“One of the hardest jobs in this world is to be able to preserve the innocent face of our childhood in our adulthood as well!”
―
“Let’s play in my room,” my four-year-old granddaughter says.
I’m accepted as another kid. A genuine compliment. My daughter-in-law smiles. Very few preschoolers have a playmate named Grandma.
I take the observation seat on the floor as our granddaughter begins a run with various dolls through the girls’ dollhouse. She includes a monster at least twice the size of several Barbies. Monster is given the part because her hair is twice her size. Something like a fuzzy hot-air balloon the color of a faded blue dishcloth.
“Ahhhhhhh!” our little girl yells. I suspect the drama is for my benefit.
I watch as each doll slides through the window. Enthusiasm complete.
I grab one of the team from the stack. It is wearing a short, semi-existent top. No pants.
“Uh, I think this Barbie needs some pants.”
“Oh, it’s okay she just wears a butt.” My playmate’s voice sounds matter-of-fact as she finds a fresh antagonist for her play. A rabbit taking on the role of a skunk. Is the show for me or is this a standard activity?
I face fairy tales with a twist.
“What’s wrong with your hands, Grandma?” my playmate asks as she studies the smooth back of her hands.
“Not a thing, sweetheart. It’s a thing called age.”
Oh, well! I guess I didn’t escape reality as thoroughly as I thought.
illustration made from public domain image
terrypetersen 