Great Grandma

Over the weekend we took a trip to Williamsburg so Simon could meet his aunt and uncle and great grandmother.  My cousin and her two children were there as well, and everyone enjoyed meeting the little guy, but the highlight of the trip for me was seeing his face beam while in the arms of his great grandma, or GG.  Simon is her the 13^th grandchild, and we had been dying to get up there so the two of them could meet.

As my little guy has grown sturdier—looking more like the Michelin man every day—I’ve loosened up considerably.  These days I’m fearless with my son and germs, setting him down on rest stop bathroom floors as I go about my business.  I also like to write random lies in blog post. Check.

But really, I’ve come a long way since my bubble days.

Still, stepping inside my Aunt and Uncle’s home, my daddy eyes swept the floors, scanned the shelves, and located all points of entry. The first alarm sounded at the sight of a tiny boxer puppy in the house, with razor sharp puppy teeth and a hankering for all things eye level, I clutched Simon close, well above the ankle biter’s striking distance. 

The second danger appeared in the form of two adorable little girls.  My cousin’s daughters are 3 and half and one and a half. And what do little adorable girls love more than anything?  Babies.  But really, I was fine…I handed Simon off to my Aunt and hovered around the cookies.

At some point in the afternoon my wife set Simon on a blanket spread out on the floor and the girls swarmed followed.  Touching and feeling, they began groping him as though he were a second hand cabbage patch kid.  I leaned forward from my place on the couch, craning my neck as I watched them tugging at the seams.  I remembered to smile… 

They grabbed his Nuk, rolling it around in their hands and dropping it on the carpet.  Just before the puppy snatched it, the nuk was jabbed back into his mouth as though plugging a bicycle tire. 

“Honey, grab the nuk.”  I said to my wife, pleasantly, my foot tapping like a jackhammer.

“They’re fine, it’s okay.” 

“Oh, I know, of course.”  I was sat back in my chair with the blood pressure of a Tea Party member fielding a call from the IRS.

The girls sang songs to Simon, their knees and elbows mere inches from his head. I shook off the visions of him being dragged under a table to the tune of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and stood up. 

“You guys have beer right?”

In reality, all was fine as my son remained safe and coddled, being passed around from my aunt to cousin to grandmother. We're thankful to have such good family nearby. We enjoyed a delicious dinner, dessert, and a hearty breakfast the next morning and were on the road after lunch on Sunday where I topped speeds of 56 mph on the intersate, arriving home safe and sound.

Shopping...

Over the weekend my wife and I visited family in Williamsburg, Va.  Williamsburg is a beautiful town rich in colonial history and the roots of our country’s beginnings.  It also has a ton of outlet stores.  On the drive up my wife mentioned something about picking up a few things at the maternity store.  Great idea I thought, knowing that I would be sitting on the couch with my uncle watching college football.

The plan fell into place, with my wife shopping with my Aunt and cousin, while my uncle, my cousin’s husband, and I held down the fort.  We flipped from game to game, while I observed my cousin's husband put his two small daughters down for a nap like a seasoned pro.

Later that afternoon as the women arrived with bags in hand, my wife seemed quite pleased with her purchases.  She started small, warming me up with little outfits for the baby, complete with various animals on the butt of the outfit, ducks, raccoons and countless other harmless creatures.  My Aunt had bought little booties and bibs for the baby and I couldn’t help but to smile at these cute little get ups.  My joy was short lived.

She bent down, digging into an industrial strength bag that was stretched to the limit with what looked like enough material to clothe a small village. 

“I bought a few things so I would have something to wear.”  She said, as if she had been getting by wearing a toga.

One after another, she pulled out long, loose fitting shirts that she will eventually grow into. Other sexy items included jeans with large stretchy waistlines and pants with elastic.  It became quickly obvious that buttons were the enemy and comfort at a premium.  I put on a smile, happy that she was happy, but started noticing the price tags dangling from the atrocities she held up.  $39.99 here, $ 29.99 there, and it didn’t stop.  There were purple ones, striped ones, teal, white, more tops!  How much did she spend?  I took a sip of the suddenly medicinal beverage my older and much wiser Uncle had provided.

“How…ahem…How much did this little trip cost?”  I mustered, my voice struggling to find its pitch.

“Oh, I put it on the credit card.  You owe me some money.”   She said smiling.  The new line of thinking is that since I did this to her I am responsible for the fashionable maternity clothes as well.

Back at home, I was treated to a fashion show of every shirt and pair of pants that will become the staples of her wardrobe.  As she strode down the hall I had to admit that she did look quite good, and although I would never have thought it, I'm really starting to like her tummy.  Although I do have a 3:30 appointment at the plasma center in an effort to pay for the new clothes it requires..