Little Boys Play Noisy Games
by
Mary A. Green
Until Colin was born we'd been a family of women. There were husbands and boyfriends in the picture of course. But it seemed that when it came to reproducing the male model, we'd put away the blueprint and forgotten where.I didn't have any brothers. We were six sisters, all born in an era when little value was placed on female children. When I had my five daughters, I taught them to appreciate their full value as members of the human family.
I can't say that I was displeased when my four grandchildren all turned out to be girls. Little girls are cute and gentle. They can be dressed in pretty clothes and they play quiet games. Boys play noisy games and like to rough-house. And they sometimes beat up on little girls.
Then my oldest granddaughter, Amanda — Mandy to some of us — grew up and had a baby. It was a sweet little girl. Our own Desirée and my first great-grandchild. By now I was sure that the family tradition of girl children had been willed by a higher power. But when Amanda became pregnant again, I began to hear mutterings about how it was time for somebody in the family to have a boy. I said that another girl would suit me just fine.
Our daughter, Georgina, who is a nurse, worked on the labor floor at the Misericordia Hospital at the time the baby was due. She hoped that she'd be there when the big day came. And she was. Auntie Georgina helped Amanda through her labor, and was the first person to hold her grandnephew when he was born. As soon as she could, Georgina called our house. "Mandy had her baby, Mom," she announced. "And guess what? This one is a boy. Can I speak to Dad?"
Nurse Georgina stayed at the hospital long past her normal hours that day. We found her bustling about the ward when my husband and I came to visit. She handed the bundle of little boy and blankets to her father. "Here, Dad. Finally another man in the family to keep you company." Great-grandpa received the bundle smiling his approval.
I sat down to talk to Amanda, now resting comfortably in her bed. By the time my turn came to hold the baby, I'd found out that the little person had been named Colin. He didn't wake up when I kissed him on the forehead and then wiped away the lipstick smudge. I folded the blanket back gently. "Goodness, Colin, look at your hands. Why, my grandpa Carl had hands like these," I said walking over to the bed where Mandy and I examined them together. We marvelled how the genes of a man four generations removed had survived in this little child, reminding us of our connections to the past.
Colin was a placid child for the first months of his life. He slept a lot, usually sitting in his little baby seat oblivious to both adult conversation and the blare of the TV as his sister Desirée switched channels with the remote control. But when Colin learned to move, he became a typical boy. First creeping, then walking, then running, he'd imitate animals and cars while exploring behind couches and under tables, making all the appropriate sounds as he moved.
The great-grandchildren called me "Grandma", Colin's version being "Grammy". The year he was two we had Christmas dinner at our daughter Helen's house, Helen being Amanda's mother and Desirée's and Colin's real Grandma. As the evening progressed, I became aware that Colin was literally circling me wherever I went, yet he didn't come to me when I called him. Something was bothering him.
Finally he went over and whispered something to his mother. He wanted to know why, if Helen was his grandma and if his mother called me Grandma, why was he calling me Grandma too. Whose grandma was I anyway? Amanda explained that I was really his great-grandma, but since this was hard for a little kid to say, it was okay to call me 'Grandma'. Colin stopped circling my chair, but he stood still and looked at me with a thoughtful expression on his face.
When I stood up, intending to help in the kitchen, Colin lunged at my knees hugging them so that I couldn't move. I lifted him up to where he could get his arms around my neck, which he did. I let him down then, and he was about to run off when his arms went up again indicating he wanted to be picked up. This time he hugged me tight, using all his little boy strength. Then he planted one memorable smack of a kiss on my cheek. "I love you, Grammy," he said, and after lingering a second, slid down and galloped away making all the noise you'd expect from a boy. And I didn't mind at all!