Yesterday, my nine-month-old grandson and I engaged in a blowing raspberries contest. We both love this game, which is obvious by the expressions on our faces every time we play it. That turns out to be several times a day if it’s a good day.
Not to brag, but I’ve got the “grandma raspberry blowing” pretty much mastered. He definitely has, if quantity is anything to go by: plenty of bubbles, lots of spit in the air, and drooling like an open water faucet into his waiting bib. Which gets changed as often as his diaper. A river appears to run through both ends.
So, yesterday, I was watching his raspberry drool into his bib and thought, “Today it’s him and his drool, but down the road a piece, it’s going to be me doing the drooling. I’m not there yet, but if there is to be a future, drooling is in mine. Diapers too.
And that got me thinking. Babies’ and elderly people’s lives are a mirror image. And it’s not just the drool and diapers. Here’s how I see it: You’re born, and for the longest time, all you do is sleep, wake up, drink a liquid concoction, and go back to sleep. Repeat. That sounds a lot like a lot of elderly people I have known, tossing back those cans of Ensure between ever-lengthening naps. This has me written all over it.
From liquids, a baby moves on to mushy — mushy peas, mushy carrots, mushy strawberries and raspberries, yogurt and applesauce. And everything is a finger food, which means a good percentage of breakfast, lunch and dinner is smeared across baby’s face. It’s the same approach for the aged. We can’t let grandma near a fork or spoon for fear she’ll poke her eye out. Far better to wipe the mashed potato out of her hair when she’s done gumming her food.
Then there’s entertainment. When my getting-to-be three-year-old is watching his dinosaur or truck shows on TV, the nine-month-old (drooling a waterfall) watches spellbound. And that’ll be me when the time comes. They’ll sit me in my rocking chair, tie me in so I don’t up and decide to go somewhere I’m not supposed to, and set me in front of the telly. I’ll be happy as a clam.
My not-yet three-year-old loves to play cars, and he loves it when grandma plays cars with him. Grandma, it turns out, loves playing cars. I didn’t use to, ever. For years, my younger brother played with his toy cars, which I thought was the stupidest thing. This, coming from a girl who thought tea parties with my dolls were the height of refined entertainment. I have no granddaughters, so no dolly tea parties and dress up in my future. But it’s no matter; it turns out I love playing cars.
What’s next? Large print books with pictures on every page?
For our listening pleasure this morning, The Byrds …