Gimme My Grandchild!

Nora the nanny from Honduras is a blessing.

When my daughter returned to work and was forced to stretch the blissful motherandson connection to encompass a job and other humans, Nora scooped him up in a flurry of Spanish and electric energy. She also possessed a seemingly magical ability to get him to nap for long stretches in a wildly pitching swing.

My daughter could relax - only a mere text and five minutes away. And I was content, spared from absentee grandmother guilt, selling books in Vermont. At first.

It started with a pet name. "Muneco," loosely translated as "little doll," Nora called him, accompanied with dozens of staccato kisses and strings of Spanish syllables.

"Hi, my Bubbadoos," I crooned during my first visit. There was a certain gleam in Nora's eye. I felt sized up, immediately conscious of needing a new haircut or an entirely new wardrobe.

"Mi Mmmmuneco," countered Nora. She had Tripp in her arms and was swooping him in a figure 8 motion I'd seen his mother use.

"How's my little Bubbadoos?" I said, reaching out for him.

But Nora swept off to the kitchen with Tripp in her arms, indicating his mother's frozen milk in the freezer, the trick bottle with its three parts, while firing information about naps and diaper changes.

"I got it," I said. Now gimme that baby! I thought.

After more kissing and cooing of Spanish endearments, I was allowed to take possession.

"Thanks Nora, " I smiled, "You can go now." 

Hows it going? Katherine texted.

Perfectly!

Nora usually gets him to nap for a few hours. 

Good for her, I replied. Gotta go.

I changed Tripp's diaper, having memorized the exact place his mother fastened the velcro tabs. I changed him out of an outfit of Nora's in which he resembled an infant jockey into a new onesie and a pair of little jeans.

I gave him a bottle, burped him twice, and placed him in his swing. Waaaaa! wailed Tripp, surprised at first, then furious. I increased the speed, gave him his binky. WAAAA! he squalled.

Bzzzzt! buzzed my phone. Everything okay? 

Just getting him down. Can't talk. 

Text me when he's asleep. Nora...

I tried music, adjusting the swing's arc, playing nature songs, adding a blankie. Purple-faced, Tripp thrashed.

"Okay, Bubbadoos, let's go out in the carriage, I said, determined not to be bested by Nora. We walked the neighborhood and I sang and smiled and replaced the binky as needed, and eventually Tripp's eyes blinked closed. He's asleep! I texted my daughter. (Ta da!)  We walked for three hours. Three hours in the fresh air. Three hours out of the swing.

"Can I say something," I asked my daughter a few weeks later.

"What?" she demanded.

"I'm sure it's nothing," I said.

"What is it, Mom?"

"I just noticed... it just looks as if Tripp's head is the tiniest bit flat in the back where he's been lying in that swing."

"Are you saying my son has a flat head?" 

"No! No! Not at all. Just maybe you could ask the pediatrician when you take him next time. Just a suggestion. I'm sure it's nothing."

As it happened, I was along for the next visit to the pediatrician.

"Everything looks good, Mom," said the pediatrician. "Any questions?"

"Someone in this room, " Katherine intoned, "Someone not me - "

"Nor me either, " said the pediatrician quickly.

" - thinks the baby's head is flat in the back."

"From lying in his swing," I added, "napping."

"Actually, you are both right," the pediatrician responded. "Baby's skulls are malleable and while it does look a bit flat, that can easily be remedied by turning him on his side, and not keeping him in his swing for extended periods."

"Ha!" Katherine and I said simultaneously.

A few months later I went into Manhattan for a new haircut at a pricey salon, a cut that cost me two week's salary. There was a chic new blonde streak on one side and razored layers.

"Oh, I like you haircut," Nora commented.

"Thank you," I said. Now gimme my grandson!

"Nice streak, Cruella," whispered my daughter at Tripp's bedtime as we we both gazed, enthralled, at the peaceful bundle of baby.

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