The Importance of Being Nana

I’ve been spending a whole lot of time these days with a two-and-a-half year old. They are funny creatures, willful and precious. Occasionally violent. You want to eat them up, you love them so, but when they fall asleep, the depth of your gratitude fills the newly-quiet universe.

My grandmother name is Nana. I picked it, no joke, because of the St. Bernard dog from Peter Pan. Yep, a large dog wearing an old timey nursemaid’s cap was my inspo.

So, Henry has been here since last week. We play with cars a lot, and build the same giant fish puzzle on the floor, but only the bottom third. We play golf in the yard with a plastic kiddie set, but Henry’s rules confuse me because he changes them all the time. I do the best I can to keep up. After all, I’m Nana.

In my head is a short story I hope to write and also what I can possibly feed Henry, the central character in this piece, for breakfast. He will eat a banana like a monkey and also throw his sippy cup of chocolate milk like a monkey. My home has gone from Zen to zoo.  

This is in no way a complaint. This, my friends, is how humans grow- courtesy of other humans, including this human, self-named after a nursemaid dog. There’s magic. There’s monotony. There’s the gnawing anxiety that today will be a bad day, and someone’s going to go to bed in tears. But there’s so much love and joy, doing the best you can, sticking with the daily struggle to partner in tracing the learning curve of existence, watching the wonder, coping with the frustration. It is not for everyone. You throw in everything you’ve got with uncertain results. But none of us would be here, eager to embrace life, without those attendant beings who allow us to love it.