A Different Thursday

For most of the summer, we've been watching our grandson, Isaiah, every Thursday. The little tyke and his mom head over here early in the morning, and Isaiah's daddy picks him up in the afternoon. But starting this week, Isaiah has begun going to a family daycare provider, so it was quiet around here yesterday.

I'll be the first to admit that I'm not a babysitter-type person. Watching Isaiah (or granddaughter Bernadette) full-time are not jobs I've lobbied to have. Much as I adore my grandbabies, I know my strengths and weaknesses — and a daycare provider I'm not.

But I love to be around the babies, and watching them grow and change is a greater joy than I could have imagined. All of which is to say.that yesterday I missed the feel of a little head on my shoulder and of little arms around my neck, the softness of baby skin and the dearness of hands so plump that the wrist line looks like a bracelet.

I missed the devilish smile when Isaiah bangs the cabinet doors or opens up the crisper drawer, finds an apple and bites into it. Watching babies: so much of it is funny, so much of it is tedious, so much of it is tactile. So much of it is all of these at once. 

Before there were grandchildren I thought I remembered what it was like to have a baby in the house, But it turns out, I had forgotten. 

(Isaiah and friend plot their escape.)