Like most mortals, some sign of spring, other than the confused and voluble birdlife outside our windows, is what I’ve been fantasizing over for what seems like months.
By Robin Jovanovich
Like most mortals, some sign of spring, other than the confused and voluble birdlife outside our windows, is what I’ve been fantasizing over for what seems like months. A sunny day would have gone a long way in improving everyday demeanor and disposition. How do you explain to a 3-year-old dog that her walk in the park has been rescheduled due to unseasonable, unreasonable winter weather conditions? Everyone else knows what “Just Do It” means!
But the miracle of life continues despite man’s behavior and bad habits. The dog forgives you, the birds understand that you’ve run out of birdseed and chirp away when you pour water over the ice in the birdbath and cook up a pot of popcorn (hold the butter and salt) and toss it out on the driveway.
March for all its national bad press was the sweetest month for us with, in this order: the arrival of a grandson (who turned 1 month on April 1 and weighs 12 pounds, no fooling); the tenth anniversary of my husband’s double lung transplant; our first trip out of state (to somewhere the sun shines and you can safely walk without Uggs); and the return of Melanie Cane, our longtime staffer who has been out recovering from surgery for months.
About our grandson I won’t go on too long, as grandparents I’m told are wont to do. But I will tell the many people in Rye who wrote to congratulate us on becoming grandparents (I hope people do that in every community) that he is happy, beautiful, and very easy to hold. He’s also, according to the wonderful woman who’s been helping care for him in the middle of the night “very smart.” I like to think so, he comes from good stock, but I don’t want to shoot the moon. While Peter Walter and I haven’t talked much yet — because he likes his sleep — I do have lots of stories to share. After “Goodnight Moon,” which I can still recite from memory, 34 years after the birth of PW’s father, I will read to him from the 348 books I just brought down from the third floor to be closer to the room I’m working on for him. Yes, there are deadlines and the occasional home-cooked meal for your spouse, but I can see how becoming a grandparent is not only a fulfilling role — it could become a day job.
For those of you not in the grandparent know yet, there are new rules of engagement.
I’ve already promised PW’s parents that we’ll have real, safety-approved equipment in place when they come up from the city for his first visit to the country. The antique crib our boys slept on for their first few months of life is now covered with what’s left of my boys’ stuffed animal collection (hauled out of Westy’s last weekend). “No, the dog hasn’t been up on the crib mauling those animals” (hands behind my back). I know that the non-educational mobile I’ve found is one the kid will like looking at, and if he’s as smart as they say what is he going to learn from a mobile anyway! “No, I made sure I didn’t order any recalled products, and that borrowed crib is ‘just like new.’”
Like every mortal, I’ve always also looked forward to Friday. It’s taken on new heights however these last few weeks, as Friday is my afternoon to sit with Peter Walter. Oh, the stories I’ll tell.
