So in addition to being on the road for the past months, I have had my daughter, her husband and her two boys, now ages twoish and 5 months, living with me. They have moved back home after a stint in Los Angeles where their boys were born.  I think they found, as we all did who experienced it, that child number two is an exponential increase in activity/responsibility (i. e. work!)  and the man to man defense becomes a full court press leaving you screaming for more adults on your team.

Moving in with YaYa and Pops, as my husband and I are affectionately called, until they can find their own home has been a joy and a challenge for all of us.  Living in a multi-generational home is pretty standard in most cultures but in the United States, not so much. Here when you make the transition from “You’re so young, I can’t believe you are grandparents” to “move your walker, I can’t see the TV,” we elderly ones are ferried off to old folks homes with the polite, obligatory visit on Sundays. Seldom do you end up in a child’s spare room.

So my situation is a good one.  They are the squatters and I can decide when my hotel has no vacancy which I anticipated would occur at about a week to ten days of our cohabitation.

But I had not anticipated one aspect of my new living situation.  Falling madly, unabashedly, completely in love with my grandsons.  Like young love, all your boundaries, rules, previous relationships are overshadowed and pushed to the side when you open your front door and a small voice calls “YaYa!!!!” and you are immediately enveloped by knee high hugs and kisses and an adoring, unbearable sweet grin facing up in wild anticipation of your next move.

I was not an especially stellar infant/ toddler mom.  I am not an early morning person.  I don’t like sitting on the floor to do any thing much less count matchbox cars.  Sesame Street I found to be a life saver but sort of stupid.  I mean really. Why didn’t Big Bird have a name?  Everyone else did? They didn’t call Snuffy “Large Elephant.”

No, I basically had toddlers to enjoy teenagers.  I adore kids just when everyone else wants to give them away.

So this transition to really, really loving a day spent with a two year old has been a brave new world for me.  I broke all my original rules for child rearing in the first two days. I sneak my grandson cookies, we play silly games like “where is Mr. McGillicutty?” while driving in the car.  I don’t even know who Mr. McGillicutty is or where he came from in the recesses of my feeble brain but we look for him all the time. (Just googled it.  Should have known it was an I Love Lucy phrase.) I drive carpool for nursery school.  I buy pizzas by the carton to support it.

Anyway, the most recent crack in my usually impermeable veneer, was the introduction of the sport of hockey to my grandson, Charlie. We live in the cold midwest where hockey is religion but when my own son cried though his first skating lesson I shed tears of joy that I would never have a 5AM ice time practice or a 7AM game in Timbucktu.

Not so with precious Charlie.  The moment he showed interest in scooting a plastic lemon slice across the kitchen floor with a spatula, I was calling the ice rink to see how early he could start lessons.  Hearing sadly they began at age 3, I settled for asking about their next Pee Wee practice (the gifted 11/12 year-olds headed for the NHL).  The next day at 5:30 PM sharp we were there for the big event.  We arrived just in time for the Zamboni man, sweeping the rink to a crystalline shine to which my California born surfer child, who had never seen ice exclaimed, “Wow, YaYa!”

And it was all uphill from there.  The players arrived in their full padded glory–skates, helmets, mouthguards–wisking the magic black pucks back and forth into the nets.

Charlie stood transfixed with his tiny pink nose pressed against the glass, his fingers tapping gently against the barrier. His smile, ear to ear.

Now we have a new game we play in the hall each morning, broom hockey.  The puck is whatever he finds to use and the rules are whatever he chooses. My brooms are turning to hay and white paint chips are falling off all my baseboards. I’m sometimes still in my goalie PJ’s at noon.

Come on, he had me at “Wow, YaYa!”