It Doesn't Quite Add Up

It began with a stream of unexceptional thoughts: Katherine's birthday is tomorrow, oh, yeah, I want to mail that birthday card and I still have time to get a coffee before school starts and here's the place where I can turn around and BLAM! I ran my new blue Prius up and over a snow-covered curb with a wrist-wrenching thud, and jerked to a stop 100 yards from where I had intended to turn. DAMN! I yelled. HOW STUPID! Air hissed from my left front tire, and the plastic sheathing protecting the undercarriage was buckled and torn. Screws dangled. Pieces of mangled black plastic lay in the road.

Just yesterday I had been congratulating myself on how carefully I was driving these days, how long it had been since my last speeding ticket - except for the one in California two years ago -  how my insurance rates had dropped, how mature I was becoming in general...

BLAM!

I drove to school and parked, resigned to the fact that my tire would be flat by the end of the day. I would deal with it later.

"Good morning!" the school secretary greeted me.

"Hi," I said.

"Let's see, today you're in 7th grade math."

"Math?" I repeated. "Are you sure you don't mean language arts?"

"No, it's math."

"Not social studies?"

"Math."

I have taught some math, an extremely elementary form of it, possibly up to fourth grade level, but no further. If, in my role as assistant, it fell to me to teach a lesson in fourth grade, I could safely turn to the answers in the back of the teacher's manual. If a student asked me how I had arrived at an answer, I solicited aid from Hannah, aged 9.

The 7th grade teacher had thoughtfully left me a lesson plan. The math text book lay open to a page filled with what was quite possibly ancient Sumerian, although it was titled "Coordinate Graphing." I identified charts with intersecting and bisecting lines and arrows and points and letters. There were some algebraic terms: x-axis, polynomial, and linear equation. 

I remembered that when I had coached middle school students in remedial math, a fellow teacher had organized the lessons for me. We had shared space in the same classroom, so when situations arose - such as the rare student actually wanting to know the mechanics of something - I could summon my friend for help.

Once the school principal had pulled me aside after observing a literacy class, and after congratulating me on the efficacy of my teaching style, the engagement and liveliness of my students, he asked bluntly, "But, you don't really teach much math, do you?"

"Not much," I admitted.

After the 7th graders swarmed in, and we ran through the pledge and morning announcements, we played a few rounds of Mum Ball. Mum Ball is a game played silently in which a soft Nerf-ish ball is pitched around the classroom. If you drop it, you're out, if you throw it too hard, you're out. If it goes in the fish tank or out the window, game over. I figured if we played for 15 minutes, that would be nearly half the class.

"Are we gonna to do some math today?" Jimmy finally asked.

"Oh, we have time for one more game," I told him. "What's the rush?"

When the Mum Ball flew onto a shelf containing glass beakers, and a scuffle between 2 basketball players broke out, I grudgingly agreed it was time to stop.

I stood behind a wooden podium at the front of the classroom, math textbook open, and read the instructions aloud. Then I had Jimmy read them again. I pointed to the white board where there was something that looked like an example of the indecipherable Coordinate Graphing and said, "If you get confused, you can just um, look here."

"Any questions?" I asked.

Heads shook no. I breathed. I remained at the podium poring over the answer page, willing some sort of meaning to emerge.

Please I thought don't let anyone have a question.

"Mrs. Palmer?" 

"Yes?" I replied.

"I don't really get this," a girl with red hair muttered. 

"Hmm," I said, feigning thoughtfulness, "Well, what's your best guess?"

"Huh?"

"Okay," I said. "I'm going to level with all of you."

Heads looked up.

"I don't do math. I'm a writer. So if people are having trouble, perhaps one or two of you who actually understand this coordinate graphing stuff could help the others out. Practice some team teaching or something."

Hands went up. The class worked it out; so did the succeeding class. I remained behind my protective wooden podium, math text open. Nestled ever so discreetly between its pages was my Kindle. As the class worked, I finished The Art of Fielding. 

At the end of the day, having arranged for a mechanic to put on my spare "donut" tire and having limped to my automobile dealership, and having conversed with the insurance company, I actually practiced a little math myself. I was able to calculate that the repairs to my car, out-of-pocket, would roughly total a month's pay.

Substitute

They swarmed through the second grade classroom door, puffy snow-suited legions of them, dragging back packs, their snow-booted feet scuffing the floor.


"Good morning," I said in my teacher voice, my sub plans clutched in my hand. "I'm Mrs. Palmer." I pointed to the white board where, after five attempts, I had neatly printed my name in red marker.


"Where's Mrs. D?" 


"She's in a meeting today."


"Ooooohh."


"What meeting?"


"Will she be back tomorrow?"


"Yes," I said, "She will be back tomorrow."


Momentarily mollified, they milled about, shoving a bit, piling their clothes into cubbies, pulling out snacks, stacking colored homework folders in a basket by the door.


 I surveyed the classroom: books and print and letters and numbers and pictures and student art and projects filled the learning space. There was a milk carton village and a helper chart; tables everywhere held stacks of books and piles of mad minute math sheets and cursive practice sheets. More bookshelves lined the walls. A display in the front of the classroom contained books about Chinese New Year and groundhogs and science and re-cycling and thunderstorms. Color and space coalesced to form a riot of language and sensory stimuli.


A little girl with glasses and brown hair tugged on my arm.


"Did the groundhog see his shadow?" she whispered.


"We-ll..." I stalled. In my rush to pick up my courage inducing Dunkin' Donuts cappuccino, I had missed that vital bit of information. 


I needn't have worried.


"Yes, he did!"


"No, he didn't!"


"Actually, in Vermont they're called woodchucks," said a little boy whose blonde hair stuck up in electric hat hair tufts.


"It doesn't matter whether he did or not," said a little girl with a lime green barrette, arms akimbo, "because, it's always winter somewhere."


"No, it's not!"


"Yes, it is!"


"All right," I interrupted, "Let's go have circle time."


"Circle time, what's that?"


"You know, when you all sit together in a circle and talk a bit about the day," I stammered, glancing again at the day's typed schedule before remembering that circle time was a ritual in a previous grade.


"It's not called circle time, it's called morning meeting!"


"It's when we read the morning message!"


"Oh," I said. "Then let's all sit down over on the grey rug and get started."


What they heard was: Everyone twirl in dizzying concentric circles while flailing your arms and yelling at the top of your voice.


"First, you do the calendar," Fee explained, placing a comforting hand on my leg.


"I have to go the bathroom!" Jeremy announced.


"Okay," I said.


"Can you tie my shoe?" Tommy demanded, proffering a black sneaker at eye level.


"Sure," I said.


A little girl approached me solemnly and gently pried a yellow plastic star with the number 97 on it from my hand. 


"I'll put this up for you," she offered.


"Okay," I said. 


As she pulled a chair to the window, clambered up and stretched on one toenail to press the yellow plastic star with the number 97 to a number line after the number 96, someone shouted, "She can't climb on a chair!"


"She's getting down now," I said, hastening over and helping her down.


"I have to go to the bathroom!" Jeremy shouted again, pinching the front of his pants while hopping on one foot.


"Didn't you just get back?' I asked.


"I have to go again!"


"Okay," I said.


Eventually, everyone sat or, if they were boys, collapsed dramatically as if shot.


"Now, let's take turns and greet each other," I said. "Fee, will you please start?"


"Good morning, Charlie, how are you?" Fee chanted, turning to Charlie and grasping his hand.


"Good," said Charlie, who turned to Brian.


"No, you're supposed to ask Fee how she is!" Several voices shouted.


"Charlie, please ask your friend Fee how she is," I instructed.


"Friend? She's not my friend," Charlie stated. "She's just in my class."


"Sarah took Sam's pencil," a little boy said, tapping my shoulder, "And you're supposed to send the attendance down now."


"Leah has mints!" Conan said, and she's selling them to Tommy."


"Okay," I said, "I'll take care of it, but you need to keep the focus on yourself."


"Focus?" asked Conan. 


"Like a camera!" Several more voices shouted.


"What I mean is -  oh, look, let's just finish greeting each other," I sighed.


"Good morning, Mrs. Palmer, how are you?" Jeremy shouted close to my right ear.


"Frankly, not so well," I replied.


During the ensuing clamor that began as Literacy Block, I attempted to capture everyone's attention.


I turned the lights off.


I turned the lights back on.


I flicked them twice.


"One, two, three, look at me!" I tried loudly, turning two fingers toward my own eyes.


"It's not 'one, two, three, look at me,'" Shelby giggled. "It's one, two, three, eyes on me."


"Thanks, Shelby," I said. "ONE, TWO, THREE, EYES ON ME!" I more or less bellowed.


"You will now work on your literacy packet," I explained. "First, practice your spelling words; next, please do 2 handwriting sheets - "


"I have to go to the bathroom!" Jeremy shouted.


"You've gone twice," I said. "That's enough."


"But, I have to!" 


"Okay, but this is it," I warned. "Make the most of it."


"Where was I?" I asked.


"Over by the white board," Fee said.


"No, I mean... thanks Fee, never mind. All right, troops, you will be working on 2 handwriting sheets, then you will take turns reading with me."


"Can I go to the media center?" chirped Freddie.


"After you finish your work," I said firmly, feeling a modicum of control within reach.


"But, I don't have any books to read!" Freddie wailed.


"After...you...finish...your...work," I repeated.


"You're allowed to send four people down," Freddie explained.


"I'll go!" 12 voices shouted.


"No, no one leaves until his or her work is finished," I said. I circled the classroom slowly with one arm outstretched as if leveling a death ray.


"Can I read with you first?" Shelby asked.


"Sure," I answered. "It needs to quiet in here, so everyone can concentrate," I said, placing a finger over my lips.


"I can't concentrate," Tommy complained. "If my sneaker is untied."


"I don't want to do any work," Jeremy complained. "Can't I just go to the bathroom?"


"NO!" I said. "And no more talking!"


"Let's play the quiet game!" someone said.


"Yay, yay, the quiet game!"


As Shelby read to me, the quiet game was played eleven times. Jeremy demanded bathroom privileges four more times; two little boys hung by their chins over their chair backs; hundreds of pencils were sharpened; dozens of tiny water bottles were crinkled in small hands; packages of cold Eggo pancakes were consumed.


"You're a doof," Shelby read aloud from her read-aloud selection.


"A douche??" Tommy repeated.


"I don't want to do this work now," Madison complained.


"I'd rather be home in a quiet room drinking a nice cup of coffee, but I'm here," I said. "We all have to show up and do our work."


"I can't even have coffee," sniffed Madison.


"It is a half day today, right?" I asked a passing teacher in the hallway as my students skipped and leaped and jostled their way to music class.


"Subbing today?" she enquired.

*

Ringing in the New (Job)?

I allowed myself a few days of scathing self-criticism for being fired from a mere month's employment as a telephone service representative for a company whose owners made a guest appearance on the Martha Stewart Show to promote some sort of puff candy.


I withdrew and ate avocados, with the curtains drawn. I watched NCIS.


Finally, I had to agree that it had not been the right job for me.


"It was a dumb job," Jane commented. "Let it go."


I decided to call my daughter for help with re-vamping my resume.


"Hi, Claudia," I said to her company's receptionist. "Is Katherine available?" I asked, wondering if this might be the day after 5 years of frequent calling that Claudia would recognize my voice.


"Who's calling, please?" Claudia asked.


"It's her Mom," I sighed. 


"Hi, Mom. What's up?" my daughter answered cheerfully.


"I need some help with my resume."


"Oh, boy. Do you have anything written down yet?"


"Of course I do. I've had other resumes, you know, for other jobs."


"Well, send it along and I'll take a look at it."


"Could you possibly look at it now?" 


"Yes, now would be okay," she agreed. "But, you're sort of pushy."


I emailed what I had, and waited.


There was the sound of muffled guffawing when my daughter returned my call. "Okay, so what is this?" she began.


"You know what it is," I said.


"Well, first of all, everything ran together on the page. Do you even know how to send an attachment?"


"Of course I do!" I said grouchily.


"Well, never mind, it has to be redone anyway. Completely redone."


"I know, I know, that's why I called you," I said with mock sweetness.


"First of all, no one cares that you played on a traveling 4.0 tennis team, or that you like to hike, garden and take pictures."


"But - "


"And where are the dates? You can't just put "The 80's," and list stuff. It has to be specific. But, don't worry, we'll fix it."


We laughed while my daughter patched my resume, and I was able to remember some important dates, like when I had graduated from college, and what years I had taught and the specificities of teaching literacy and writing. My happiest times, career-wise had been working in school, exploring literary themes, encouraging reading skills and self-expression. I remembered the sweetest expression of pride, when a child struggled through reading a difficult passage aloud. The shy triumph. I had loved connecting with those students. 


Recently, I assisted at a Montessori School. The space with its many windows and wooden floors and plants was large and bright, filled with sun. There were learning stations where the 4 and 5-year-olds did their "work." They swept the floor and connected a set of wooden railroad tracks, and kneaded and rolled homemade play-doh. They shared. They painted wooden holiday trees. They mixed food coloring with soap suds and made observations. 


"Sam is my boyfriend," Lela said, indicating a small boy wearing a ball cap and grey plastic sunglasses with orange lenses.


"I'm not a boyfriend," Sam said.


At snack, the teacher Steff and I sat at the oblong table with the children, me trying to tuck my long legs under the child-sized table. Sara and Jarod passed plates of carrots and dip, while Susanna and Zeke handed out napkins and cups. I shared my dried papaya.


"Shall we say our poem today?" Steff asked.


"Yes!" everyone cried.


"1-2-3," the children recited, "Take a deep breath. Bon appetit. It's time to eat."


"Now Miss Amy will teach us some meditation," Steff said, as we reassembled in the circle area. 


We each had a small mat and I smiled at the rapt little faces, at the flexible little bodies sitting so effortlessly cross-legged, hands placed on their knees.


"Does anyone know what a sentient being is?" I asked.


"Is it a planet?" Jarrod asked.


"Close enough," I said. "Let's just sit and feel our bodies breathing. It's how we relax and just be."


"I like just being," Susanna said.


That's how I discovered the classroom is where I want to be now, in some capacity, preferably at an elemental level - say kindergarten, where I don't have to worry much about math.

Pink Slip: Not a Garment

I was staring down a frozen computer screen at my third computer of the morning, engaged in deflective patter with a customer as I waved an arm at the Watcher to come help me.


"We've already ticketed this computer to be fixed," the Watcher told me. "Maybe it's you that needs a ticket."


Liz told me later that this was an attempt at wry humor.


Another customer berated me for shipping costs, and refused to supply me with her phone number.


"I don't give my phone number," she scolded. "I'm a lawyer, and I know what happens."


"Okay, ma'am," I said.


 I was cheerily urging someone to purchase an epilator to go with his nose and ear hair trimmer, when my supervisor appeared and deftly pushed the "make busy" button.


"Let's go talk," she said.


We wound through the building until we found two chairs in an area surrounded by merchandise: sock monkeys, chattering chimps, xylophones, boxed chocolates and soaps nesting in gift boxes.


"So," she began. 


I sat erect in my folding chair surrounded by puppy pajamas and bathrobes on hangers trying to assume a position of dignity in my squishy Uggs and jeans, but I felt as she explained numbers and the unfortunate circumstance of over-hiring based on last year's projections, like a chastised school girl.


The words "laid off" were used. 


"I don't want you to go home thinking this has anything to do with your performance," she said.


"It doesn't?"


"Oh, no, you were... " She smiled and swept the manilla folder in her hand in an encouraging upward arc. "On the upswing."


"Did you have a chance to use your 50% off?" she asked.


"Not yet," I said.


"Oh, that's too bad, because we don't really have a way of tracking..."


I was to be stripped of my 50%. I considered racing up the mountain, going straight to the company's flagship store, and using it before the system noticed I was terminated.


"But, you will be invited to return next year," she added. She showed me a paper with a little box that had been marked with a hasty blue inked check. It read "re-hire."


I reflected upon my brief, not quite brilliant career. It felt as though I had mostly been in the center of a disturbance: computers freezing, taking three weeks to master the digital punch, hired on at the very end of seasonal hiring and therefore missing the final training. I had faxed paper punches to the wrong department. At night I had begun to awaken to imaginary beeps in my mind. My dreams were haunted by frantic conversations to do with oilcloth tablecloths and fruit cake. There had been, perhaps, overly frequent calls to CS and Product. I still "hunt and peck." I had dropped a call or two. 


No sooner had I punched back in from lunch than the Watcher appeared.


"What time did you punch out?" she demanded.


"At 2pm," I said.


"You took an hour for lunch?"


"I did," I admitted. "I had a very bad morning, and then I was let go."


"What a terrible last day," someone said mournfully.


"Have a cookie button," someone else offered.


"Would you like to stay for the rest of the day," the Watcher inquired, "Or would you like to go home now?"


"I think now," I said. 


I handed in my white, credit card sized fob and my name tag and shook hands with my supervisor.


"I'll miss your smile," she said.


"Don't worry about being fired, " Dick said trying to be helpful. 


"I was laid off," I explained.


"Well, call it what you will," he said, "But, it's just great. In fact, I'll check back with you in exactly a year from now and you'll be shocked to see how things will have opened up."


"Hm," I said. 


"Basically, they looked around the room when it came time to cut and saw you," was my daughter's comment.


I've already started the search for future gainful employment at findtherightjob.com. There are some intriguing possibilities: Foreign Trainer for Disney in China, Gas Plant Operator, Clinical Dog Specialist, Central Intelligence Officer.

Don't Call Me

Today was a difficult day on the phones.


I was in the middle of taking an order, keying information like a fiend, peppering my conversation with  deferential, oft-used "yes, ma'am's," my voice occasionally adopting a southern lilt or a western twang to match my customers. ("Da, S RazhdestvOm!" I responded to a Russian woman from West End Avenue in New York.) Then, without warning, between screens, passing from shipping to credit information, a large red ERROR flashed across everything, and all that carefully pecked out information vanished. Gone. 0 items in Shopping Bag. 


"Whoops," I muttered inadvertently.


"Oh, no," groaned the customer from Bad Axe, Minnesota.


"I'm so sorry, sir, but I'm going to have to transfer you to customer service."


"Why?"


My thoughts raced. I'm not supposed to admit to any deficiency in our system. Where was my script? I pawed through catalogues. I dug through forms.


"Sir, it's taking a moment to access...."


"Oh, fine, then just transfer me."


"Yes, sir, and I'm so sorry for this inconvenience."


This happened 7 times before my mentor, L, pushed the "make busy" button on my phone. I removed my headset like a defrocked queen.


"Let's go through this again," she said.


"I don't think it's me," I said, a whit away from a whine.


"We'll see."


"Did you move your mouse?" she demanded.


"I did not move my mouse."


"Did you double click ship?"


"I did not double click ship."


"Did you enter the credit card type before you entered the number?"


"Yes," I said. "I did."


She gave me a few technical suggestions, keys to push, items to shade, things to paste. I was to press Control C, then V.


I went back to my headset, I dutifully noted the time spent in my Daily Log: .25 minutes under OTHER.


Three orders later, ERROR!


Someone seized my headset. I was instructed to log out. 


"We're going to take your cookies," they said.


"You are?" I asked. I had already missed the plate of Luscious Lemon Cake. Was I to lose out on lebkuchen?


"Your system is in default," I was told.


"Oh," I said.


"Don't worry, this won't count against you," L said.


"What a relief," I breathed. I don't need things counting against me.


After they fixed it, and I had logged back in, I was conversing with a gentleman from Louisville, Kentucky. He dictated his email, stressing that it be in upper case.


"Thank you, Mr. Wide Glide," I said. "Have a happy, healthy Christmas." Then I froze.


L poked me. 


"Did I just hear you call your customer Mr. Wide Glide?" 


"Whoops," I said. "I guess I did. I-I-I-I..."


L shook her head and turned back to her screen in silence.


L passes me notes: Suggest other items. We're upselling tufted chair pads today. Don't use the word "intersperse," our customers will get confused. Our customers don't need to know that your mother has a house in Florida. 

At the end of the day, I spent .50 minutes with a gentleman from New Jersey. He changed his order three times, twice after I had keyed his credit information. He added boysenberry jam. He subtracted cherry jelly sticks. He forgot to mention the promo code for free shipping.


When I had wished him a good rest of his day, I sat back and moaned, "Man, what does that guy think, that I have all day to wait around while he thumbs through his catalogue?"


L swiveled toward me.


"Yes," she said, "You do. It's your job."

I'm Seasonal

I'm sitting in front of a computer screen, hand on my mouse, my personal "foamies" on the headset I'm using. I glance nervously at the phone. The LED display is blank. An infinitesimal beep sounds. I pounce.


"Hi, this is Amy, " I chirp. "How may I help you today?"


"I'd like to place an order."


I"d be delighted to help you with that today," I say enthusiastically. "May I have your first item number?"


As the customer tells me her first item number, I click on the "search" box in the top right hand corner on my company's web page. 


I am live.


After completing my day and a half of training, during which we had practiced taking orders while our instructors role-played being customers with a variety of requests and gift cards and additions or subtractions from their orders, we were ushered into an area called "nesting." 


I had notes. I had catalogues. I had shipping information. I had a button on my phone labeled CS, for customer service, which meant if there was any sort of situation other than me feeding information through a variety of screens all the way through to checkout I could, with extreme courteousness, pass my customer along.


"Ma'am?" I had been instructed to say, "I am so sorry, but may I place you on hold for just a second? I'm going to put you through to Customer Service. Thank you for your patience, and again, I apologize."


There was another button I could push should I need information on a product. That button was labeled, as one might imagine: Product. 


In "nesting," I had a red flag I could wave if I got stuck, or panicked, or if the screen froze mid-order and I lost everything. That first afternoon, I waved that flag like a seaman on an aircraft carrier. I stood and gesticulated until one of the instructors came to my rescue.


I was certain that my first call was a test. Or a prank. How had one of my friends gotten through and how clever she was at imitating a little old man from the midwest hunkered down in his Laz-Z-Boy, thumbing through our catalogue.


"Hello, Amy? I'd like to place an order, uh, uh, oh, damn, I gotta go turn that durn television set off."


Who talks like that?


A little old man from the midwest. From Anamosa, Iowa, in fact.


"Amy? You still there? I nearly got the durn thing off, uh, oh, I just gotta sit back down." I hear a muffled rustle and then a thump. "There, all set now. You in Vermont?"


I picture cornfields and a surrey or two. Perhaps chicks.


"Yes, sir," I respond. The customer needs to hear the smile in my voice. He is a potential friend, and I am a storekeeper, selling nostalgia and occasionally, an "intimate solution."


The first time a sweet little old lady from Tennessee sneaks an intimate solution into her order sandwiched between rum balls and a Lanz nightie for her granddaughter, I am astonished to see something that looks like the neon mouth guard my son used to wear playing hockey pop onto my screen. I spend a few seconds pondering the practical usage of this item.


"Yes, ma'am, we do have the Dual Pleasure Intimate Massager in stock. And how would you like that
shipped?"


When we graduated from "nesting," our instructors clapped their hands together vigorously and cheered "Bravo."


"You're gonna be okay," said the instructor I accidentally smacked with my flag.


"I know," I said. I felt proud.


I'm live all the time now. I'm a TSR, a telephone service representative. I have two 10-minute breaks and a half-hour for lunch during my 8-hour day. I field about 100 calls a day. 


"Amy, I like you, I do," a lady named Billie from West Virginia tells me. "I thank you shorley can shoot 
the shit."


"I shorley can," I answer. "But, I'd be remiss if I didn't mention our holiday fruit cake, made from the finest ingredients right here in our bakery."


That's the up-sell.


"Why, honey, I thank I'll take one."


"Why, yes, ma'am," I say. "And y'all have a wonderful day."

Beauma Goes to Florida

When my daughter, Katherine, first invited me to The Breakers in Florida to babysit for Tripp, I imagined dipping his tiny toes into the ocean, or sitting on the edge of one of the four pools and gently splashing his chubby legs protected by SPF 60 sunblock. I figured we'd drop in at some of the activities my daughter was orchestrating  - perhaps wave "bye-bye" at the dock as the catamaran adventurers set sail, observe a croquet match, peek in at dinner. I pictured us strolling lazily up and down Worth Avenue.


Not.


Tripp is five and a half months old. The wind blustering off the ocean took his tiny breath away. There would be no toe dipping, nor would an ounce of chlorinated pool water mar his perfect skin.


On the first day, as we unpacked and opened our sliding doors that gave onto the ocean, admiring our sumptuous adjoining rooms and marble baths, Katherine glanced at my clothes hanging in a color-coordinated row in the closet.


"Why did you bring all this?" she asked. "You're not going to be seen."


"I'm not?" I asked. "By anyone?"


"No, remember, your job is taking care of Tripp."


The schedule was rigorous. The door between our rooms opened at 6:00AM the following morning.


"Rise and shine, nanny," my daughter sang. This didn't mean "rise and shine, Nanny," as in dear beloved Grandmother, this meant "rise and shine, nanny," as in servant. Well, to be honest, a servant with room service privileges and pretty much carte blanche.

After feeding the baby, Katherine disappeared to attend to a myriad of tasks and organizational details to do with the arrival of approximately 60 women who had earned a deluxe three-day, all-expenses-paid vacation at one of the most luxurious resorts in Florida. Tripp and I were left to ourselves. 

We read the cloth edition of Goodnight Little One.

We played with our red dinosaur pull toy.

We explored the hotel and discovered where Beauma could purchase her three daily cups of cappuccino. We strolled along the brick boardwalk by the ocean, and through the gardens by the raised herb beds with little signs proclaiming: "Pardon Us, We're Germinating." We found cozy corners under porticos, we gazed at expanses of flower-bordered lawns. If we were lucky, one of us napped.

Katherine and I kept in constant text communication.

Me: "When will you be back?"

Katherine: "In a few hours."

Me: "Can I have my break then?"

Katherine: Long sigh. "We'll just have to see."

My break consisted of racing to the gym, working out for slightly less than an hour, flying into the shop to purchase a smoothie, and speeding back to my tiny charge.

"It's about time you got back," my daughter would say. She had Things To Do: 60 goodie bags to pack and make sure were delivered, meetings with hotel personnel to attend, schedules to plan, menus to oversee, transportation to and from off-site events to coordinate. I just had the baby.

At night we took turns reading verses from the onomatapoeic oeuvre Roadwork. We invented a game. First Katherine chanted, "Plan the road. Plan the road. Mark it on the map. Hammer in the marking pegs. Bing bang tap!" Then, I would repeat the refrain, "bing bang tap!" in Donald Duck. Tripp caught on fast. He would turn to look and listen to Katherine, then swivel his head to me. In case you didn't know, "bing bang tap!" in Donald Duck is howlingly funny. Just ask the baby.

One day, Tripp and I were gazing out to sea at fishing boats and trawlers when a line of dolphins leaped and dove and leaped one behind the other right in front of us.

"Tripp just saw his first dolphins!" I texted my daughter.

"He saw his first dolphins with YOU?" she texted back.

"He did," I replied.

"Don't even think of taking him down to the ocean," she told me later. "I want him to see his first ocean with me. I'll smell his feet and I'll know."

I sang "Edelweiss" to my grandson, and held him in my arms for hours and hours and we engaged in long one-way conversations. While to the casual observer I might have appeared to be a dotty woman under an enormous sun hat in Ray Bans talking to herself in a dreamy, singsongy voice, Tripp listened intently. 

He learned about palm tree bark.

And magical shadows.

And color.

And when his mama had finished all her work and all the ladies had gone home, he was very very happy.

We kept the fact that he had glimpsed his first parrots to ourselves.

The End