The more things change

The more they stay the same…

Friday night my youngest grandson, now twenty-three months old and still non-verbal, pushed me away when I tried to cuddle him to sleep.  He wanted to lie down on his own.  Just like most relationships, the closeness gives way too soon to newly found independence.

I wasn’t ready for that change.  The Worm understood.

Last week the bedroom first occupied by my oldest grandson was being transformed into a forest complete with tree, butterflies, and flowers.  Long ago her mom’s room had been filled with hand-painted daisies on yellow window boxes, matching yellow daisy tie quilts.  Now the quilts sit in my linen closet.  The matching doll quilts are in the garage rafters.

Just eight years ago the GAP and I had painted brushstroke by brushstroke a border of Wallace and Gromit sheep around a blue nursery for the firstborn grandchild.  Those sheep had lovingly watched over the Bug, now the Worm and the Mouse.  The Bug had moved onto another room, again hand-painted by Mom and Grandma, to resemble castle walls. 

Now the Worm was going to have her room redecorated.  Tearfully she gave way to change.  Almost change.  The GAP promised to keep two sheep behind the door for reminiscent purposes.

Each child is too quickly leaving childhood behind.  The Worm has outgrown the title of “messiest girl in the world.”  However, after a few minutes of turning the watch of the two-year-old Mouse over to the six-year-old Worm, he now might be deemed the messiest child in the world, complete with green hands and face, and an empty permanent marker.  The real problem about green was that it made it difficult to tell him apart from the turtle.  Maybe change is merely a delicate balance — a constant, as it were.

The Worm hopped on my lap, and said, “Do that thing where you tell me to stop wiggling.”  I bounced her around on my knees, saying, “Stop that wiggling.  You are in so much trouble.  You’ve got to stop bouncing…” 

And she laughed like she has since she was a baby, saying, “Grandma, it’s not me.  It’s you.  You’re making me bounce.”

Related posts:

1. Life is no dress rehearsal
2. Encores and firsts
3. A grandma by any other name
4. School daze
5. Stop singing