A Four Year Old Asks The Six Million Dollar Question

The latest cause for Gramasylum arrived almost five months ago. Colette Rose, is number four grandchild so I have not had the concentrated time with her that I had with her sister Laurel who was the first Blankman grandchild. The time discrepancy shows. Colette, called Coco so as to keep up  with Lolo, is not as crazy about Cece as Cece is about her.....yet. This one is very partial to her mother and the feeding accoutrements that she alone possesses. I got her to take a bottle once so far. I had her in the front carrier thingy-majingy, and when she was beginning to nod off, I put the bottle in her mouth and she began sucking and actually took most of the bottle. I felt so accomplished! Figured we had made great strides toward mutual admiration.

Then came last weekend. I drove to their house in San Diego to take care of Coco so mom and dad could go to a Christmas production of The Grinch with big sister Laurel. Let's just say we did okay. But there was no taking a bottle this time. And the Cokes, another name for this latest little bundle, is also very particular about how she is to be held and what the person who is holding her is supposed to be doing. Basically, Coco prefers you up and moving...all the time. And even when she falls asleep, she must have some kind of an internal level mechanism. As soon as you try to sit down or lay down, and she is no longer perpendicular to the floor, her eyes pop open and she protests substantially enough to get you up and moving again.

Later in the afternoon the parental returned with Lolo. Coco was very pleased to see her mom and to be reunited with the accoutrements only her mother can provide. Then the parental units left again to go to a party. This time leaving big sister Laurel with Cece, too. Lolo was anxious to play with Cece. It was not to be. Coco was in charge. There are few games that can be played, and no books that can be read while holding, and walking around and bouncing a five month old baby. So, each time Lolo asked if I could play with her, I had to respond that we would have to wait until Coco was asleep. I think Lolo had enough experience with her little sister to know this was not likely going to happen any time soon.

Lo finally spoke her mind.

"Where's Papa," Laurel asked?

"Papa is at home," I responded.

"Why didn't he come to help take care of the baby," Lo inquired further?

"His favorite team has a football game," I explained, "and Papa wanted to watch it."

Laurel now placed her hand on her hip and twisted her mouth in the way one does when one is puzzled or irritated. Then she asked the six million dollar question.

"What's more important? Football or helping to take care of the baby," Laurel asked with serious conviction?

Wow. Not quite four and a half years old and this little woman understands priorities! How was I to answer this serious challenge?

"That's a great question, Lo," I responded. Truth be known, my mouth was a little twisted, too. I had asked Papa the same question.

Then I passed off the responsibility to answer the question to the one who was responsible for the question being asked. "You'll have to ask Papa that," I added.

What's more important? From the mouths of babes. In Papa's defense, when Lo visits he is at her beck and call and is also a pretty crazy grandparent. After she visited the last time he explained that he doesn't always feel like playing what she wants to play. But, he realizes that there will come a day when she will not ask him to play with her anymore. So, he will take advantage of it while she is still asking. Have you ever seen an over sixty man playing Barbies? Trust me. It makes up for several football game absences!

What's more important? Coco finally did go to sleep and hard enough so that I laid her down and she stayed asleep. I then helped Lolo take a bath, and brush her teeth and get jammied up. Lolo and I got to play and read a book before mom and dad returned home. I kissed her goodbye and her daddy brought her outside to wave goodbye to me as I backed out of their driveway to head home.

I had been on duty about nine hours. It was late. I had about an hour drive home. And, I had to preach the next morning! But what is more important? This day called for a crazy grandma. I'm so thankful that I  have the credentials!

 

The Gift of Listening

I just completed two weeks of travel with my father’s WWII POW exhibit. The exhibit is designed to honor my father, of course, but it is also designed to encourage those who attend to remember to thank veterans and service people whenever they have the opportunity. The exhibit also encourages people to tell their own stories. Every person has a story to tell. Certainly, some stories are more dramatic than others, but every person has unique experiences in life that can be very interesting and informative.

At every exhibit I took the time to ask the veterans who attended about their own stories. Often, the response was, “no one is interested in my story” or “no one cares.” I was stunned at how common this response was. When I pressed them a little, almost all of them began to tell me a little of their story. And within seconds, almost every one of them began to cry. Their lips would quiver and their eyes would well up with tears. I was amazed. Very quickly it became clear that people are very touched when someone takes the time to listen. I did not have hours. In most cases I did not have much time at all, but each time I had the opportunity I took a few minutes to listen. It is astounding what people will tell us in just a few minutes if we listen.

Part of their openness to telling their stories, of course, was that some of them had just heard me tell mine. And part of their emotion was that many of these were men who had served in time of war and experienced significant threats to their lives and the loss of comrades and friends. Vietnam vets in particular were emotional about their experiences. The war was such a divisive one in this country and the first to be played out on television on a daily basis. These vets came home not to parades and heroes welcomes, but to derision, criticism, and outright scorn. When I thanked these veterans, they all commented on how infrequently they had heard this.

Politics and wars aside, this experience reinforced for me the deep significance of listening. It is a gift. It is a gift to the one who is heard and to the one who listens. We live in an activity-crazed, frenetically paced time. We simply do not have much time to stop and listen to each other. When we do, people are surprised, and if we really listen, they are nurtured by the attention. But listening is also a gift to the one who hears. Each time I heard a story and looked into the eyes and soul of another human being and heard their story, I felt somehow that I was on sacred ground. Each time I learned something that I did not know before and each time I encountered some part of the image of God.

When my children were little I remember them telling me something and I would respond with a “uh-huh “ or “okay.” Intuitively (and by my body language) they knew that I was not really listening. More than once my children called me on this. They would say, “Mommy, you are not really listening.” They were right. I wasn’t really listening. I was distracted and attending to something else. My recent road trip to do my father’s exhibit has renewed in me a desire to really listen to people. Listening is a gift. And it is a gift that I can give.