A couple nights ago I got to babysit our two grandchildren.
My wife had to leave for part of the evening (how convenient!) so I had the two kids all to myself. My granddaughter is
four and a half, and my grandson is a year and a half. And I was born during
the Harding administration.
I got ready by chugging a five-hour energy drink and
strapping on body armor. Just kidding.
Actually I got ready by childproofing our living room a little
bit. I moved the big matches on the fireplace from the hearth to the mantle,
put away a container of pens and pencils, and stored my wife’s cross-stitch
project in the closet.
Then I dragged the coffee table out of the way, and slid the
big leather chair in front of the loveseat. That way we could hurl ourselves
from one to the other without being impaled on the corner of the table. And by “we”
I mean, of course, the grandkids. I didn’t actually hurl myself, though I did
lurch, stumble, and wobble a couple times.
We had a great time. We watched Thomas the Train on Netflix
and sang the songs together. We all made loud, crazy noises and ran laps around
the furniture. We played tag, with me holding my grandson on my shoulders while
my granddaughter easily outran us. We dropped tennis balls in the dog’s water
dish. Then we got our own water to drink and also to pour onto the loveseat. We
hid under our blankees and snuck up on one another. It was pretty fun.
So finally I needed a breather. I sank down onto the hearth, and as I did, I heard a small sound. “Snap.”
My wife loves plants, nurtures them as if they were living
things. Which, technically, they might be. Anyhow, she has a big
green one (sorry if that’s too horticultural for you) on the hearth.
One stem of the big green plant sticks out sideways, the plant’s attempt, I
assume, to “go to the light” or whatever.
Or I guess I should say it used to stick out. Because I sat on it and broke it clean off, as Dirty Harry used to say.
Oops.
As I held the broken stem in my hand, I became aware that
both grandkids had stopped running around and were watching me. “Nana is not
going to like this very much,” I intoned. “Nana is going to be really upset with you,” my granddaughter
agreed.
I stuck the ten-inch branch back into the dirt, hoping maybe
it would grow again, and that my wife wouldn’t notice. My granddaughter tried
to help by covering the stump with one of the leaves. We sat and contemplated some
more. “I’m going to have to tell her,” I finally said.
Both kids looked at me solemnly. It was quiet for another
long moment.
Finally my granddaughter said, with great wisdom, “Just say
you’re sorry.”
