"Bea (the one year old), should be in bed no later than 6:00. Lulu, not later than 6:30, and the boys around 7:00 p.m.," my daughter scrolls as she marches towards the door on her way to a mountain biking course in the mountains.
Not tonight.
"And there's tortillas in the outside fridge and there's chicken too."
It's not that we intentionally disobey her smooth captain's orders, it's just when the captain leaves the ship, there's mutiny. Always. And it isn't us.
If our grandchildren spoke in a rough language, they would say, "Suckers."
We are soft, kind, enjoy their company, hate to be strict, grandparent suckers for the antics and playfulness of children under seven.
Blissful, but only when we disregard the tight control of the captain. Having all the children fed, bathed, pajam-ed and quartered by her strict schedule brings grandparent angst. Which we didn't sign up for. We signed up for play, giggles, and cuddles.
When the door slams, we move outside. Weather permitting-always.
It's a glorious fall afternoon. The boys move Grandpa to the trampoline where they will wear him out and I will catch him sleeping 20 minutes later. No problem, as both little girls have awoken from naps and I am the playground supervisor. Grandpa sleeps until I sneak close for a photo. He can smell me coming with my camera.
Theo wants the jungle gym turned right side down (upside down and in the sandbox for mowing the lawn). He walks in the triangles like a circus performer walking on a rotating ball--until Bea, still crawling comes too close.
We opt to enclose the dome and blankets are retrieved. Then a king size sheet.
Time to pick grapes which are processed (de-stemmed and snacked upon) under the dome, where we teach the boys how to make juice Italian style--in theory only, but their little minds explore with curiosity as they (in their minds' eyes) remove their shoes, stomp on the grapes, and watch the juice flow out from the large vats.
Bea shoves handfuls of grapes into her mouth, and when she's had enough of the sweet, she turtles over to the sandbox and scoops mouthfuls of savory sand. Yum. Soon, Theo and Lulu join her and with shovels in their hands, endlessly and seemingly without a purpose, shovel. Shovel, shovel, shovel.
The boys keep sneaking into the house and into the snack cupboard. After several retrievals of salt water taffy and graham crackers, I decide it's time to pull out the tortillas. I also find leftover scrambled eggs and pull out a white cheese to melt on the tortillas, but the white cheese must be yellow.
Tough love. I make the tortillas with the white cheese. Bea is not picky ( hey she eats sand!), and clears her table top of eggs, avocado and white cheese tortilla. Lulu, always a good eater. Seb, I believe, sidesteps the real dinner and eats more salt water taffy. Amidst the chaos of suckers in charge, he somehow gets away with this as he does with the tin of chocolate chip cookies.
It's a free for all!
When I realize it's past 6:00 p.m, and the baby is not in bed, not had a bath, but has eaten, I quickly clear the sink and plunk her in. She is delighted. As are her brothers who make her laugh. The faucet runs over her almost bald head. Toddler Lulu waits her turn. Two in, the boys decide they too want to bathe in the sink. Why not? They will probably fit.
Bea is ready for bed by 6:30 ish. But she's so darn cute and loves books. When I ask her if she wants to read another one she jumps and grunts which clearly speaks, "Yes." She folds back into my arms, relaxed, a reader in the making.
Lulu loves books too, but uses them as the ultimate stall. By 8:30 p.m., I have succumbed to "One more," many, many times. But this time it isn't only reading that has delayed her bedtime: it's singing. Each time I finish a song, she wants more, and I can't resist, because she is trying to learn each song. I am witnessing one of the miracles of a child's brain and her quick learning through melody. Old McDonald had a farm is a favorite. She asks for Popcorn Popping several times. Each time the popcorn pops, I vigorously jiggle her--which probably wakes up every almost-sleeping-step to slumber. On the fifth or sixth singing of each song, she has the words down just a little better. How can I interrupt miracles?!?
She must be exhausted, and my tender heart agrees to just rock her. I squeeze her so tight to my body that when I feel her neck, it's damp with perspiration.
Tony fares no better. It's after 8:30, when I pass by the boys' room and he's in the midst of intrigue and courtly warfare.
All is well. My only goal for the night is for the little ones to be in bed and almost asleep before their mother is home. Every mother needs a break from the bedtime ritual of four happy, active, children.
Besides, why should she have all the fun?
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