The Baby Artist and the Grandmother

Yesterday morning, Elena told her mommy, "I want to go see Yenna and show her I'm sick."  By the time they got here, she seemed better and we played while Veronica went to an appointment.

Late in the afternoon, her fever spiked again and she was miserable.  All she wanted was to sit in my lap.  Tears were running down her cheeks, but she didn't cry outright.

After about an hour, I could tell that the Tylenol was taking effect because she started talking again.  "I'm having my birthday party on Friday," she said.  (Her birthday is in January.)

"Who's coming?" I asked.

"All the peoples!"

Then we got down on the floor and started painting.  "You're an artist," I said.

"YOU'RE an artist, Yenna," she said.  "We are both artists."

About that time, the Coumbian electrician came, and they conversed a bit--in Spanish!  It amazes me how she can shift back and forth from English to Spanish.

A scarf made of a roll of red stickers

This morning, I woke up feeling teary.  Before I knew it, driving along Austin Highway for my morning coke, I was full-fledged crying.

I don't cry easily or often, but seeing Baby Artist in pain was heartbreaking.  I was so worried, I texted her parents and her nanny.  When Will called to let me know her fever had broken and she's better,  he heard the unmistakable sound of a grandmother crying.

Even though she's on the mend,  a fold had formed in my day.  I felt connected to all grandmothers--including two of my friends whose grandsons have had lengthy (and more serious) illnesses than Elena's.  And I felt connected to the grandparents behind the scenes in the news stories about children who are paralyzed after a strange new virus.  And the old people in Third World countries whose little ones die of diseases ours are vaccinated against.

I had to call Great-Grandmother, Nana.  Then my daughter, Day.  Then I had a lively conversation with my two big Virginia grandsons.  Before going to bed, a grandmother has to know all her chicks are safe.