Cholley

His name is Charlie. I call him Cholley (rhymes with trolley). He is divine. A miracle incarnate. And I’m not referring to his resemblance to a cherub. The first thing you might experience if you encounter my grand baby is a ROAR. He wants to impress us and so he roars like a dinosaur. He loves dinosaurs and he has a word for triceratops. He mumbles era and then makes the tops pop out of his wet red lips. He is so smart, I think to myself, because he is and because a lot of my life has been in these foundational moments. Gathering language. Foraging toys like ball point pens and balls. Climbing new couch pillow mountains. And slaying a nap in a fresh diaper. This is the world I love to live in.

Beginnings. Newness. Progress that amazes and wows the grown ups. He amazes us. He pretends to wash his hands in a child sized outdoor kitchen at the playground. I see genius. I see his remarkable brain working overtime. I see neurons connecting, forging bridges to new thoughts and I know how hard it is to be this small human. I spend my work days with children who do not learn in typical ways. I have a child of fifteen who has disabilities. The world of not connecting neurons and not gathering the next word or even phoneme is almost normal to me so this grandchild, this wonderchild is all the more miraculous in his typical progress. How do I gain access to this beloved child who is more accustomed to his parents while living states away from me, his LaLu?

Three approaches to building a relationship with a small person-

1. Watch

2. Join

3. Create routine

I watch and notice without having to think about it. It is instinctive. I cannot go in for a kiss or a hug. He is a dancer, a sprinter, a jumper. He feels respected by my watching. He is grateful for my being a spectator to his work and joy. I copy his play. I put my hand in his space tentatively and if he doesn’t move away, I know I can go in. I make my plastic horse neigh and buck. I back off again and watch and smile and repeat his words or sound effects. I touch his curls and he moves to the other side of the play scene. He is working he has no time or desire for my caress. I add new words and repeat his approximations as if his words are as precious as Mary Oliver’s poems. I am devoted to his play. His work. Because I enjoy it and because this is where relationships develop. And this is how he learns. He will learn without me. His mama knows all these tricks instinctually. It is in her DNA and it is her lived experience. His genes and life will propel him forward whether or not I visit and read Pete the Cat.

My most treasured moments are when there is no hurry when transitioning to the car. There is a treasure to be found in the drive way. A pebble. A weed. A puddle. I sigh and let my shoulders uncrunch. I feel the shine of getting it right, typing the luscious word, the cake coming out fluffy, remembering all the words to the longest prayer I ever memorized- Hail Holy Queen, floating in a pool with my fat being a lovely resource, receiving a hug when my friend arrives for a visit, a Mary statue waiting in a thrift store, peeling off the backing of a new bumper sticker and flattening it slowly to the warm back windshield, The purity of this moment and knowing it’s value is my talent. I practice this skill. I practice waiting for children, letting them lead. Saying yes with my actions. Hurrying is disrespectful and yet so necessary in the lives of people in our society so offering time is an ultimate trust giver. Allowing the unfolding of discovery, while knowing the words to a song that illustrates the play- like These boots remade for walking or I love you like a rock. I love you like a rock of ages or I love you a bushel and a peck, a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck is my offering. Watch and hum and wait and hope for safety. Do not interrupt the dignity of risk. Do NOT say “Be careful’ or “DON’T fall”. Those are stupid useless words. I was sidetracked, Sorry- Watch. Enjoy their genius. Hum a tune and validate their work with your presence.

When there is a lull, a whine, a need to distract, a mama who wants a shower, this is when my watching will benefit us. I know he loves water, roaring, jumping, running round and round his humongous kitchen island. He hates his mama leaving the room right now because that is his job to ensure her attention and security. He has figured out he is a separate entity and he has figured out that objects disappear and reappear. He is certain he should keep his mama reappearing often. He walks away. He calls her name plaintively. Maahhhhhhm. Maahhhhhhhm. She reassures. All is golden. How do I enter into this safe space this heavenly union? I join. I become an invitation of his favorite activities. I remind him of his crouching down and directing One, Two, Five….Go by reenacting his familiar scenario. I roar a dinosaur. I hand him the triceratops. And if that fails, I turn on the hose. I push the swing. I fish gravel out of driveway edges and I line up the rocks on a brick ledge. He chooses the best piece of gravel and throws it fiercely into the collected rainwater. This relationship, this moment, this sentenceless conversation is as valued as any other. I am lucky, I think. I do not believe all adults have this ability to give over to the child. To respect the child without demand. To truthfully enjoy the gravel activity. To accept the hose soaking my dress and Birkenstocks. To interpret the babble for his intentions. To be happy at the kids table. To sing the song again. To push the swing more. To read the same book.

Which leads me to the routines. He craves them. The ritual his mama has of clipping his pacifier to his t-shirt just right. The ritual of rough and tumble play with Dad before bed. The ritual of being carried into the room for a diaper change and before the dreaded changing table, he is held up to the light switch to illuminate the dark nursery with the black out curtains which were a sham assurance of sleep for his parents. The joy in the click of that switch. Our new ritual of mommy running an errand and LaLu unfurling the hose and lefty loosey at the spigot.

There is beauty and power in saying more and getting more. The transference of information that comes with a spoken word approximation is my showing of understanding. Like the prayer of St Francis Seek to understand instead of being understood The observance of his babbles becomes observances of words becomes observances of sentences and I will be his conversation partner. I will be the recipient of the thoughts of a teenager more than a decade from now all because I celebrated the first words. He raises his arm from his carseat as he faces away from the passenger and driver. he says something similar to more and we tell him Hot. Hot. Just a minute Charlie. French fries are coming and he waits with his little hand in the air patiently without whining or tears because he trusts our unhallowed routine. We fill his hand with a French fry cooled by the Honda air conditioner. He bites the tip tentatively and says hot to me his LaLu, his back seat company, and I say No hot. It is ready for you. Mama cooled it off. He eats it. Allowing his Mama to unclench her shoulders. Charlie prefers only fruit. The starch and fat of the fries will coat his sensitive belly from all the acid. Just like his Uncle Tuck.

And the magic I experience of that undeniable cycle. The blessed routines of motherhood. Of the repeats. His blonde curls being his mamas. His wide grin being a Rodi grin. His purposeful walk reminding me of George’s bustling. His digestion and lack of sleep bringing back heaps of memories of baby Tuck. The names of each particular dinosaurs (Gigantosauraus, pachycephalosaurus…) reminding me of the intensity of Tuck’s reading. Rereading rhyming books with BeBe especially Louella Mae has Run Away. Waiting an extra second, like Dolly required, before interrupting. Bath time in so many kitchen sinks. Including the times my mom baptized grandchildren without permission. Charlie’s moments of observation echoing my little observers now all grown up. Folding clean miniature laundry. Lifting the reluctant child, heaving them into the safety of the carseat and wrangling buckles and straps to the exact specifications of firefighters. All these memories. All these rituals. The real highlight reel.

Addy, my oldest in the photo above. And Charlie in the photo below my grandbaby and Addy’s son

And the lack of pride or need for appearances that I have divested over the years of parenting my six. Mim wants me to dance at outdoor concerts when everyone else is spectating and picnicking. I can do that. I am able to value a video of myself reading a silly book to baby Cholley even though I have dark circles and an abundance of chub. I know that my people, the people who love me, will treasure that video of my interactions with my first grandchild and will not notice the fat I carry. Charlie and Mim have no need for my arrogance. They want the me of love and affection. The me that revels in their presence and hides behind trees that are skinnier than me. The me that gives over wholly. And one day, when or if things get rough, like this past month was with Mim- when emergency rooms are crowded, when ex husbands doubt the monumental-ness of the struggle, I won’t shy away. I won’t worry about opinions and societal rules. I will be their champion. My mothering, my grandmothering is quiet and patient and silly. My nurturing is unassuming and unfurling like a resurrection fern. But when children get sick or children are hurt, my mothering is fierce. I can be their lighthouse, their bear, their advocate, their researcher, their activist. I will never be perfect. I will make mistakes. I will overdraw the checking account. Eat cold pizza for breakfast. Neglect my inbox. Be unaware of marital affairs and greedy friends. But I am a constant. I know this childrearing like the back of my hand. My love for children is immense- an ocean of unconditional love.

Lefty loosey, righty tighty. Let’s play in the hose before the next afternoon thunder shower.