Wanting Gramma

“I want Gramma”, a high pitched whine pleads.

‘Me too, kid’, I think, but that’s not an option. “Gramma had to go out, she’ll be back later”.

“But I Waaaaant Grammmmmaaaa.”

‘Who doesn’t’? I want to reply, “I know you do honeybunch but that’s not going to happen.”

Cue the waterworks. See, Gramma had to attend a funeral and has left Grandpa and I to tend after 3 children under the age of 3 1/2. Fun times indeed. Gramma is current warning siren impersonator’s favourite, who proceeds to inform me at a pitch that would make dogs cringe that she wants. “Gramma. Mommy. Gramma Gramma. Gramma Kerr. Mommy. Gramma.” During this tribute to matriarchal lineage she manages to start at the top of the stairs and cry n’ whine all the way to the bottom of the stairs. That’s thirteen steps and a landing spread out over a solid 15 minutes. The child should consider free diving or opera singing as I don’t think she drew a breath over that span.

At the end it went from “I hate you! Gramma’s my favourite”! To which at this point I can’t say I was overly impressed with my niece either, when she heard the other two returning from a street sojourn with Grandpa. “We have to put away the tiny things because the little ones can’t play with them.” Tears stop. Whine ends.
And she’s fine for the next while.

Time drags. Grandpa asks me what time it is. 11 O’clock. “Is that all?” I wearily nod.

Around 11:39 the two wee ones decide to try to climb into the playpen for their afternoon naps. Which I fully support only I need to feed them first. Feeding children this age can be… a challenge. Which I manage to mostly succeed in doing. Hot dog weiners (no buns), half a peanut butter and jam sandwich plus yogurt (for the littlest one).
High-pitched moan liked her hotdog for at least two bites, but since she’s been sick for 3 days I wasn’t going to force her to eat any more.

Nap time at noon! Works for me.

“I’ll put them down”, offers Grandpa.
“Okay, but they need to be changed.” 
“Are you offering to do that?” Thanks Dad, 70 years old, 3 kids, 4 grandkids and he’s never changed a diaper. Must be nice.
Fortunately for me, both diaper wearers are only wet, not poopy. I don’t mind changing wet diapers but uncles are not supposed to be required to change poopy ones. I checked the Online Uncle Manual.

Then it was naptime, all three were asleep when Gramma arrived home early. Thankfully. Especially as about 20 minutes later, my nephew awakes with a scream. I’m no expert at official baby cries but this one sounds painful. He slept for less than an hour, but something is wrong. He’s been sick too but he wants NOTHING to do with Gramma, or me, but he sits in my lap making the sounds of a wounded goblin before finally Grandpa rouses from the couch and things are just fine, as he requires some Grandpa time.

Now it is off to pick up the eldest niece from skating.
Only, she doesn’t seem to be there. A lovely mother calls me by name asking if I’m looking for my niece. Which I am. “She wasn’t here today.” Hmmm, okay, that’s odd. Her son asks “why are you here, Mackenna isn’t”? “I’d rather find out for sure she isn’t here, rather than leaving her at the skating rink.”
She wasn’t at the rink, she had a sleepover.

I return home. Everyone is awake. I really should have pulled into the pub and called them from there to come pick me up after a fair few beverages.

At least I avoided changing the next set of diapers.
Seems everyone was ‘wanting Gramma’ by the end, even Grandpa (or he’d have had to change his first poopy diaper of his life.)

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One thought on “Wanting Gramma

  1. Pingback: Freedom (1000 Words) | Byron and his backpacks

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