”Good morning Lucy Bohrer—
Every day’s like an open door
Every night is a fantasy
Every sound is a symphony…”
Living in the moment allows me to share one luxury with Lucy: we each thrill to a new morning. Yes, I may bolt out of bed and sure, she is carried, but both of us revel at it all.
There is indeed something special about watching a baby waken at dawn. Standing next to Stacy I saw the eyes of a five-month old open wide to another day.
I marveled at her wonder.
Lucy’s growing. Geometrically.
Stacy says her eyes are gray. I say blue. Stacy says she looks like Jason, (at least his dad). I say she favors me, (at least the eyes). It matters not—the baby’s beautiful and, better yet, she follows me with her eyes.
I wonder what infants absorb. What do they comprehend… just sitting there? Take Lucy, for instance:
Does she see what we see? When she coos and smiles, is she truly enthralled, or is the lass silently asking herself “Who’s the schmuck dancing like an idiot?” More aptly put, does my granddaughter feel in her heart what I view through my eyes? I hope so.
Stacy reminds me—perhaps too often—that I’m a headline kind of guy. Rarely, she notes, do I push for details. I’m happy to listen, happy to share, but all I really need to know is if everything’s OK.
In Chicago, everything’s OK. I saw this last week.
Never, when I’m with my kids, is it about the activities; it’s always about the company. Just being there—just being together—that’s what works.
It was standard fare then, in The Windy City, just to be…just to interact….just to watch.
I saw MY baby cradling HER baby (carefully tilting the bottle), my son-in-law gingerly bathing their queen….and the little one, (dare I say “The Little One’s ‘Little One’”?), joyfully kicking bath water, as if prepping for the Olympiad.
And yes, I saw smiles….on everyone.
As a grandparent there’s not much to do with an infant. You can look at it. You can hold it a bit and you can walk it. (Not unlike my first weeks with Adam).
Or you can sing to it.
(“She’s not an ‘it’, Dad,” I hear my daughter shrie).
I sang to Lucy. Others played Pass The Baby, but I sang. (It’s a simple deduction that singing is the easier softer way. Not only do all kids love melody, but whoever holds a baby runs the distinct risk the kid will cry. How deflating—having to turn the kid back to a parent. It’s like a football team turning the ball over on downs. Me? I sing; I croon. It’s not only safer; but an easy three points).
Moreover, all baby toys seem to come with soundtrack. Endlessly synthesizing, they roll from one toddler tune to another. As such, since my musical expanse ended with the birth of psychodelia, this stuff is right in my wheelhouse.
Even so, my daughter was surprised.
“I went to the animal fare, the birds and the beasts were there…” I crooned.
“There are words for that?” (asked my Phi Beta Kappa lassie)
‘Yeah,” I told her, “My father taught us.”
The best times, of course, were when I had her one-on-one—just Luce and me. That, you see, is when I lay foundation; that’s when I plant the seeds.
I have this theory, something I developed through Max. I believe—I truly believe—that a baby’s trust is built on sound. That’s why singing’s so important. (Think Mr. Rogers, for example). Who, may I ask, didn’t trust Fred Rogers?
So Max has his song which I sing in New York, AND, with apologies to Kate Smith, Lucy has hers (“God Bless My Lucy”). And both of them—trust now established—hear the gentle whispers of my single mantra: (“Grandma ___________ smokes cigars.”)
Sunday came last week, as it always does, and we did what we always do: debate the appropriate time to leave for the airport. (As usual, I lost. It’s turned, I might note, not so much into a debate as into a negotiation).
At the appointed hour I kissed their foreheads: Lucy’s, Stacy’s, and Jason’s. And we left.
Traffic slowed en route to Midway as the infant slept. No one, especially me, was talking. Stace was driving and didn’t want to disturb the baby. Good for her. Me? I was preoccupied, worrying ‘bout the lines at security. Besides, I had nothing to say…nothing to ask. Eyeing my granddaughter I knew what was important, what I needed to know: that everything is OK.
“I love you Lucy Bohrer.
Every day’s like an open door
Every night is a fantasy
Every sound’s like a symphony…”
Shaiman/Wittman (adapted from “Hairspray”)