That Big Kid with Glasses

My mom is eighty-five. She waited a long time to be a great-grandmother. Weezie is her first and so far her only great grandchild. She gets a kick out of being GG (she chose the name because we have plenty of grandma's and because great grandma is such a mouthful for a toddler). Mom is one of those rare adults who remembers what it is like to be a child. She gives herself over to play. Weezie loves it because she can boss GG around and be the one to pick the books that get read and the games that get played and where play will occur and so on. When she calls, GG responds.

GG played in much the same way with Weezie's mom when Mame (my daughter's name here) was little. They spent hours and hours making up imaginary worlds, sitting on the floor in Mame's closet. GG taught Mame to climb large trees, steal bareback rides on the neighbor's palomino and she built her a dollhouse. GG predicted (correctly) that Mame would remember her as that big kid with glasses she once played with. Now these many years later it is Weezie who commands the play, and sometimes I think I see my daughter grow wistful as she watches them wandering in the hall, looking for a closet to play in.