When people ask me why I’m willing to give up personal time and interests to have overnight play dates with my grandchildren (they call it babysitting), my answer is usually that I want my adult children to have an opportunity to spend one-on-one time together and know that their children will be safe while they are away. I recognize how much just 48 hours can strengthen a marriage, because my parents gifted time to us when we were raising our own children.
But my true motives are actually selfish. Caregiving for grandchildren creates a sacred little space of time when Grandpa and I can build deeper relationships with our grandchildren. This past week is just one example:
Sleep #1: The 2-year-old
Last night, your Mom and Dad tucked you into bed and reminded you that although they wouldn’t be there in the morning when you wake up, they will be back soon. Grandma and Grandpa will stay for a few days while Mom and Dad are gone. To illustrate, they hold up their fingers and count out the number of sleeps left until they will be home again. Six.
Six sleeps until they are here to tuck you in again.
This morning, the first sleep is over. Today was a gorgeous day and I could have been out picking fresh tomatoes, but I traded for a morning of being with you — of craning our necks up, watching the sunlight splash around in the leaves after we hung the new swing Grandpa bought you.
I needed to get my closet organized, but just for today, I traded for holding the back of your big brother’s bike seat and teaching him how to pedal backward to brake. He insisted on helping me get your parents’ mail so he could practice.
Your Mom and Dad haven’t been away together since before you were born, so the 3 of you have me and Grandpa to help you brush your teeth at bedtime. It’s OK that you dropped your toothbrush down the deep, dark hole of the drain that called to your curiosity when you were supposed to be chewing your fluoride. Grandma is experienced in taking apart sink traps for toothbrush rescue.
Sleep #2: The 7-year-old
2, 5, and 7. Grandpa and I count your years and then ours and wonder whether there is energy enough between the two of us to keep up with all three of you.
After school, I meet you on your side of the crosswalk and feel your hand in mine as we walk back toward the car that is not the car you are used to looking for after school. I see the relief in your face that I hadn’t forgotten to pick you up after all. At home, I rub your back and hand you a spoonful of peanut butter, knowing there are big emotions inside from a long day of second grade that you aren’t quite sure how to name. Your dad said you were the “man of the house” for a few days. It’s a title you are proud of, but the burden is heavy, especially when your sister messes with your Legos.
Sleep #3: The 4-year-old-who-will-be-5-next-week:
You did not like it when I tried to comb the tangles out of your hair, so we made spider glasses instead and let your hair fly. I could have been lunching with friends today, but I traded for lunch with you, tossing chocolate chips into your oatmeal in a bid to get you to take a bite because the dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets were not cooked to your liking.
I watched Grandpa’s arms fold around your shoulders as he attempted to show you how to steer the remote-controlled car he bought last Christmas. It’s been in a box until September, waiting for a night like tonight to come—a night when the temperature of the sidewalk is perfect for bare feet. He traded an evening watching the game from his recliner so the four of you could race cars in the driveway while the sun dropped low in the sky.
We listened to the hysterical giggling coming from the bathtub and knew you were up to no good.
Sleep #4: The seven-year-old:
We could have slept late in our own bed, but instead, we are up early to help find a band-aid for your pinky papercut from your Pokeman cards.
You made your own peanut butter sandwich and packed your own lunch box with a bag of fruit snacks and a packet of mini Oreo cookies.
After school, you insist you don’t like science experiments, but you watch us do one just the same. Even though you already suspect that sugar water is denser than baby oil, you want to be the first one to drop in the green plastic alien just to be sure.
Grandpa and I traded a day of pruning shrubs to see your tongues blue from snow cones.
You saved some of the treats you grabbed from the pile in the grass below the pinata at a birthday party, and shared with your siblings. It’s the kind of thing the man of the house does.
We grinned when that hole where your front teeth should be made your words sound strange. And we helped find the missing Lego pieces, then had a fencing match with plastic light sabers. You cut off both of my arms, so I lost.
Sleep #5: The 4-year-old-who-will-be-5-next-week:
We traded our evening walk for your ride to the park on your brother’s scooter. We stand with our toes in the bark chips and watch you ride in circles. Your brother sits smugly, arms folded and a sideways grin of triumph when he smiles down from the tip top of the climbing wall where he’s keeping an eye on the kingdom.
We watched the puppet show and clapped in all of the right places.
We ordered broccoli sandwiches from your store.
We stayed up way too late reading bedtime stories while images of Jupiter shone on the ceiling and you breathed in your bunk bed.
Sleep #6: The 2-year-old:
You tug on my pant leg and say, “Up, Yaya” so I lift you up to the slide again and again and again. “Up, Yaya!” I wonder if I am hearing you say my Grandma name for the first time.
We traded the comfort of our own living room to play cars on the floor and fold tiny shirts from the laundry basket. We traded a quiet dinner at home for dinner at a restaurant that serves chocolate chip pancakes and chocolate milk.
And then it is night, the last of the 6 sleeps, and tomorrow, Mom and Dad come back home.
You are in my lap in the rocking chair in the dark. I hear your siblings settling down in the room next door while Grandpa tickles their toes under the covers.
6 sleeps is not enough. I am feeling your fuzzy little head under my chin and watching your eyes drift closed. I breathe in the fragrance of baby shampoo. I feel a wave of grief wash over me as I realize I may not ever get to rock you or anyone else to sleep in this lifetime. I fight back the despair of that loss by thinking about days ahead when I will sit in a camp chair and help you roast a marshmallow as the stars begin to peek through the pine trees. Or, I might watch your fingers curve over the keys at a piano recital. With luck, I’ll take photos of you in your cap and gown. There is still time for more memories.
It is dark and still.
I hold you long after I should have settled you in with your favorite blankets and your stuffed giraffe. What a gift to trade a week of our quiet retirement to be with you. A few gentle moments to live in a world again where there are bandaged pinkies, root beer floats on the porch after lunch, rain boots by the back door, and fingerprints on the stainless steel.
Six precious sleeps.
