The Top Half of the Photo

 

So much ketchup in my refrigerator

This post is a follow-up to one I wrote almost two weeks ago, in which I promised the rest of the story in a post "tomorrow." HAHAHA! Isn't it nice to know that in this world of constantly shifting expectations and mores, some things never change? In my defense, time is rushing so much faster as I age that I'm not sure "two weeks" and "tomorrow" aren't the same thing.

Anyway, in my last post I bemoaned (albeit bravely, don't you think?) the way our much-anticipated gathering of all of the chickadees back into the House on the Corner turned out to have some empty chairs. That part of the celebration was completely stink-o.

But go back and look at the last post and move your focus to the top half. That's the part that symbolizes how much fun we had in spite of the gaping gap left by the Covid exposure of Boy#1, Lovely Girl#1, and Baby Wonderful#1. (Also, Husband would like me to correct the last post's identification of the flu-ridden and therefore late-to-the-party parties as Boy#4 and his Dear One rather than the Boy#2 clan. This continues a 35-year-old tradition of my calling the Boys by the wrong names. So sorry!)

Anyway, I had the most amazing realization midway through our holiday week: It turns out that there comes a time in your children's lives when you don't have to entertain them. They entertain you. 

This isn't only because the crew now includes an adorable toddler who is beginning to talk and calls me Meemaw and adores Beebaw. Husband and I should have paid closer attention when friends told us we aren't in charge of choosing grandparent names, that the budding babbler would do that. Certainly I wouldn't have chosen Meemaw, which brings up mental images of a snaggle-toothed hillbilly in a rocking chair. Hearing the original "Grandma" and "Grandpa" emerge in translation from this wee one's mouth, though, is absolutely precious and endlessly endearing.

Even after the wee one had gone to bed, the entertainment didn't stop. The three Boys and their beauties organized activities to keep us together, even though a wonky hip was hobbling me. One night, for example, we spent hours doing taste tests. 

Friends, I never would have imagined how much fun this would be--like wine tastings for tee-totaling parents, without the hangovers. For two hours we dipped mini-hash browns into different brands of catsup, licked peanut butters off spoons, sipped orange juice (from concentrate and not from concentrate), and nibbled onion-and-sour-cream potato chips.

We are a family of, shall we say, strong opinions. We are brand loyal, and know deep down that our preferences are undoubtedly correct. But what do you know? If we don't have the brand names in front of us, it's a lot harder to be persnickety. After years of arguing for their personally preferred peanut butters, Boy#4 and his Dear One discovered they had top-rated the other one's brands. The moment was fraught.

Noooooo!

We disagreed on much. Some of us have palates that preferred a vinegary ketchup; others preferred it sweet. Two of us are rabid fans of the store-brand peanut butter. But we also agreed on much. "Natural" peanut butter is a crime against sandwiches. Ruffles are the finest style of potato chips and Pringles are...not. Three containers of ketchup earned their way into the refrigerator but the Great Value did not. 

And when it was over the next generation cleaned up the dozens of little plates and put the tasting spoons in the dishwasher, and generally got the kitchen ready for the next meal. Which they would cook, and that right there is another level of wonderful. 

We also spent one evening in a rousing session of Monikers, which was the perfect intergenerational game, except for the answers that made Meemaw blush just a little. 

Being the Old Folks is not always ideal. I very much regretted that the cursed wonky hip kept me from playing on the floor or taking walks with the wee one. And the one meal I did cook was not so good, with the only reliable specialty I claim (dinner rolls) falling victim to expired yeast. I would have checked that when I was younger.

But, oh, young parents, just wait. There will come a day when you are not the one responsible for the logistics or the food or the entertainment. Then you will sit back and look at your children having fun without your orchestration, and it will be the best. 

There's no comparison..