Grandpa 'sits' the twins

Some years ago, my wife went out with our daughter-in-law, so that 'Grandma' could experience a half-day at pre-school with Granddaughter Colleen.

I was left in charge of Colleen's twin sisters,  Lindsay and Heather, who sat quietly on the floor in front of me poking at some infinitesimal thread on a discarded sock. This is going to be a cinch I thought, as I stretched back in the recliner and opened my book.

They loved sitting on the hearth, right in front of the fireplace [usually unlit].  

They looked at me as if to say, "We might go in the fireplace."  With an authoritative wag of an index finger and a gentle, but firm voice I told them "No!"

My problems began when the telephone rang.  While  answering the call I tried to keep them in sight, playing with toys, but disaster had struck!  They were sitting on the hearth.  Their hands were filthy black with soot.  They gave me the sweetest little smiles, and knowing they had done wrong, said, "Hi", in that sweet, husky little voice designed solely to melt a grandpa's heart.  

I scooped them up, one under each arm.  We marched to the bathroom where I held Heather against the side of the vanity with the gentle pressure of an encompassing body and legs.  On the vanity top I held Lindsay with my left arm around her, holding her left hand immobile with my left hand. I turned on the taps.

Have you ever tried to hold and wash the hand of a little child who doesn't want to be washed, using one hand to make lather with a slippery cake of soap?  Cleaned and nice-smelling, I put Lindsay down. Now I gave Heather  all of my concentration and commenced to wash her.  Lindsay now had the toilet paper unrolled and the bath towels off the rack.

Needless to say I gave them an early lunch at 11:20.  I figured they wouldn't budge if they had food in front of them.  The sight of their feeding dishes signalled food and they surpassed themselves with cooperation, climbing into their high-chairs.

They ate well, working their way through a half slice of cheese, an apple, and a half banana each, plus numerous crackers washed down with two glasses of juice. Then came the next big ordeal…change-of-diapers and afternoon nap time.  Pampers - what a wonderful invention - no safety pins to fumble with or fear of drawing blood.

Heather was first into the nursery. I left the door open, thinking Lindsay would naturally want to follow.  "Wrong"  -  Lindsay seized this opportunity to distance herself from the nursery.  It happened to be the hearth.  She stood with a very knowing and almost daring look on her cute little face, suggesting, "I might just get dirty again."  I quickly clutched her up and back to the nursery we went.   I closed the door behind me.

I decided to change Heather first.  While performing this almost-forgotten art, I placed Lindsay in her crib using it as a temporary holding pen.

Placement in the crib meant it was nap time ritual and all that went with it; blanket and dollies etc.  Out of practice, my diaper changing was taking a little longer than Mom's.  Screams of disapproval told me I'd done the wrong thing.  She wasn't being a bad little girl.  I just didn't have the routine quite right.  Aware that neighbours might be concerned, I quickly removed her from 'jail'.

Confined to the room, but now happily out of the crib, investigative Lindsay was now attempting to climb on to the changing table via a nearby chair, to reach a convenient roll of tissue and a stack of pampers.  All of these things were soon in various places, while Grandpa hastened to powder and re-wrap Heather.

Of course, during the entire procedure, Lindsay was using all of her baby Esperanto, [the twins understood each other perfectly], which served very well to describe and/or obtain anything she saw.  If you'll imagine the sound of "i" as in the word pit, you'll get the idea of the sound, when I say that the entire period of Lindsay's exploration was accompanied by "i,i,i,".  It's a language which suffices for any situation.  In this case "i" meant, "I want to be changed too." 

I placed Heather in her crib, tucked the blanket around her, along with a first-at-hand, and what seemed to be an appropriate dolly and gave her a kiss on the forehead.  I had Lindsay's diaper on before you could say "i".  Heather was in her crib but I had overlooked one very important fact - "Bay-Bee" wasn't.

Heather was now standing, holding the edge of the crib and crying, "i,i, bay-bee."  Hurriedly I powdered, wrapped and lay Lindsay  in her crib where she immediately took up the chant from her sister, and I now had a duet urging me on to do things right, singing, "i,i,i,baybee, baybee, i,i,i".

These two little cherubs, not yet two had already formed a protest group.  All they needed was the placard, "We Want Baybee".

Suddenly it dawned on me, that those knitted-wool-things, with a sort of face in the middle, that I had seen them hugging, or dragging by one leg, throughout the morning, were "bay-bee".  They each had one.  I rushed from the nursery into the disarranged toy department that was the front room.  Frantically I searched in and under everything, desperately trying to figure where I might have put a knitted-wool-thing with a face in the middle, had I been 15-months-old.

I wasn't sure which would be worse, to return empty-handed or to find only one and to have to make a decision as to who would get it.  From the nursery the volume was increasing and the "i,i,i"  had more of a desperate intonation…And Then I Found Them!  The relief I experienced was akin to finding my lost passport while travelling in Iran, or having my dentist telling me a root canal wouldn't be necessary after all.

Delighted, I quickly returned to the nursery where the sight of the contents in my hands immediately changed the looks on the baby faces and the "i,i,i" had a more approving sound.  I re-positioned each of the "protesters" on their tummies, shoved a "baybee" under a little arm, which quickly cuddled it, tucked their blankets around them, wound up a wonderful pling-kitty-plunk musical thing, which they loved, and left the room.  Silence reigned.

I returned to my reclining chair, picked up my book and commenced to read.  At that moment the front door opened and back from her pre-school, Colleen rushed in with a flashing smile and a "Hi Grandpa," with Mommy and Grandma close behind.  "How did it go?," they asked.

"Oh great," I replied, like an old vet.

 

It's hard to believe that those darling little twins will be 30 years old on May 16, 2014. But I think you'll agree, they are just as cute now as they were then!

Heather

Lindsay

Dear Mum

My Dear Mum  - 

Nothing seemed to daunt her.   She had every reason to be downhearted,  based on her life as she related it to me at times. When she and dad came out from England in 1912 everyone around them, save themselves, were sea-sick.  Mom and Dad cared for them.  

On arrival in Canada they had nothing, other than to be greeted in Victoria, B.C. by dad's two brothers, Rob and Will, who were working at the Empress Hotel.  Dad didn't have any promise of work, but on his first day while still in a suit he got a job right on the street of Victoria digging ditches.  Mom made a lunch for him and they sat on the side of the road and ate together.  Their story for a few years, was one of hardship.  My mom, Irene Violet Stofer was a real trouper and knuckled down to doing all that was required.

It wasn't an easy route for them in Canada, but mom especially made it work.  Work is the key word here.  As I recall the house that dad built for all of us, I recall the work that mom also put into it.  Nearly everything in the home was made by mom and dad with mom as the planner and designer so to speak.  All of the rugs and mats on the floors were made by mom and she shared with all the painting and wall-papering.   I remember very clearly that at the Times newspaper office where dad worked there were long cores of compressed paper almost like drain-pipe, very solid that came from the centre of the huge rolls of the blank white paper that would eventually become news papers.  These solid cores were discarded.  Dad brought them home.  Mom and he worked together to construct a base at one end, then threaded an electric wire up the centre where they affixed a socket for a light bulb and added a shade that mom had made to fit over the top.  We had several of these in our house as standing lamps.

Mom also designed and cut out floor mats from some sort of hard rubber matting that dad had obtained from his work place.  These were cut in such a way as to follow the shape of the hall.  If anything was needed, it was made.  Mom designed and cut out the material to make on her sewing machine, dress suits for myself and brothers and dad.  

Not only did mom design and make things for inside the house, but she also worked in the garden with layout of lawns and flower beds, with dad doing the 'bull-work'.  She was an all-around person. Mom was a religious person and we attended the Christian Science Church on Pandora Avenue.

When I was overseas  for 5 years during  World War Two, mom wrote letters to me at least every week and many times more often than that.  One thing about mom was that she wasn't going to allow me to miss anything.  Her letters were very detailed.  Because there were so many ships being sunk, mom numbered every letter she wrote to me and I could keep track of what I had missed and so she repeated items I might have missed. Everyone in the district was mentioned when an event affected their lives.   And where possible there was a photo or two.   She kept me up to date with the local newspapers and didn't allow me to miss a thing that was going on in the old home town. Mum and dad both anticipated my letters home to them and read them together.

Mom listened faithfully to a special "do good" type of program broadcast on KIRO from Seattle.  She became so involved that she made me a member of the club, The Time Klock Klub, which resulted in a charity drive she instigated to supply London's bombed out children with a huge quantity of toys and candy, which I presented to the war-orphaned children in St. Andrews Hospital in London's East End.

I had gone to England to join the R.A.F. and now mom learned that it was possible to transfer to the RCAF where my salary would be twice as much.  She did all of the letter writing to Members of Parliament re my status in the R.A.F. resulting in my transfer and being immediately sent home from Burma after my transfer to the RCAF in Bombay, India.

And then there was that wonderful day in August of 1945  when I walked off the boat ramp in Victoria, B.C. and there was my mom, arms open to greet me while dad stood back patiently waiting.    

I often think of my mom and all of the things she did for me, especially on Mother's Day.