I had trouble handling just three horsemen, so what are my chances with four? That may seem as if I am branding one branch of grandsons as Conquest, War, Famine, and Death like the biblical Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.Not so. Rather, it refers to the fact that grandkid visits sometimes have left our house in a mess of apocalyptic proportions when they were just the Triumphant Trio: Vincent, Jack and Luke. Oh, there were trademark examples of each of the four horsemen:
* Conquest: I considered it a conquest when I could get all three boys to nap at the same time. That was an elusive goal, partly because of their diverse napping styles.
Vincent, who rarely naps now that he is 7, was the most pliant, often taking three-hour naps with me as a toddler. Those were the good old days, because he kept his head nestled on my arm and wouldn’t let me get up, so I could justify those lazy afternoons.
Four-year-old Jack’s resistance to naps includes doing somersaults and other antics to stay awake, while 2-year-old Luke mimics that technique but usually eventually slips to sleep after a prolonged period of procrastination with gymnastic gyrations.
* War: With three boys under 7 knocking around the house, there are bound to be dust-ups, and there are. I have found a balance in the battles, though, with a 2-year-old sometimes landing a punch that can collapse a brother five years his senior.
* Famine: This is a remote possibility, as we keep a hearty supply of foods that I believe boys need to build strong bodies 12 ways: candy and ice cream. But once in awhile, we run out of the preferred flavor, and the squawking would make you think we were starving them. (Sometimes, enough ice cream drips on the couch to feed a starving Third-World nation.)
A couple of weeks back, Vincent said, “Papa Mike, WHY do you have so much candy around?”
“So you boys can have some when you come to visit,” I replied.
“Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask you that for years!” he said.
Talk about hyperbole. YEARS? He picked up an exaggeration gene somewhere.
* Death: Obviously, this is the least likely to occur. The boys do nothing but enrich my life, unless I die in a fall after stumbling over a toy. On the other hand, substitute the last two letters in death with an “f,” and it might apply. Sometimes, the chaotic cacophony they create could be the deaf of me.
In short, the Triumphant Trinity presented challenges galore. Now that adding infant grandson Patrick makes four, you might think I should cinch up my saddle to avoid a fate of even more apocalyptic proportions.
Perhaps, but I’m taking Vincent’s lead to a more optimistic approach and assume that they will carry me. Indeed, 7-year-old Vincent guaranteed as much when he was just a tad over 2.
We live close to railroad tracks, which spawned a tradition for Vincent and me tracing back to when barely walked. When he would hear a train whistle, he would leap into my arms and I would run the block to the tracks so we could watch the train roar past.
The tyke became a fanatic about those trains and developed an uncanny knack of hearing whistles far off, allowing us time to trek to the train. The first time he stayed overnight with us, I heard a train whistle in the middle of the night. (Well, 2 a.m., but that’s the middle of the night for some people, right?)
Like a church bell calling people to worship, the whistle prompted me to utter a prayer, as well: "PLEASE, God, don’t let Vincent hear that whistle!”
God either didn’t hear, or she was just in a frisky mood, because there was Vincent at my bedside, tugging on the covers and saying, “Papa Mike, I hear a train, too.”
“I do, too, Vincent, but it’s the middle of the night.”
“We should go see it,” he insisted.
The plea in his eyes forced my hand, and my body, out of bed as I swept him up in my arms, bolted down the stairs, unbolted the door and loped toward the train. He was delighted as he watched it barrel by.
As for me, I realized what a pickle I would be in if a police officer saw me standing there, in my shorts, with no ID, holding a diapered toddler in the middle of the night. Fortunately for me, no officer drove by, and we had set a precedent of going train spotting, even in the middle of the night.
As time passed, and Vincent got heavier, my strides grew slower and my breathing, more labored. But that didn’t sway Vincent’s nocturnal missions. One night, when it was particularly dark, he nearly cut off my breathing because he was clutching my neck so hard.
But he assured me: “It’s dark, but I’m not scared, Papa Mike.”
As I breathed harder, I said, “You sure are heavy. I can hardly carry you.”
He put his hands firmly on my cheeks, looked me straight in the eye and promised: “Don’t worry, Papa Mike. When I’m older, I’ll carry YOU.”
Awwwwww. That’s why I’m sure that I might be able to keep up with all four of them, when Patrick gets past the eat-poop-sleep (mostly sleep) stage.
Forget the Four Horsemen; I’d rather look at them as The Fab Four, with no apologies to The Beatles.
Grandkid chatter
Feel free to send me your anecdotes and/or observations about your grandkids or grandkids you know. Or your own kids; like my Uncle Frank used to say, ALL kids are GRAND. I'll try to post as many as I can. I would appreciate being able to run your name, too, but if you'd rather NOT have your name published, please note it. Otherwise, I will assume I have your permission.
OR, of course, you can skip the me as the middle man and post comments as you see fit.
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