A Little Chunk Known as Monkey

July 28th, 2003 was a day of pure unadulterated joy. My sweet 30 year-old daughter, with the wicked smile and cocky ‘tude had just received a package that came with no guarantee, nor warranty; worse yet no operator’s manual. The one favorable thing was: No batteries needed. July 28th stole my baby from me and threw her head first into motherhood—and what a wonderful mother she has become.

Five weeks later I found myself face to face with my “nervous nelly” daughter, my frantic and beside himself son-in-law, and this little critter who was able to bring them to tears and keep them both up all night with this teensy weeny little voice that amplified into a freight train rumble at will. I looked at the little guy and thought, way to go kiddo, way to go! When I looked at my daughter’s face I saw love, panic, joy, confusion, more love and even more confusion, desperation, and oh yes…a look that said: “Ma, you kept telling me to have pets instead of kids because they are cheaper, easier, non-judgmental and more forgiving. I didn’t listen Ma, I didn’t listen. Help. Oh please help!” My son-in-law had already transcended to a higher plane. Then I was handed this wonderful little boy and instantly fell head-over-heels in love. What a kid. Oh how cute. I went through the whole the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, therefore sweet daughter if he looks like you he must also look like me, routine. I had instantly become his slave, also known more commonly as Grandma.

The first thing I told those two babbling imbeciles that were in charge of my little precious guy was, “Why don’t the two of you go out for awhile. Go to dinner or something, whatever something is, just go, go, go! Seize the moment (sometimes I am into drama) for he will be here forever and I won’t be—go, go and enjoy some big people time.” Little did they know I had an ulterior motive…I wanted that little “Chunky Monkey” all to myself, to stare at him in awe and amazement, without them laughing at me.

Instantly that little boy and I bonded. I kinda got that feeling when I first saw him laying in his crib, looking as if he were wrapped up in a baby straight jacket (new parents, what do they know.) He turned toward me with such pleading in his little baby browns—Granny, (cool baby) please, please, please oh pleeeaaassse, tell them to loosen this stupid thing. I can’t swing out at the world if you don’t help me. Come on Gran, do your Granny Mojo. How the heck did he know about my mojo magic powers? This was too darn special; we were truly connected. Off came the blanket and poof—there was this baby of all babies free to feel life and not have the fear of remaining his birth size forever due to the blanket bondage. Also saved him from the nickname burrito, if you know what I mean.

I noticed that same dazed, glazed and confused look in his eyes when it was feeding time. Best thing to do was to sit back and watch–see why he was sending me little baby messages—kinda like with the torture chamber baby blanket incident. I watch as my sweet daughter feeds the little darling, and all seems well until my son-in-law jumps up in a panic, pulling the bottle from my daughter’s hand, ( all the while my little precious has his eyes on the prize and looks like he’s  becoming mighty pissed off, for he knew something that I didn’t, and was about to find out). “Stop!” hubbs yelled in a panic. “No more! He has had two ounces. Take the bottle away, NOW! (I’m sitting there thinking, Huh?…What the heck?…Am I missing something?…You are surely jesting, right? RIGHT?…WHAT? WRONG? No jesting intended?…Are you kidding me?) And they wonder why the little wee one is up every two hours, and they are both walking around like the living dead? I made a vow to grab my son-in-law’s relaxation bottle of beer after he drank two ounces and to snatch the chips right out of his grubby paws. So! Ya like it big guy? Mister baby bottle bully. Turns out my daughter was doing the same thing—”and why?” I asked in total horror. In perfect unison, like two kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar and crumbs on their faces, they looked at me and said, “The nurse told us to do this, she really did, we swear.”

Not wanting to overstep my grandma boundaries, yet knowing full well that my baby angel was sending me baby angel messages that were growing stronger and stronger, I asked them if I could explain how I fed and raised six kids. YES, YES,YES! reverberated throughout the room, and so I proceeded to give them two hard and fast rules of parenthood—never, and I do mean never (unless absolutely necessary) wake a sleeping baby, and ALWAYS let them feed until they want no more. They will stop on their own and increase amounts as they grow. The way they were doing this would have killed them for sure after a few more weeks time, and certainly the babe would not be a happy camper. Needless to say they were up every two hours around the clock feeding him, and crying at the drop of a pin—my daughter and son-in-law—not the wee one.  The first night of my visit I had the little doll sleeping through the night, after drinking away to his little baby heart’s content. Have to admit that this propelled me way up to a sort of ROCK STAR status, and was pampered and idolized like never before, or since I might add. Amazed myself as well. Only expected about four hours out of the little guy but he turned me into a hero. What a kid.

Unfortunately, my visit was cut short due to major health issues with another daughter, but I had managed to work my mommy mojo yet again. Sadly, I had to leave, not knowing that everything would be changing drastically within the next year.