Snow Day

Finny woke up early crying his head off. Sometimes the sight of me walking into his room is enough to calm him down, but not this morning. This morning he didn’t want to get out of his crib, but he didn’t want to stay in it. He didn’t want me to hold him, but he didn’t want me to put him down. He wanted milk, but he didn’t want to drink it. He wanted a public option, but he didn’t want to be taxed for it. He seemed to be just generally unsatisfied with the state of life in general.

After some time in the high chair contemplating his banana, he finally calmed down a bit when I shoveled some cheesy scrambled eggs onto his tray. Some cheesy eggs and a little Bert and Ernie arguing away in the background cooled his jets and it seemed like he might consider giving this day a shot after all.

After doing his daily jog around the first floor of the house a few times, carefully inspecting dining room drapes, giving the oven a quick rat-a-tat-tat, and checking just a few thousand more times if by chance today we’d decided to leave the bathroom door open so that he could let loose on the toilet paper roll, we strolled upstairs for a morning nap.

At 10:30 a.m. when the morning nap drew to a close, it was time for me to figure out exactly how a thirty-year-old and a fifteen-month-old were going to amuse themselves for a day in the house. As a high school teacher, I had to plan out five fifty-minute blocks on a daily basis, always remaining cognizant of a teenager’s short attention span. A fifteen-month-old, as luck would have it, has an even shorter attention span, so I was looking at planning out a day of thirty-second activities for the two of us.

First, I bundled us both up for a romp in the snow on his new sled. I don’t know who was more amused: him, at the thrill of the sled sliding across the snowy yard, or me, at the sight of a tiny, puffy, blue baby bundled to the hilt with nothing exposed to the air but a set of six teeth and an ever-present goatee of drool. This lasted an astounding fifteen minutes.

Finny likes a leisurely lunch so this ate up at least an hour as he gingerly gummed his grilled cheese and chomped here and there on his pear slice, but when lunch was over, I was still looking at a good hour and a half of…what?

I turned to the basement for some inspiration. Already sick of the new toys from Christmas, we sought out some old toys we’d forgotten about. We played with the singing hammer and nails set, we made voices for the stuffed animals, we tossed the beach ball around, we crawled into the tent, we crawled out of the tent, we laid in the tent side by side and smiled at each other, we climbed up the stairs and down the stairs, we opened forbidden cabinets, and we pressed the buttons on the forbidden remote.

Then, I spotted a blanket and began brainstorming. The blanket was first a magic carpet that I laid him down on and dragged around the room shouting something ridiculous like, “Oooo, magic carpet! Take a ride on the magic carpet!” He quickly crawled off. Then the blanket became a parachute, floating up and down creating a marvelous static effect on his hair. And finally it became wings, and I became a giant blanket bird of prey chasing a squealing Finny around the room with a menacing, “Pa-kaw! Pa-kaw!”

Then, I looked at the clock—NAP TIME!

I managed to get in a cup of tea and a chapter of my book before once again I heard the cry of a baby who cannot quite figure out how to stay comfortable.

When I went up to get him, Finny was feverish. I was trying everything to calm him down: Tylenol, wet wash cloth, juice, water, books, Thomas the Tank Engine, but even his beloved Goldfish crackers were plucked from the cup and left uneaten on his lap.

And then, Grandma walked in.

Only intending to bop in and bop out, she sat down on the couch and he crawled into her lap and made it known that she wasn’t bopping anywhere unless he was bopping with her.

I suppose I should feel a little jealous when Finny crawls into her lap and rests his head on her shoulder and seems at times to be more content in her lap than in mine, but actually, it makes me smile.

Because I know that lap; it was mine before it was his. It’s a pretty good place to settle in and stay awhile. And if you play your cards right, the lady attached to it will do just about anything to make you comfortable and happy, including but not limited to driving to Walgreens at 3 a.m. to buy you Solarcaine for your sunburned legs.

Yeah, Grandma’s got some good tricks in the bags she brings over. She’s got bongo drums and Indian headdresses, popsicles, and a Blackberry. I’m glad Finny delights so much in her visits, even if it means I get pushed to the side for a bit. The woman’s got moves. Besides, I’m comforted by the fact that there’s something I’ve got that she doesn’t. That giant, blanket, bird of prey who glides easily across the basement exclaiming, “Pa-kaw!”—that’s all mine.