NAKED HEROES WEAR PLACEMATS
Wet, Naked Old Lady Saves Grandson From Jaws of the Monster’s Teeth
Listen, it was horrific for both of us
“Run to the couch! Run!”
Frozen, his eyes held a look of sheer terror.
My heart raced — too many unknowns. But, he needed my help right away.
The water trickled down my legs. I knew my bladder hadn’t emptied for my pouch told me so.
Yet.
The dark side of raising a grandchild is known by few.
Grandparents don’t talk about it much. People tune us out. They lack our reality and pooh-pooh anything that borders on a complaint.
Maybe someone will laud us at our funerals.
Too late, though, too late.
People’s yawns of misunderstanding reveal a gross lack of compassion. From the mundane to heart attack level, incidents happen daily.
Daily, I tell ya.
No one cares.
Like, how I can’t make quick turns in my own home because an innocent target, my grandson, lurks within two inches of my posterior.
Or, that his personal injuries are as preventable as watching a red wine glass topple toward a white carpet.
The scenes play out in slow motion as you witness a toddler’s toe caught on the step, and he’s only halfway down the staircase.
“Nooooo…..”
Unreachable. Even Gumby’s arms can’t stretch far enough.
Heart attack.
I took for granted my once easy life as a mom with adult children.
I have semi-whined throughout the years. I do want to keep the few friends who have remained, so I learned to restrain myself.
Try to shower as a single grandma.
Mundane?
I beg to differ.
The days of languishing in a tub? Gone. Military showers are required when a loose toddler is at home.
In and out, barely moist.
Little kids find trouble the second you lather up.
And, so it was, on Saturday morning, as we neared the finish line for packing and heading out on a mini-vacation, that I threw caution to the wind and stepped into the shower.
I was unusually brave that morning.
Or stupid.
I know better.
But, he was close to 5 years old and knows his limits, right?
No sooner had I applied an ample dollop of shampoo to my hair, and began kneading my scalp as if I was in a high-end salon with all the bells and whistles, did the shrieks begin.
Water off.
I scooped the bubbles away that clung to my eyelashes and saw his reflection in the steamy bathroom mirror.
“What? What is it? Are you hurt?”
Wailing.
My volume raised in sync with my heart palpitations.
“Is there blood? Is there blood?? Please tell Yaya what happened. Come here!”
Wailing.
His guttural sounds were only interrupted when his throat closed in fear. He refused to come closer, to explain, to move at all.
My panic meter, ordinarily dormant, kicked into high gear.
Left with no choice, I swung the glass shower door open, bubbles following in my wake, to assist him in his terror.
With one clear eye, I did a quick assessment.
No visible signs of blood or bones poking through his skin.
“Please answer me. Use words, can you?”
His saucer eyes darted to the left and indicated mass hysteria or great destruction that took place in the family room.
I sort of ran — because wet grandma on tiled floors — and immediately saw the source of his distress.
Epic proportion distress.
I sprang into action, only slightly aware of the puddling I created.
Reaching for the counter, my fingers grabbed hold of the remote and turned it off.
The Roomba.
The effin’ Roomba.
She was in the center of the kitchen spinning her way toward the family room.
My mom had sent it for my birthday two days prior. I’d set the program.
I forgot about weekends.
Not only did I turn it off, but I had to remove it from his sight and shut the laundry room door.
My modesty took a back seat to ensure the Roomba was barricaded.
The boy shook. Quivered. He didn’t trust that it wouldn’t burst through the door and attack again.
Or was it my naked body all withered and such that shocked him?
He whimpered. “It’s a monster. A robot monster that will eat me.”
Sigh.
This is going to take some time.
A chill overtook me.
It wasn’t fear but the air conditioning vent above my back.
I grabbed a couple of placemats — though a third would have been nice — and hugged him until he calmed.
Was it hours?
My crunchy hair began to itch.
I explained what a Roomba is and how we love it, how it cleans up all Yaya’s hair from the floor so the strands won’t get stuck in his puzzles or to the velcro of his sneakers anymore.
“I promise it’s just a hair vac. It won’t eat you. I am so sorry, buddy. Now, can Yaya finish her shower?”
He nodded.
He was propped up in the deep corner of the couch, feet tucked under him, as he kept an eye on the floor. Just in case.
I skulked away, acutely aware that my wet image of aged skin that lacked elasticity may have scarred him even more than the Roomba ever could.
I wondered which he would bring up first.
The vacuum and my body were equally traumatizing.
Will I have to explain gravity, now?
Four days passed.
Not a peep.
As we drove home from our mini-vacation, his birthday celebration at Sesame Street Land, he asked me.
“Yaya, is the hair vac on?”
Thank God.
That’s much easier to explain.
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