I took time off from my busy life of writing and shooting pool to help my eldest daughter move her children, stepson and their father into another apartment. For recompense, I received 12 days of joy with my grandbeauties, a payment that more than cancelled out the great pain of packing and painting.
Lisa is new to her current job, and was unable to take time off for this moving moment. Her children’s father is a barber, a cash business that suffers from his absence. They did have the advantage of having access to the new apartment while still in the old, but with two children in grade school — 5 year-old Imani in kindergarten, and 9 year-old Xavion in 4th — the parents found it difficult to pack and move while an active life swirled around them. Enter the grandfather, “Cool Papa:” transporter, painter and “manny” (male nanny).
Each day at the old apartment started with a riot: six people burst into life, rose, ate, (some) showered, dressed and piled into the car. Bing, Lisa’s beau, piloted the car as if on some mission, with warriors parachuting into their tasks. The eldest son, 18, was the first to jump, landing at his job; Lisa ejected next, leaving the two “littles” to float into school. Captain Bing brought the craft back to base, where I had enjoyed a leisurely cup of coffee. I took over the controls, deposited Bing at the barbershop and returned to the jungle of boxes and bags.
The details of the days were of work, school, play; homework, snacks, dinners; football practice, baths and sleep: repeat. Slivers of joy were inserted between the paint cans and packing boxes: a drawing of a flugelhorn to take to “Tell and Show;” from the woods near the new place, the cry of a blue jay; the interaction of the 5-year-old sister with her brother’s football team; my daughter’s signature screaming scampers down the sideline as a player runs for a touchdown; morning kisses and midnight snuggles.
Once the beds were moved to the new place, we spent nights there, and I got to provide assurance and comfort to my granddaughter. In the middle of the night, as I lay on an inflated bed, little feet padded to me, and a little girl said, “Cool Papa, I want to snuggle.” In the afternoons, I waited outside the schoolroom door, watching a grinning face peeking over the shoulder of another child, waiting to be released to me. Once freed, she ran to me and collided with my chest, hugged me and ran to the swings, calling over her shoulder, “Push me Cool Papa!” When her brother burst from the door, he too, would rush to the swings, his trombone banging against his legs; he would pause to “pay the toll,” which is a kiss from me as he passes, and then join the older children on the climbing equipment.
Those 12 days were moving days, and the paint I applied and boxes I shoved around were moved a lesser distance than was my heart, which delighted in the administration of my trusted guardianship: at 3 o’clock, when I picked up the smurfs at school; in the first line of offense on the homework; the snack provider and football gear examiner.
On the day that I was to return to Indianapolis, while examining pictures of the white walls, scrubbed of memories, I pulled a passing child into my arms, and kissed it, exacting the toll one more time before I left. I repeated this ritual with my eldest child, who had provided me, once again, with moving days.