They are eleven and two.
He is tall and lanky, and loosing his (baby) teeth faster than the tooth fairy can circle the globe. He is soft spoken and witty. Clever, artistic.
She is still in diapers and has lost her "inside voice"
She shouts her wants and screeches her delights. She bellows her "I love you's"
He unwinds himself from sleep in the pink room that he wants to paint green and reaches for a book hoping to escape my notice.
She chatters in her PortaCrib until I open the door to the yellow room and then raises her arms for some morning love. She wraps her legs around me as I lift her soft,warm, soggy bottomed body to mine.
They both want pancakes and bacon. I knew they would.
Breakfast behind us and the dishes left undone, she demands outside. We don long socks and rubber boots - hers purple, mine green - and lightweight sweatshirts. He disappears inside my bright yellow slicker and grabs the dog leash for the impatiently yapping Buffy Bot.
I open my enormous bright blue umbrella, but she demands her own. She wants dinosaurs, but I proffer cats and, amazingly, she acquiesces. We are a sight, these two granddarlings and I, on this rainy Saturday morning.
"Be careful Gramma, " she warns, " don't walk in the puddles!" "Oh, Nattie, " I reply, "today we CAN walk in the puddles. That is why I invited you over!"
She is two almost three and I am fifty nine almost sixty. We walk hand in hand through every puddle we can find, twirling our umbrellas as we go.
He is eleven almost twelve. He heads in the other direction.
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