All About Papo!

My daughters arrive early to prepare for the bridal shower they are giving their sister. They have the babies in tow. Aiden now 2 ½ and Paulina at a 17 months don’t get to visit each other very often. They are eyeing each other suspiciously. Then there is a bit of poking to check each others tolerance levels. This escalates into a debate over the ownership of the big blue ball. Each child with palm against chest is tapping “mine” in baby sign. The tapping becomes more insistent and develops into verbalization with each insistent pat-pat-pat of the chest.

Aiden looks as if he’s not too sure of this sudden turn of events. He is typically the only baby in the house. Paulina is watching him intently. She does not get deterred easily and holds her ground. Suddenly, Aiden spies his grandfather through the window. “Papo, Papo!” he exclaims. The excitement not only lights up his face, but in true childlike nature, infects his whole body. Arms going, and little legs hopping, he is all about Papo.

The girls go outside with the babies to see Papo. I’m busy making a pot of beans. When I finish my task, I look out the back door and find that a train set is being set up in the back yard. Aiden is very interested in the train. It chugs and toots and whistles, but doesn’t move along very well. The girls are trying to help their Dad get the tracks right, but in the end; a few pieces of pressed wood are laid out for the train to travel along. The train occupies Aiden for a good long while. Paulina is in and out of the house in the morning before guests arrive.

When the guests do arrive, I’m not sure where to put my attention. I want to be a good hostess, yet, I have my concerns about leaving Aiden alone so long with his grandfather. Some of the injuries my children sustained in childhood, when I thought he was watching them, pop into my head. The result is that I spend my day halfway between the back door and the company. At intervals, I look outside and check on the pair to make sure all is well. Here is some of what I witness:

Aiden and Papo are standing facing each other. I see one small person looking up into the face of the other. The small figure is covered head to toe with brown, very wet looking mud. In fact, it looks to be more of the muck consistency. The small face has an expression of waiting for the next shoe to drop. The other has an expression of “what do I do now?” The small figure is ushered over to a rain barrel, where the taller person proceeds to wash away the muck. I calmly walk over to the smaller person’s mother. “Papo and Aiden are getting along well. I just hope you weren’t expecting to get your child back clean.” She shrugs as mothers of young males do, knowing full well that boys will be boys.

Meanwhile, Paulina will have nothing to do with nap time although she is cranky and sleep deprived. She clings to her mother and will not be consoled by anyone. Her mother is in a quandary as she is the party giver and has some duties to attend too. I pry Paulina out of her mother’s arms, thinking I will walk a bit and maybe get her to sleep. When I reach the back door, Papo is there saying he will take her. I start to protest saying she is very cranky and won’t go to anyone. Paulina makes me a liar, by instantly halting the crocodile tears and putting her arms out for Papo. Now it is Paulina who is all about Papo.

When next I look out the door, I see three figures seated at the picnic table, their backs to the door. Only the tops of heads are visible above the chairs left and right. One dark curly head is to the left, and a light colored head, spiked from outdoor exertion, to the right. A taller figure is in the middle. There are three plates lined up in front of them, but there is no ownership of plates. I see little hands reach across and sample whatever strikes their fancy from any plate on the table. All is quiet as the sampling continues. I leave them to their feast.

Now any young mother can handle one child, and even manage two fairly well, but I have my doubts about a grandpa, who hasn’t seen kids in the house for long while managing two small active children without trouble. When next I look out the door, I see Papo bent double and looking squarely into Aiden’s face. He is trying to impress something upon Aiden. I can tell by the look on Aiden’s face, which I have seen many times over the years on his own mother’s that he is having nothing to do with what Papo is saying. It’s a look of stubborn defiance I have come to know so well. While I’m chuckling at witnessing this expression, Aiden peels off his shoes and tosses them over the stone wall into the woods. Papo has to retrieve them, which isn’t as easy as it sounds, since Aiden’s “shoes” are a pair of camouflage crocs. Two little children make a break for it. I keep my eye on them, but Papo has the situation under control.

Aiden likes to run run run. There is no stopping him. Paulina is as quick with mischief as Aiden is fast. No problem for the magnificent Papo. He has devised a scheme of his own. In his hand he is carrying a stick about an inch think and four feet long. Whenever Aiden starts in a direction that could be trouble, Papo holds the stick out and redirects him. Who knew you could herd children like livestock? I watch and this works well with Aiden. Paulina… not so much. She will not be herded like cattle. She grabs hold of the staff and a tug of war ensues between her and Papo. She won’t let go, and Papo can’t. If he does, the grip Paulina has will send her flying. I’m not sure how this works out as I’m distracted by the festivities inside.

By the end of the day as Aiden is strapped into his car seat for home, he is nearly asleep before the car is even started. Paulina doesn’t resist being buckled in either. Both have had a full day with Papo. As we wave them goodbye, I realize what a tremendous help Andy has been to us that day, and it is my turn to be “all about Papo!”

The Crib

My granddaughter will be spending the night soon, so I had Andy take the crib out of the rafters and set it up for her. When assembled, the room started dancing with memories of rosy cheeked, sleepy eyed children that one by one had once claimed occupancy of this bed.

Gouges along the head and foot boards chronicle the eruption of baby teeth. The plastic covering, that protects the side rails from these same sharp teeth, is brittle and crumbling. The kick rod that drops one side rail is bent with over use. The mattress, purchased for the last occupant, still in reasonably good condition, yet gives up a few ghost of its own.

My minds eye is seeing the tousled heads of each of these children. I see their little faces and each individual expression as I lift them from their confinement so unique to each, is clearly remembered. This one with sensitive skin has yet another red rash on her cheek, struggles still with such troubles. The other, insistent that she climb from this bed on her own, defiantly self reliant today. The last, with a riot of curls as unruly as she, and befitting her personality, is as if dropped into the wrong decade, a flower child of modern day.

I am anticipating seeing yet another cherub face looking up at me with wide eyed innocents. Harried mothers don’t often realize how fleeting time can be. This mother, having an understanding of this on some intellectual level, was unprepared for the kaleidoscope of emotional memories one crib could evoke. The chasm of time between then and now seems immense, but in my heart it was but yesterday.

You Know You’ve Arrived When…

Milestones. It seems people chronicle their lives by the milestones they can point toward that give validation to their lives. The types of milestones are as varied as the individuals that walk this earth. Personal goals, accomplishments, overcoming obstacles and adversity, conquering challenges, and any of the subcategories that could be listed under each of these can be viewed as milestones in our lives.

When it comes to motorcycling, when do we know we have “arrived?” Is it when we pass the Rider’s Course or get our motorcycle license endorsement? Is it when we conquer the twisties and hairpin turns successfully that give us a sense of accomplishment? Do we ever feel we have truly arrived or is each milestone just another step on the journey to perfection?

It was at the hairdresser that I overheard another woman rider express how she knew she had officially become a true motorcyclist equal to any on the road. “I dropped my bike! Rode in the rain! Ate a bug!” she exclaimed with pride. I felt a kinship in the words she spoke as I have had these moments as well.

It’s been a few years since I overheard the remarks at the hair salon and they come to mind each time I realize that I’ve reached yet another milestone when it comes to riding. Unlike the woman at the salon, I have come to realize that there is never any arrival. Each milestone is but a junction in the road, a marker on the journey.

Recently, I had an opportunity to reflect on a two specific moments that I secretly feel motorcyclist enjoy as bragging rights. In my decent from the Rocky Mountain National Park, an officer stuck his hand out the window and waved me to slow down. I felt quite smug in retelling this story to my traveling companions. With hands on hips and head held high I announced that I was told to “slow down!” ME!

Today as I was riding into work, I became aware that Jade was in need of emergency repair. I remained calm, worked through the problem in my mind, and made my way to a safe spot. Without my usual anxiety, I assessed the trouble, and successfully wrenched my own repair. I took great pride in this, and mentally envisioned myself standing there with hands on hips proclaiming to my friends that “I wrenched my own bike!” It was another milestone indeed, yet hardly the end of my journey. The woman in the salon comes to my mind again. I wonder if she too now realizes that eating a bug was just the beginning.