It is early here in San Francisco, the sound of a bus drumming by, slightly shaking my laptop. Hans, my husband, is snoring away next to me. My 9 year-old grandson Marshall is still deep asleep under his Star Wars comforter. All his stuffed animals are neatly lined up at the foot of his bed. It takes him a while to arrange them just so, before he is ready to say good night. They all have names, Avoman is the most recent addition to this family, a little stuffed avocado with a chain, so you can hang it from a belt loop. And Boba.
Boba almost didn’t make it to Marshalls bed. My grandson had to put on his charm suit while we were walking down Pier 39, saying how 10 dollars would not break Oma’s bank account. When that didn’t work, he pushed his superpower charm button and skipped over to Opa, to try his luck there. And of course, it immediately worked. After all, isn’t it the sole job of grandparents to spoil their grandchildren?
Last night, after we read a story, we both lie on his bed, looking at each other while he puts his little index finger on the tip of my nose and says ‘beep’. He asks me why there are black lines in the crease of my eyelids. I tell him about badly applied eye shadow. He has now developed an all-consuming interest in make-up, something foreign to him, since his mother doesn’t wear make-up. So I get my make-up kit, which is now transformed into a treasure pouch. Everything has to be tested and applied, including lipstick. He looks like a doll. Applying it was fun, but taking it off turns out to be a struggle. He doesn’t like the feel of cotton balls on his skin. June 10, 2021
The next day, we walk to the Ferry building, after we drop off our rental car downtown. Quite a walk for little legs, which is slowed to a crawl by making sure to only step on the lines in the tiles of the sidewalk. We walk along Market Street, bus after bus zipping by, none of them going to our destination.
On a sunny terrace, Marshall sits down on a bright red chair, his long bangs blowing across his eyes. No. I don’t want to wear my hat. He likes French fries and root beer but not much else. I ask him for a French fry, but it takes some bargaining. He wants 20% commission. For a fry he hasn’t paid for? It’s a gift from Opa, so he can charge whatever he wants. He gives in, only because there are too many fries for his small tummy.
I call him My little Viking because he has long blond hair. He likes to hug you and squeeze you. He likes to hold your hand and twirl you around, like a top. He wonders about everything, things he is incapable of understanding, but that’s ok. It all goes into the vast container in his head, stashed away for later. I like it that his mother is such a ‘realist’, that she takes the time to explain everything to him.
There is so much about Marshall I would like to put in a box and keep forever. Because soon my little 9 year old Viking will be 10, then 11 and 12. And the wonderfulness, the innocence, the bubbliness will have evaporated, making place for moodiness, sarcasm, hostility. I want to treasure every second of this wondrous time in his life, even with all the arm pulling and pretend shooting.
June 11, 2021
Today is another Marshall day in sunny San Francisco. His parents are in Carmel, taking a break. Opa and Oma are on Marshall duty. We take the bus to the Ferris Wheel in Golden Gate Park. He tells us that he knows where the entrance is, that we should just follow him. He does not have a trace of doubt about who he is. He is our Navigator. We call Opa ‘the rabbit’, because he always walks ahead of us, doing his own rabbit thing.
There is a snack stand that sells pretzels. Of course he wants one, with lots of salt and no cheese. We sit on a bench in the sun, while he takes tiny little bites, trying to shake his long hair out of his face. Everything has to be conquered by my little man: statues need climbing, benches need jumping over, Omas need to be twirled around. The world is one big testing ground. He is a hybrid between sweetness and mischief.
After the long ride on the Ferris Wheel, he wants a root beer, right there at the stand. Not now, we are going for a drink somewhere. No! I want one NOW. He walks back, sits down with his arms firmly crossed over his chest. He gets smaller and smaller as I walk on, a little ball of anger, sitting in the grass. How small he is, how enormous his willpower. I don’t give in, but of course he gets Opa to give him what he wants.
We go home, and he immediately goes for his Nintendo switch, sitting like a frog on the couch. He is in his Nintendo cocoon, fighting monsters and pulverizing golems for hours. When it is time to pull him back to reality, there is the inevitable ‘hold on’, said with his sweet little voice. How can you say no to that? Is he showing signs of addiction? Probably, but only mildly, so far. Where else are you going to get your kicks as an only child?
June 12, 2021
We went to the Flower Conservatory today on this beautiful, sunny day. The bus ride is always exciting. Lots of weird people to look at, lots of languages to listen to. Marshall the talker, asks questions but does not always wait for an answer. He needs to confirm that he processed new information, so he repeats your answers.
I am reading him ‘Eric in the land of insects’. I think he likes it, even though it has no pictures to speak of. It is a story about a little boy his age, that falls into a painting of a meadow with lots of insects. The little boy shrinks to their size and meets a wasp, whom he mispronounces as Mr. Waps. He meets beetles, worms and caterpillars that transforms into butterflies. What else are Omas going to read to their grandson, but the stories that they read and enjoyed as a kid?
For five short days, I am in Marshall’s world: his sunny, cozy apartment, his one-eared cat Vanny (short for Van Gogh), his furniture bulging with hundreds of toys, his bedroom with the shining stars on the ceiling while I lie next to him, feeling the softness of his little hand on my arm. What a wonderful world it is. Protected, supported, stimulated, loved.. This IS the joy of old age, a rare but precious time for this old horse.
June 13, 2021
We walk down the street to the park, holding hands. I ask him if he could switch arms for a while: my right arm is getting longer and it is my left arm’s turn to be pulled and swung. Also because my shoulder hurts a little. Why? Because I tore a tendon. What’s a tendon? The thing that attaches muscle to bone. How did you tear it? Swimming. Is it fixable? Yes, I had arthroscopic surgery. What is arthroscopic surgery? You know, when they use a tiny little camera to go in there with tiny little instruments to fix the tear. Does it still hurt? Sometimes when I carry heavy things.
After that conversation, I notice that Marshall doesn’t want to hold my right hand any more. It’s always the left one. Did I frighten him? Does he think my right arm is this damaged limb that should not be touched any more?
I love his millions of questions, his questions about questions. He does not let you get away with anything: but you said that it was because of this that that happened. Now you say that this happened because of that. You are the queen of contradictions, Oma. He uses big words that a 9 year old is usually not in possession of. He absorbs everything, listens but also contradicts, interrupts. ‘I am the king of talkers’, he says.
He doesn’t like to get dressed, brush his teeth, brush his hair. He doesn’t like to eat but he calls himself the milk gulper. He is the little boy I never had. And I am ever so grateful to have spent this brief time in his world.
It is time to go home now. To my garden and my life. But Hawaii is on the horizon. We will snorkel, swim, hike, laugh and lie on the beach, looking at the real stars together. And he will still be the charming charmer, talking a mile a minute, deliciously unselfconscious, adorably innocent.
I love you my Marshall. leave comment here
