Christmas was hard, though it was great, got up early made airport gate. Plane took to sky seven o’clock, made our first hop to Charleston. Landed Des Moines right around noon, Katie, new van, drove to her home. Grandson felt ill, made us both sad, had low-key day with son who’s dad. I was wiped out, went for a walk, we five humans, Cereza’s barks.
Pleasant night air, plus Christmas lights, when we were done bathed my grandson. Water too hot, then was bit cold, Goldilocks bit, timeless, not soiled. Played in the tub with stacking toys, splashed water round, never grows old. Put PJ’s on, co-slept in bed, both exhausted, slept like the dead.
Early to rise, Benjamin’s theme, fear I do take to mad extremes. Central Time Zone, Circadian, I lay in bed extra hour. Typed up rough draft from my notebook, tribute Cohen, “Flyin’ To Ya.”
Our nieto still fev’rish’d brow, told his mama, “We got him now.” Seems son Kevin had issue too, so drove them both for doctors’ views. Dropped Kevi off then scurried on took nieto pedi’trician. Little trooper ‘xamination, amazing job with directions. Opened his mouth, coughed when cajoled, offered his ear ‘fore he was told.
Amazing lad, three years one month, Great Aunt Maura had sons’ motto: She has three boys all were described, “Advanced Handsomes,” we now ascribe this moniker to our grandson not only true, but also fun.
Ear infection for grandson John, his dear Papa pink eye reason for pain ojo, both prescriptions. Dropped the scripts off, drove down the street, picked up some subs we three to eat. John was displeased, ‘moxicillin still tastes the same, taste-buds’ villain.
Not feeling well but still was game, took him for jog, pace very tame. Jogged ’bout six K, farther than five, Baby Jogger when Dad was five. Jogged on sidewalk down to a trail weather was cool, long sleeves worked well.
Back at the house stacked plastic cups. He’d knock ’em down I’d build ’em up. John tried his hand our stacking game, “Advanced Handsome,” earned his nickname. Stacked them four high out of seven, we had great time, slice of heaven.
Early morning, Twenty-seventh, “Grandson, wake up!” I long to shout. Four-forty-eight, bit too early, guess I should wait ‘fore get squirrely. There’s a season, and there’s a time, swear to Heaven, each age divine.