Oh Dear, has it Really Been Six Months?

..........and here we are in the garden again, in the heatwave, on the crunchy, crispy grass. Not the best day for Granddaughter to want to be carried like a back-pack (or a front-pack) while Little Brother requests the same treatment from his father, but another happy garden day all the same.

I do not intend to have these big breaks from blogging, but I find that my life seems settled into a succession of mostly enjoyable and always interesting routines. During my years of supporting elderly parents I loathed routine. Really loathed it.
 I struggled against being trapped in my father's requests to be taken shopping on certain days at certain times, his insistence on completing The Times crossword before he could leave the house, his addiction to certain radio programmes and, worst of all. his desire to come to us every Sunday for a full roast lunch with gravy. The gravy really got me down. After his death I promised myself I would never have to cook gravy again, and I didn't do so for several years.

Now, in my mostly solitary life I wake with the dawn and watch the sunrise from my bed. A few weeks ago I was also able to listen to the dawn chorus, but now the birds are fairly quiet. They have done their duties, mating, nesting, rearing young and now they are keeping out of sight while they moult. Very like me, actually, but I'm not about to grow new plumage.
Eventually I come downstairs and have a very simple breakfast with three big mugs of tea. Nothing tastes quite as good as the first mug of tea in the morning. I have the same bitter marmalade, the same number of bits of toast every day. Even before I am dressed I have slipped into the most comfortable rut.

And guess what? I love it. Ruts are very good places to be.
I climb out quite often, and other people climb in with me, but I realise every day the huge joy of contentment.
I am limited now in what I can do, in where I can go, and even more so in what I want to do and where I want to go. I am fortunate in that I've done and seen quite a lot during my 78 years. I have a great library of memories of all sorts, good and bad, funny and not-so-funny, acutely embarrassing and actually very affirming. Oh yes, all sorts, so I can sit in my rut and enjoy them all. There are things I'd like to put right, harsh comments I wish I hadn't made, and there's a certain level of regret.
 I wish I'd been more kind.

A great friend telephoned from Paris yesterday evening. He has lost his sight, almost completely. This is someone who has spent his life reading, studying, but now he can distinguish light from darkness and that is almost it. Then he surprised me by saying he can still go and do the shopping locally. He takes his white stick and goes on to the Paris Metro. He said, "When I was fully-sighted I had never realised how kind people can be. I have never been without help from strangers."

If I could leave one simple message for my grandchildren to remember it would be just that.

Be kind.

Sorry, Papa, if I had a tantrum about gravy in 25 degrees of heat.

Letter to a Granddaughter: Butterfly in Pyjamas.

Dear Small Granddaughter,

Here you are in essential morning style, pyjamas and butterfly wings, flitting around as I prepare your breakfast. You alight at the dolls' house and do a quick rearrangement. The tiny plastic baby is meant to be cared for by a little fat pig and a small red bear. You comment on the fact that the bear and the pig have been drinking wine. The empty bottle is on the floor of the miniature sitting room and the baby is alone in his nursery. You fit him into his high chair and remonstrate with the pig and the bear... "This baby is hungry. He hasn't got a nappy. You are not looking after him.....come on, baby, I'll look after you."

I call from the kitchen, "Would you like porridge?" 

"I don't know," you say. "I'm too busy now."

The porridge will keep warm until the baby is sorted and the empty glasses and bottle tidied, but then, suddenly you are in the kitchen, jumping up and down, wings quivering. "Porridge, please, and some toast and marmite, and....what's that?"

"It's a nectarine."

"I can jump very high. Can you hear me jumping?"

"Oh, yes. I can hear you. Would you like a nectarine as well?"

"I can jump just like Mr. Jeremy Fisher. Look!"

"What about the nectarine?"
"Can you jump like Mr. Jeremy Fisher? Can you jump as high as me? Can you?"

"Not now, but I probably could when I was nearly three."

"When were you nearly three?"

"A very long time ago."

"Why?"

What a good question, but I choose to ignore it because 'why?' is the  standard response to so many things these days. We will concentrate on porridge instead. And the nectarine.

In three weeks time you will be three. How amazing is that? That little fragile bundle who studied her moving hands with rapt attention is now bursting with opinions and thoughts, and can dance and sing and jump like Mr. Jeremy Fisher (although this is an ambitious concept as you've been watching The Royal Ballet: Tales of Beatrix Potter)

You love books and are frustrated by not being able to read just yet.
"Tell me the words," you say, pointing to the pages, and then, "Now tell me the words in your head," meaning, make up a story. Such an enjoyable difference between words on the page and words in the head, and I find myself thinking the same thing: "Tell me the words in your head, Little E."

You have travelled by air and paddled in Portugal, eaten French ice-cream and slept in tents and yurts. You have made new friends and learned to share and play. You like to be kind to others. Sadly it is becoming rather obvious that I have slowed down a lot and you take my hand and do your best to help me. I find this most powerfully touching. You are becoming an experienced, lovely little person.

You need to make sense of the world, and your way to do it is to act it all out:  You say, "You be me and I'll be you. Now, do you want porridge?" and "Daddy, you be Mr. Jeremy Fisher, and I'll be the big trout"
"Mummy, you be Daddy and Daddy can be Annie" (Granny). Challenging for all of us. Do I really ask everyone about porridge all the time? You give us all such food for thought.

Of course, it's not all sunshine. Storm clouds gather when you are hungry or tired. You refuse to eat or drink or have a cuddle, and you may lie on the floor in noisy protest. You are not like your father in this. He went in for much quieter negative protest, but then would have to shout out, "Look at ME! I'm sulking!" But you are finding a way out of the big holes you sometimes dig for yourself. After refusing everything you may revive, smiling and say, "I've had a good idea. Let's share!" (whatever it was you'd just been refusing.). Good idea. Charm trumps tantrum. A useful lesson for life, and a difficult one to maintain, especially when you're nearly three.

But charm or tantrum, I hope you'll always be able to tell me the words in your head, Little E.

With love from Annie.

Letter to a Granddaughter: Peas in a Pod.

Dear Small Grand-Daughter,

High on a list of my wishes for you is a creative imagination, along with good health and happiness and all the usual grand-motherly concerns. Imagination can be the spice of life, creating magic from the humdrum, peace from the turmoil, fun from the banal......and last weekend, joy from pea-pods. Who would have predicted that shelling peas could be such a wonderful entertainment; for you as the pods went 'pop' and for your parents and me as we watched you quivering with anticipation.......'Do it again, Annie. Do it again,'?

Then you decided that each pod contained a family of peas; mummies and daddies, babies, uncles, aunties, cousins, grannies, so each had to be checked out, and some families were found to be larger and more complex than others. After that came the need to taste uncooked peas, and perhaps their pods as well. It takes quite a time to prepare lunch this way, and perhaps it's only grannies who have the time and patience to do it.
So, thank you for giving me a weekend to spend with you and your widening horizons, and to give me the realisation that grannies are good things with lots to give, even if they can't run about very much.

The question, 'Why?' has become significant lately. Sometimes it is used as a delaying tactic when you've been asked to do something else, but more often it is a real need to know, fuelled by imagination and by your great enthusiasm for books and stories.
We worked through some of your favourites, looking at why things happened the way they did. Peter Rabbit, for instance, had been specifically told not to go into Mr. McGregor's garden, but defied his mother and did so. A few weeks ago you told me that Mr McGregor was 'not kind' shouting at Peter, chasing him and taking his little coat and shoes. This time you worked out that it was Peter who was not kind, eating the vegetables that Mr. McGregor had grown, and that Peter was a bad rabbit, taking things.
Similarly you now think that Goldilocks was wrong, going into someone's house, eating their breakfast, breaking a chair, sleeping in someone else's bed without asking them. You used to think the bears were not good, coming back and frightening her, but now it's Goldilocks who is not kind, frightening the bears.
Not kind.
Not kind at all.
Kindness is important.

In the peace and seclusion of Walnut Cottage we ventured into thoughts of why people ask you not to do things, and we reached a sort of conclusion that it is because Mummy and Daddy don't want you to be hurt. This was clearly the case with Peter Rabbit.

Then you cooked a few meals in your cottage - fish and cheese with tomatoes and carrot juice - yum! You fed your new horse  who is called 'RideaCockHorse' and you are a Fine Lady when you sit on him, although Banbury Cross defeats you somewhat.
You made a lot of (private) phone calls on the remote control for the old t.v. because we couldn't find your official plastic phone. 'Hello...yes, I'm working.....at Annie's house. Yes, cooking now....... I'm too busy. Bye!'
This afternoon many people call you via the old remote control, people you know, people from books and nursery rhymes. The witch from Room on the Broom really needed a quick word, but again you were busy in your house, working hard, keeping an eye on the plastic babies in their cradle, constantly mashing up juice in the little liquidiser.....'Tomato or orange, Annie?' 'Have you any cucumber juice?' 'Oh, you are silly, Annie!'

At least  a year ago I found myself marvelling at how much you knew, and how you were making sense of the world.
Now I'm really marvelling, and I have to remind myself that you are someone whose age can still be counted just in months (32).
How on earth has all this happened?

Thank you for teaching me so much, and for reminding me constantly of the simple joys to be found in life.
With love from Granny (Annie).

Letter to a Granddaughter: How to Get Through Nap-Time Without a Nap.

Dear Not-So-Small Granddaughter,
At nearly two and a half you are at that pivotal point of needing but not wanting a rest after lunch. When you reach my age you will be both wanting and needing the same nap.
So you go into a quiet room for at least some quiet time. When you are in my house you sleep (or not sleep) in your uncle's old bedroom which is a treasure trove of unfamiliar objects as well as your own growing collections. You like to check that he's gone off in an aeroplane before you explore thoroughly, and he usually has so the coast is clear.

Your parents go off up the hills for a walk, and you and I negotiate the ground rules for napping. I tell you that talking is good, singing is good, shouting and yelling are not good. You agree.
"Whistling?" you ask, hopefully. Yes, whistling is very good. Lying in a warm bed and practising whistling might even lull you to sleep.
We go upstairs and select three or four soft toys to have a nap with you. We discuss the toys that are at home and reach an agreement that they are not here and we're not driving sixty miles to get them. We discuss drinks and use of the potty and agree that neither is essential at this moment. I tuck you up and give you a kiss and say "Night night", even though it's not. You smile happily and snuggle under the duvet.
I feel successful as I go downstairs.
Then I plug in the intercom.

There is a lot of background noise. The duvet is churning. "Peter Rabbit, hold Annie hand," you say. (I am Annie, you can't say Granny)."Wee now, on the potty...... Now read a book......... Sing a song........ Sing a Peter Rabbit song....la.la.la. like that.....sing now. Sing in my bed. Sing, sing, sing........... Read a book in my bed........another one........... another one. Now singing......wah, wah wah, singing in my bed....... I'm playing..... No! Sit down now by the table. Yes, round and round the table....... Lie down now. No! Sing Happy Birthday.......... There Rabbit, yes, hopping........ Hop. Hop. Hop!"

Feet patter overhead. It must be the rabbit, hopping.
There is the sound of drawers opening and closing.
"Oh, H's (uncle's) paper......... Oh, H's book..........More book............ More paper........ Oh, look! Look! Boys and girls." You have found some old class photographs in one of the drawers.

The wardrobe door opens.
"Oh, big shoes. Big coat. H's shoes........... Oh, look!"
A contemplative pause.
Should I go up and check?

Then, "In my bed now. Oh, oh, I can't get back over there. Sssshhh........... Back now. Where's my duck? I want my duck....... (singing) Little duck went swimming one day, quack, quack, quack.....little duck came back.......... Ringy roses all fall down..........Annie, ANNIE, pick me up..........Oh.....come back, Daddy, Mummy, Annie.
Hello, me come back in that door..........oh."

Then there is attempted whistling and a lot more singing. The bedside cupboard drawers open and close rhythically. Toys are talked to, told to put their coats on, lie down and have a cuddle, eat the food that is in their mouths....eat it all up.

When I guess the time is right I go upstairs. You are sitting happily surrounded by the finds from the drawers and cupboards. A collection of jigsaws, a book with magnetic pictures I had earmarked for next Christmas, photos of your Daddy and Uncle in their primary school days.
You look rested and refreshed, ready for the next adventure.
"Hello, Annie," you say. "Look at this!"

I'm looking.
And listening.
With love from Granny.

Letter to a Granddaughter - P. Rabbit's Busy Weekend.

Dear Small Granddaughter,
Peter Rabbit was on the hop all weekend. Originally made by me for your Uncle over thirty years ago, he has stood the many tests of time well. This weekend he took part in an exciting game of hide and seek and did a fair bit of potty-training. He lost his shoes a long time ago, but that is what Peter Rabbit does. He stars in several of your books and features on your plate at meal times, persuading you to empty the plate and see his picture. Also the picture of Mr. McGregor, chasing him, brandishing a rake.
"I like Peter Rabbit,"  you tell us. "I like Mr. McGregor. I like Postman Pat. I don't like Santa."
I wonder what will happen when you realise the true relationship of Peter R. to the McGregor family, and especially to that frightful, pie-making Mrs. McGregor? You do not yet know that one of your double-barrelled surnames is McGregor. Currently you ask happily for your Granny's pies. Things might change.

Wonderful for me, this unexpected visit. You were not to know that I was feeling low and even (dare I write it?) even a bit sad and sorry for myself, feelings I normally fight to the death. But your parents picked up on it and you all came. You burst into the house, shouting, "Book, book!" while struggling out of your coat. You pulled off your furry boots and exclaimed at the coldness of the stone floor while searching for the right book. Nursery Rhymes, or Postman Pat, or the Lift-the-Flap Peter Rabbit book, or the catalogue of farm and zoo animals so that you can check your collection? All at once, as many as possible, sitting with me by the fire while your parents foraged in the kitchen, looking for coffee, herbal teas, mince-pies, cake, kiwi fruit - anything to keep themselves going until lunch time.

The warm weight of you in my lap, your insistence on singing, all of us singing, your cheerfulness, your growing realisation that you can have some control over a situation, make other people laugh, ask them to sit there, read this, sing that, all these actions banish any sad and gloomy thoughts. You constantly remind me of the need to live in the moment, to hold this precious time because it will change, it has to change and you are changing, growing, developing every day.

You ask for a pencil and measure yourself against the kitchen door-frame, where we are all marked. You have grown fractionally taller: It's only three weeks since you were last here. But what has happened in other growth is exponential.
You talk all the time.
You question things.
"Help me," you say if things are a bit too hard, and I find this especially poignant; such a little person knowing when they need help, trying so hard to be good and do the right thing.

And then you tell me not to talk, not to be funny, because listening to a c.d. of Nursery Rhymes is serious business, and I must sit still while you show me the pictures in the song book. I can sing, but not smile or laugh because this is not the appropriate time to be funny. What happens to Humpty Dumpty is important. "No funny," you say, and I agree.

Whatever you do is done with total concentration and whole-hearted intent. A time to laugh and a time to be solemn, a time to run and a time to sit still, a time to shout and a time to whisper. A time to eat and drink with gusto, and a time to purse your mouth and refuse, absolutely.

Thank you for teaching me so much, Little One,
With love from Grandma.

Letter to a Grand-Daughter - Bye Bye Babyhood!

Dear Small Grand-Daughter,
There's a twinge of sadness in bidding farewell to your babyhood, and a high level of joy in greeting your
all-singing, all-dancing, walking, talking, climbing, splashing, laughing, yelling, gleeful, totally interactive toddler-hood.

It all happened so quickly.
One minute you were lying on a sheepskin, sucking your toes, and the next you're mastering light-switches and door knobs........ and I'm not even going to mention mobile phones and touch-screens.

I have always respected your self-awareness, and now it's even more apparent. You assess what you can do, and then you do it carefully. A month ago you took some hesitant sideways steps, crablike, in my house.
How we applauded, and how you joined in the applause, knowing achievement when you felt it in the strengthening knees and spine.
Then you took your time, developed your skills. Now you march about, turning, carrying things, stamping in puddles, confident and skilled. But when you approach the steps down into the kitchen, or out of the front door you go into careful reverse-crawling mode.
Wise child.

Knowledgeable child.
How do you know so much?
How do you know that a cartoon giraffe in a book is the same animal as a giraffe photograph in another book? You've never seen a real giraffe, and it might be quite a shock when you do.
I know the theories of concept formation, and I must have witnessed it happening before in your father and his brother, but somehow, in you, it seems even more magical, more powerful.
Oh, the power of grand-parenthood, when somebody thinks you're wonderful.
Which you are.
Never doubt it.

You pick up my ultra-special silver pen (which no one else is allowed to touch) and you draw a spirited abstract in my ultra-special One-Sketch-a-Day book ( which, need I say it, no one else would be allowed to do). You draw in lively fashion but within the small confines of the space for the day. You study it for a moment, then give me back my pen. You take the pen again to check that you have clicked it off and then point out my ultra-special pen case, making sure I put it away properly.
You are sixteen months old.

Then we go outside and examine some very stale water in some discarded plant pots. Everything is interesting, everything is worthy of detailed examination.
You throw the water about a bit, you plunge your arm in and get soaked, you stamp in the water on the path. You shout and jig about because you are in need of music, a bit more entertainment.

We go back inside and after a brief skirmish over washing, you have a snack. Blueberries eaten one at a time, biscuits picked to bits and thrown to the cat, milk drunk boldly and gluggingly from a two handled mug, like a Tudor serving wench. You roar with laughter at my jokes, you screech with delight at the other cat who pushes his way through the cat flap. You struggle to get out of your restraining seat. You want to get through the cat-flap yourself.
I know you.
You are sixteen months old and many people think you're wonderful.
Which you are.
Always remember that,

With love from Grandma.