That I can even find time for this blog is surprising. Time and schedules all have been thrown into glorious chaos this week. And I cannot write about the outside world because, this week, the outside world does not exist for me. Sammy has brought our 7 week old grand-daughter to visit for a week. She has come down to get the sense of one side of her ancestral homeland in the deep south. To meet her extended Collins family. And to have all who meet her gasp in amazement at her huge eyes, her beautiful skin, her melting smile and her extraordinary capacity for flatulence. There are two definitions for flatulence, the obvious one is the accumulation of gases and noisy expulsion thereof; the other is ‘inflated and pretentious writing’ so when j’accuse this precious little angel of flatulence she could very well respond ‘et tu grand-père’. And I would reply: ‘pretentious?? moi?”.
But I have not been my father’s son for so many years without developing a healthy respect for a grand-fart. My heart just swells with joy when her nappies vibrate to the triumphant trumpets signalling a changing of the nappy guard.
Her impressive flatulence is no doubt related to her most impressive appetite. I say I am impressed, but then I am not the one who has to wake every 2-3 hours every night and be on call all day to keep this little tummy satisfied. So as I write this, in the middle of the day, I am on monitoring duties while Sammy tries to catch up with the many lost hours of sleep over the last few weeks. And the little angel is thus-far behaving beautifully.
How is it that little girls are born with a gene so primal that at seven weeks she can pick out a soft-touch grand-dad who will do whatever she wants as long as she is either widening those bambi-eyes, or breaking her little heart crying (or quite possibly faking the breaking) before she even knows what eyes and tears are?
So I swing her to and fro, on demand, in her little cocoon thing until her eyes become too leaden to demand it any more and I can settle her into bed and just watch her sleeping the sleep of the innocents as I write out a few words on my blog inspired by the absolute joy of little Marni.
But even as I write I can hear a little whimper and see a sneaky peak that is just letting me know that it is time for me to start winding down my blog and get ready for swing time.
I really do start to wonder about the Hindus and Buddhists and their reincarnation theories. It is hard to compute that she could be this smart after seven weeks if this is only her first time on planet earth. But now is no time to explore that little philosophical mystery; a grand-père’s job is never done, swing time is here again and, for this week, time is far too precious to be squandered writing blogs.