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facts & arguments

Facts & Arguments is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.

‘It’s four days,” my daughter said over the phone. “I know it’s a lot, but it’s a chance for us to get away.”

I couldn’t say no: My mother had done the same for me, often, but with two kids not one. “Of course,” I replied, trying to keep my voice calm.

Baby Ruby was a few months short of two years old. Caring for her wouldn’t be a problem. Making friends with her would be difficult, though. Unlike the others, who played peek-a-boo and laughed at my antics, I’d never got smiles or chuckles from my youngest grandchild – only a furrowed brow and lots of frowns. The first thing she did when I answered the door was cry.

The plan was that the parents would stay with me overnight and leave in the morning. My daughter put Ruby in the stroller and kissed her goodbye. I took her for a walk to the park while they made their escape. “She loves the swings,” her mother had said. She didn’t with me. She pointed to the stroller, shaking her head and calling for her mama. This might be worse than I’d thought.

Nap time was to begin with a story, which she pulled from my hands and threw to the floor. She pointed to the television and, against all my child-rearing practices, I gave in. She fell asleep while I followed the plot of PAW Patrol.

Most of the day, she looked around and called “ma-ma, ” only momentarily distracted by cherries, cookies or the squirrels in the yard. That night she cried heartily for her mother and my heart broke.

“Mama is in an airplane,” I said, trying to explain her absence. The concept stopped her tears. She pointed to the sky and made a circular motion of flying. “That’s right,” I said, putting her in her cot. “Mama’s in an airplane. You lie down and she’ll be back tomorrow.” I knew a toddler’s sense of time wasn’t established enough for me to get caught in the lie.

She woke up in the night crying. I reassured her, “Nana is here, Nana is here.”

“Ma-ma,” she called out.

“Mama’s in an airplane,” I repeated. She pointed to the sky, made the circling motion, lay her head down and went back to sleep. I lay down on the single bed in her room instead of going back to my own room.

Celia Krampien for The Globe and Mail

We awoke together, rejoiced at the excitement of breakfast, got dressed and went to the swings. I cooked everything her mother had said she would like. She didn’t. I dropped a wooden spoon and she smiled. I dropped it several times more. She ate a cracker and a slice of cheese.

I introduced her to the huge plastic container of toddler blocks and we built a tower. The words stacking, collecting, carrying and pushing floated into my mind from my career in primary education. Outside, we collected pine cones in a basket and stones in a bucket, and Ruby pushed her own stroller to the swings.

An airplane flew over. She looked up, pointed and frowned. Then she pouted and said “Ma-ma.”

“That’s right,” I said. “Mama’s in an airplane.” I kicked her red ball on the grass and she went after it.

Nights became easier as she volunteered to lay her head on my chest as we rocked. The next time she pointed to the TV I shook my head, and she got the message. But stories, the very love of my life, were for some reason rejected, as was my attempt to sing her a lullaby. Perhaps these were such special mama times that I wasn’t to intrude. My heart sank at not being able to share them with her.

Ruby learned where I kept the Tupperware, and what kitchen drawers she was allowed to investigate. I handed her wet socks to put in the dryer, and she would put anything you wanted in the garbage, including a few things of her own. She spied my phone sticking out of my purse and held it to her ear as she walked around talking gibberish. When she saw my tablet on the coffee table, she brought it to me, puzzled that I didn’t welcome the gift. “You are my little computer,” I told her. “That’s all I need right now.” My spirits lifted, knowing we were making progress.

Waiting for the magic moment of her parents’ return, we were rolling on the floor laughing. It started as Ring-Around-the-Rosie but, being 2, she found the “all fall down part” the most fun. Having had a knee replacement, I couldn’t do this part – until I stumbled and came down. She shrieked with glee and piled on top of me.

Dad came into the room first. Ruby’s eyes opened wide and she said, “Da-da.” Mama came behind. Seeing her, Ruby burst into tears. My daughter ran to pick her up. “I missed you so much,” she said as Ruby sobbed into her bosom. She wouldn’t let go of her mother for the rest of the day, nor have anything to do with me. She cried if I even came near.

I tried to kiss her goodbye, but she shot me a glare. She refused to get in her car seat, and held out her arms when the buckles closed.

Then, just as I turned to go into the house, I heard it.

“Na-na!” her small voice called out.

“Did you hear that?” my daughter asked. “She never said that before!”

Ruby flapped her hand goodbye. I waved back and blew her a kiss. She blew one back. This time the tears were mine.

Jennifer Maruno lives in Burlington, Ont.