Grandkids
Winter 2003 we were visiting San Miguel de Allende, living in a rented house on Úmaran Street. It came with a cook and a housekeeper. After five weeks, we were all one happy family; inevitable when people live together 60 hours a week. We were all excited because Juanita, the cook, was expecting, and we were already fretting because our visit would end before she gave birth. Then I had a heart attack.
Adapting to life at 6300' causes manufacture of extra red blood cells. Thickened blood sometimes can't get through narrowed coronary arteries.
I spent some days in the hospital until I was well enough to travel. Then I went north for more treatment. Nobody told Juanita or Lupe what had happened to me. They thought I went home to die. People in Juanita's caste don't often survive coronaries.
Seven months later we were back in San Miguel, in what turned out to be the beginning of our lives as permanent residents. We had leased a house on Garita for one year: different house, different staff. One day we went down to the Úmaran house to say hello to Lupe and Juanita. When they opened the door, they stared at me like they were seeing a ghost, and burst into tears.
They thought I had died. And for that, Juanita had named her son after me. Juanito.
Juanito is my first honorary grandchild, and he shows all the superior traits one would expect from my descendants.
We bought our current house some months later, and became friends with our next-door neighbors: four sisters my age, living together without husbands and happy as can be. A year later, two grandchildren were born: sweet little Victoria and her cousin, Victor Hugo. To properly assume my sole as an honorary grandfather, I had to get around my American-accented Spanish to pronounce their names right. The boy's is pronounced "BICK-toad Oo-go." Really.
One day I heard an inane melody playing over and over again, blasting into my house. Irritated, I went up onto my roof garden where I could look down into the sisters' courtyard. There I saw two grandmothers, each with a two-year-old in her arms, dancing. Now I love that tune.
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Lisa comes to our house every couple of weeks to give Jean a manicure and pedicure. Now, a year later, the two women know all the intimate details of each other's marriages. I don't want to think about what they say to each other. A month ago, Lisa gave birth to her second child, Hannah. She brought her to visit the other day.
When there's an infant in the room, I want to hold it. I've been accused of monopolizing babies while envious mother-types stand around waiting for a turn at cuddling. Tough. Some things, you just have to play hard ball.
Jean made me pose for this shot with Hannah and my dearest Mexican granddaughter, Teresa, who is featured from time to time in these posts.
It was ten years ago that grandchildren began cropping up in my family when my son John D. married Heather. At the sound of an "I do", precocious, serene Shayla became my first-ever granddaughter.
Subsequently, John and Heather produced my first conventional grandkid, Kiely, shown here on the right at Samantha's wedding. Owing to the ephemeral nature of modern marriages, Kiely has eleven grandparents. On the left we have another instant grandchid, Cassie, who joined our family when my daughter Samantha married Kip. Cassie has at least eight grandparents.
I'm writing about about grandchildren today because two new ones are coming into my life. At the moment, they're at the stage shown below, fifteen weeks.
Not an actual portrait of my grandchild
Samantha and Kip have told me to expect a little boy, provisionally named Henry Harper. Either that or an as-yet unnamed eleven-toed girl. It takes a lot to get me to endure TSA screening, but Henry Harper has got me making reservations for Santa Barbara in early July.
By uncanny coincidence, my Spanish Teacher, Erika, is also expecting. Like Samantha, she has been listening to the ticking of her biological clock running out. She is one month older than my daughter, and her baby is due on the exact same day—June 30. I'm gonna get to hold them both.
For an irresponsible, lazy grandfather, grandkids give me the greatest of pleasure. Like someone said, with grandchildren, you can love 'em and give 'em back. They're so sweet, and when one of them has a meltdown, well I'm sorry, but I can't help thinking: Payback Time.
A while ago, I was talking to John D. on the phone. At one point he said to me—he actually said to me—"I'm worried about the kind of kids Shayla is hanging around with."
I just love it. And of course, I love them.