Babysitting the grandkids
“Sure,” I said, “Why not?” They love their granny, right?
As soon as they rode up in the car, my grandson (we’ll call him Frankie) catapulted out of the back seat and grabbed the large branch of my tree, swinging himself around and landing flat in my flower bed. Isn’t that adorable? My granddaughter, (we’ll call her Sasha) refused to get out of the street. She sat with her head in her hands, sprawling her feet out over the curb. I figured all they needed was a little understanding to get them to comply. Suddenly, the ice cream truck ventured into the neighborhood. They came alive with joy at the thought that I would actually pay $3.75 for a “torpedo popsicle.” In your dreams, I thought as I sauntered into the house. I figured we’d go to the store later and buy a 12 pack for the same price.
Next, they called out that they were hungry. So, I rummaged through the food cupboard, which, if you’ve ever been to my house, doesn’t take long, and came up with their favorite — peanut butter and jelly. Yay! I began to make the sandwiches at the request of my grandson.
Frankie: I want two pieces of bread.
Sasha: Why is the bread brown? I want white bread.
Frankie: Me, too.
Gramma: It’s whole wheat bread, better for ya.
Frankie: No gramma — don’t cut it. I want it folded.
Sasha: Gramma, I want mine cut. No, not that way, the other way. (Frankie drops his sandwich face down on the floor.)
Gramma: I’ll have to make you another one.
Sasha: I want milk.
Frankie: Yeah, chocolate milk.
Gramma: No chocolate. I only have white.
Sasha: I want the red cup.
Frankie: No, it’s mine. I want the red cup. Gramma, did-in’t you give ME the red cup?
Sasha: (now crying) I don’t like the BLUE cuhhppp.
Frankie: Can I have ice in mine?
Sasha: (sobbing) Me, too.
Frankie: I want two ice cubes.
Sasha: How come he got two? I want two, too. (now screaming)
I want to drink chocolate milk in my red cup with two ice cubes!
Frankie: I want something else to drink.
Gramma: Me, too. See ya later — I’m goin’ to the bar.
— Mari’ Emeraude
This essay is an excerpt from Mari’ Emeraude’s book, Your Face Will Freeze Like That and other stuff mom told us. Visit her author page here.