Granddaughter Emma is nearly two. They are teaching her to say “I am two years old.” Right now, she’s got it down to, “I’m two. I’m old.” Her brother Nolan is two weeks old. I guess it’s all relative. In Nolan time, she IS old.
We were visiting their family last weekend and went to church where her dad is the pastor. As Chris was finishing up his sermon, Emma began to ask to go and have her diaper changed. I offered to take her. As we’re leaving the sanctuary, she stops at the last row, full to the brim with good Lutherans, the first ones to get to church so they can get the good seats in the “way back.”
Pointing her index finger in a very commanding way, she says, “I’m gonna go change my poopies. Be back real quick.”
With that she folds her arms across her chest, pleased that she has answered their unspoken question (“Now where is the preacher’s kid going?) and trots to the bathroom. Or maybe we were galloping. I can never keep those two straight. I only know I don’t do either very well; they require coordination and flexible hips and legs; one trait that has never been mine and the other that has dwindled with age.
I’m way more than two. I’m old. There’s nothing relative about it. Unless you’re nearing 80, maybe.
But old is good. It means you get to be a grandma (or grandpa, or great aunt or uncle, or favorite friend). And when I leave Emma, it’s always, “Be back real quick.” Because I just can’t stand to stay away long.