air conditioning again.

Do I have weather on my mind? Yep -- that and granddaughter and in this post, you get a little of both. (With more photos of her, because she is sunny by nature, even on a cloudy and cool morning.)

Wake up with a grin. She comes down and nibbles on breakfast number one.

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Bathe, then chomp on fruits at breakfast number two. Finally grandma brings out the pancakes. Yay grandma! Yay pancakes! Super yay bacon!

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More maple syrup please! (Bacon nearly all gone by the time I sit down to eat.)

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Later in the morning, I tell her it's time to go home.
But I am going grocery shopping with my babies, grandma!
Ed comments -- I hear more and more of "grandma" and less of "gaga"...

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Either calling name is okay by me. Snowdrop has four biological and two relational grandparents (for a total of six) and each has a unique nickname. Gaga, of course, wasn't really a nickname -- it was a one year old, grappling with the impossibly difficult "grandma" word.

In Poland, a grandma is a babcia, or baba for the very young. I very much remember transitioning from calling out "babu!" to "babciu!" Perhaps Snowdrop is doing the same?

In my restful moments this afternoon, I think about how pleasant it is to do nothing. Ed quickly points out that if I went to Europe less frequently, then I could do nothing much more often.
I scoff at that: it's only pleasant to do nothing when on most days I'm doing a lot.
I disagree, he comments and goes back to his reading. In a reclining position. On the couch.

Is playing with Snowdrop tiring? There is an inverse relation: as she gets older, she places fewer physical demands on me, at the same time, I am getting incrementally older. My grandma was 50 when her first granddaughter was born and she turned 52 the day before I was born. My mother was approaching her mid-fifties when her first grandchildren came onto the scene. The year Snowdrop was born I turned 63. If I ever have more grandkids, I will be well into my upper sixties.

And yet, there are days when age seems irrelevant. I pick up the shovel and attack the spring garden, or I carry a tired little girl after play because I forgot the stroller and I never notice that she is heavy or that the shovel is creating big blisters on the palms of my hands.

But today is a restful day, that's for sure. No yard work at all. Just an occasional glance, with a smile, at the lingering monarchs outside...

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... and with thoughts about how quickly and beautifully Snowdrop is soaking up the world around her.

A child takes it in. All of it. Before she leaves to return home this morning, she enters her play tent and finds her black cat there. Oh! your long forgotten cat - I comment. He is my leopard, grandma. He is very fast, you see?  She is remembering something from a nature show Ed was watching last night.

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It is one of many times when she astonishes me with her memory. As I drive her home, we pass the Arboretum and I point out how beautifully the leaves are changing in the forest there.
That's where you took my mommy when she was little... Snowdrop pipes in.
This just blows my mind! I noted that little fact the last time I took Snowdrop to the Arboretum -- now nearly a year ago! Don't ever think a young child isn't listening and learning...

(Another lily...)

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(The colorful sweep of annuals...)

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In the evening, the young family is at the farmhouse for dinner. I almost move the whole project indoors, but I reconsider. How many more meals can we enjoy outside before it becomes just too cold to linger there to the sound of birds and yes, cicadas?

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The last of this year's corn is celebrated by what appears to be a standing ovation. Not good decorum perhaps, but at the farmhouse, we tend to be relaxed. (The trout, on the other hand, is only modestly appreciated by the little one.)

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(The yogurt on a stick? Perfect ending.)

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A weekend comes to a close. The farmhouse is clean, the family well fed, the garden -- in its autumnal quiet.

To a good week ahead!