Eight years ago I saw him emerge into this world, like a cartoon taking shape from a couple of well-drawn lines. My first grandchild. I watched him grow and learn. I watched him stumble and fall. I rocked him to sleep singing “Puff the Magic Dragon” and watched his chest rise and fall in slumber. When I visited, he’d rush to me no matter what he was doing. I was favored. I loved the hugs around my calves 
when he was too short to reach any higher and equally loved it when he sobbed when it was time for me to go. He was always my “big helper.”
He memorized books we read frequently and corrected me when I skipped parts to speed through the pages. I fondly mounted the pictures he clumsily drew on the refrigerator. I laughed whenever his mom vacuumed and he scurried to his room because he was afraid of the noise. I loved taking him on weekend trips to explore the big wide world with his grandma and grandpa, when he could barely keep up.
Now I watch a precocious young boy argue a point because of what he has learned, face the vacuum unscathed (though he does seem to conventiently find something to do in the other room when it roars), read Harry Potter books on his own (he’s on his second read for each book), do chores a little less enthusiastically, sing “Puff the Magic Dragon” to his baby brother, sneak flashlights to read in bed, and give hugs around my waist (when he’s not with friends). He still not too fond of sports, seen here disproving the fact that there’s no crying in baseball. I told him he needed to go outside more, and he answered, “Grandma, I do. Sometimes I take a book out and read under the tree.”
He talks to me about the good ole’ days, “Remember when we went to SeaWorld?” Our first trip there, he had only been a few months past a year old. It was a hot day. We’d gone to the children’s play area. Small openings in the concrete surface spouted streams of dancing water as he bent to gaze in the holes. I’d removed all but his diaper. (The GAP gasped when I told her. “Mom,” she’d said, “that’s like… like redneck.”) He’d run, from geyser to geyser, lean over and blink as frolicking waters splashed in his face. Then, fully dressed, he’d rhythmically wiggled to music in front of a full audience when we’d arrived early for a show, and received a standing ovation.
Please don’t let me forget those days. I’m going to need these memories when he turns thirteen.
Happy Birthday, Lo.
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- Wasn’t it yesterday?
- Swimmer’s gone
- Five going on twenty
- Cough up the cash
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That was a terrific birthday card.
I’m a redneck.
I’d let my kids ride in the back of a truck too, if they could go half a mile without being pulled over. Same goes with riding a bike without a helmet.
Good for you! I’m not saying let a kid run in traffic or be careless, but kids today have so many memory opportunities robbed from them. I remember riding in the back of my grandpa’s old jeep, going down the side of the LA river basin. My dad always thought a little danger kept kids from tampering so much with drugs, because they could experience “things” in the real world, instead of inside their heads. I don’t know if there’s any truth to this, but I certainly know I have wonderful memories of “redneck” activities.
Such an awesome birthday tribute to an adorable young man. Let’s hope he continues hugging you around the waist…eventually he won’t care that his friends are around when he hugs his grandma, and how sweet that’ll be. Lovely kid and lovely post! Happy birthday to him!