My granddaughter June is nearly 2½ years old. My wife and I were with her in Chicago over Father’s Day weekend.
June’s parents fixed up a small bedroom for us in the basement. June and I both wake up early. I listen for her and try to get her up to give her mom and dad a break. That first morning I heard her fussing and went upstairs.
June was standing in her crib crying. She raised her arms toward me to pick her up.
“Papa, I scared.”
June had found a word to name what she felt and told me. I lifted her to my chest, and she hugged my neck. I hugged her back.
“It’s OK, June. Papa gets scared too.”
I shut off the sound machine and pulled back the blackout curtain over the window. June’s room turns into a dark noisy cave at night. She obviously likes it because she sleeps so well. Things have changed. Why didn’t we do that when we were raising babies?
I took her to look out her window, but she wouldn’t let go of my neck. I sat in a chair and with some coaxing, persuaded her to sit on my leg. She oddly was quiet.
“Why are you scared June?”
June’s mom thinks she wakes up this way when dreams upset her. How do you explain dreaming to someone so young?
June looked up at me with sad eyes. Instead of talking, she stared at me, blinked and stuck out her lower lip. June expresses herself well without words too.
“Let’s read a book.”
We read about a mother duck and her ducklings. We counted them, one got lost, there was a panic, the duck was found and finally June gave me a smile. Time for breakfast. Our day was underway.
June has a big, fenced yard and uses all of it. After breakfast she ran outside after Ronnie, their ginger tabby cat, who tried to ditch her but couldn’t. Finally, he lay flat on the concrete by the steps and June lay next to him and sang. From her song I picked out the words “‘onnie” (hasn’t mastered R’s) and phrases, “lay down head,” and “sleepy time.” She petted Ronnie and Ronnie purred. Lucky cat. Lucky child.
After lunch I was getting sleepy in a chair when the mailman came. The mailman puts letters in a squeaky slot between the outside screen and the inside door. June heard him and ran to the foyer. She came back quickly and stood in front of me.
“I need help.”
Subject, verb, complement. Clear as day.
I went to the door. She pointed to the door latch.
“It doesn’t work.”
Same thing, this time with a pronoun and a contraction. It’s amazing how language finally clicks for humans. It changes everything.
The next day we all went to Wrigley Field and June’s first game. She insisted on walking. June has a stubborn streak but after all, she’s 2. I was worried about her going through the turnstile, walking up the ramps.
Such a little girl amid so many big adults. She was a pandemic baby and has lived most of her life with a handful of souls. But there she was, braving the crowd.
June loved her hot dog. The Cubs won. I could hear her faking the words but hitting the notes to “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” June’s life has taken off like a rocket. Watching it fascinates me. We have so much to talk about.
Dave McClure lives in Ottawa. He is a long-retired director of a local private agency. He is also a blogger. You can read more of Dave at Daveintheshack.blogger.com