The Lonely Drive

The transfer is always hard--the part of a visit where both grandmas drive to a midpoint in Indianapolis and transfer the grandson.

This time I was on the giving side, saying goodbye in the parking lot of Starbucks and leaving quickly with little more than a grande coffee and a few broken animal cookies in a circus box. 

There was no chattering from the backseat during my drive home--the only sounds being the rattles from my car, which I worry may be ominous but tend to ignore, and the occasional voice of Rush Limbaugh as I searched for radio stations to distract me. I wasn't in the mood for outrage and kept searching until I found an appropriate sound track for my tears.  

He turned 18 months old this visit, an age that found him mimicking and adding new words at a pace rivaling how quickly I now forget them.

He arrived with just the basics--Mommy, Daddy, Abbey (his dog) and cookie.

I got blamed for that last one. He went home from my last visit saying it loud and clear. And so often that Alex visualized all my meals void of the fruits and vegetables that she had requested--a pile of cookies forming his sole food group.

I did better this time. He was transfered with a vocabulary of useful words like "up" and "down" and "train" and "truck" and "bus" and "cheese." And "achoo," which could come back to haunt me since his version sounds a little too much like asshole. Time will tell.

We enjoyed a few new treats too. Like ice cream. But I'm a quick learner. I never once used the word. He just says, "mmm, mmm good." 

And he says "nemaw," his version of grandma. 

Mmm, mmm, good, indeed.