“Hiiee…”
The two-syllable greeting pierced the darkness that held me abed and instantly brought me awake. Sitting up, I saw the backlit forms of my 20-month-old granddaughter and her mother; Myah was waving to me and saying “hi.” My daughter, who had come into my room to activate the baby monitor, was slightly apologetic when she said to me, “You told me when she wakes up, you get her up.” I replied, “6:40 a.m. is a little early.”
I’ve mentioned that I am the weekday caretaker of my youngest granddaughter while her mother is at work. The two also share a dwelling with me, which makes it more convenient for Lauren, who used to have to drive 30 minutes to drop off the baby-package, Myah. Now, she rises and rolls, and I listen for the grandterroist to squeal into the monitor, which usually takes place between the hours of 8 a.m. and 10 a.m., depending on how early she had been wrestled to the mat the night before.
When Myah awakens, I tour the house with her as she flips the switch to turn on the light in her room and the kitchen, watches as I open the curtains in the kitchen and the blinds in the living room. Then, we open the front door to see outside, and when the weather is warm, to ring the wind chimes. I take her back to her room and on the youth bed that accessorizes it, I change her diaper. Then we go back to the kitchen, where, as the country phrase goes, I “throw some groceries down her neck.” Those groceries range from fresh hot (though cooled down) waffles to scrambled eggs, and could include toast with butter and honey, but will always have fruit as a component. Once she has made her selections from the menu (rejects are thrown onto the floor) and eaten, I mop her face and hands and dress her in the first of her two outfits of the day. (Her mother compulsively changes her clothes after arriving home.) In warm weather, we roll out to Coal Yard Coffee, where McKenzie “Kenzie” Parks or Madison “Maddie” Redell cry out, “Hi, Myah.” I have a “Witches Brew” and we share a lemon muffin. Later, we dance together on the wooden stage to the music Maddie picks.
On our way again toward home, we pass Gaynell and Ken’s house, and in blooming weather, Myah wants to sniff their flowers while squirrels throw nuts at us from the trees and a pink neon flamingo glows in a nearby window. Myah’s favorite stuffed flamingo is green, and I cannot get her to recognize the other one. But I sing to her as we pram, and remember singing to her cousin, my grandson, and him parroting his mother’s assessment of me: “You’re crazy, Cool Papa.” Which is true: I am crazy. Crazy about my grandson, Xavion, my granddaughter, Imani, and my third grandchild, Myah. I spoke to an old friend recently and told her that I was Myah’s daycare person. When I told her my granddaughter’s age, she said, “Oh no. I can’t do that at my age.” I am her age, and I can “do that.”
In 1972 in Los Angeles, California, I saw Nina Simone in concert, and she sang songs from her album, “Here Comes The Sun.” One of them was “Angel Of The Morning.” The full lyrics are not appropriate for my relationship with Myah, but the title is, for it does not matter if she squeals, squeaks or giggles, she is indeed, the angel of my morning.
cjon3acd@att.net