9:00 a.m. Friday, June 28, 2009—

Yesterday Leo rolled over! Twice! Then this morning he rolled over twice more in a demonstration for his mom and dad! The living room erupted in cheers! Kisses on his bald peach-fuzzy pate! Pats on the back! Hugs! Embraces! Praises! Praises to the skies!

"Leo! Leo! Leo!"

"Yay!"

Leo turned three months old just this past Wednesday.

"All right!"

"Way to go!"

"Hooray!"

Last Friday I told his father as I left for the weekend that I thought Leo would roll over for him before I returned to babysitting duty on Sunday evening. Lying on his back on the floor, by arching his back and kicking his legs and flailing his arms and squirming and grunting Leo had been rotating halfway around a circle with his head at its center.

He could lie on his side and slide but he hadn't been able to flip his hip over to complete the reversal.

Then yesterday he and I played on the floor. We were head to head, Leo on his back, I on my stomach. We laughed and talked and played. He squirmed and wrestled and craned his neck and head way back and around to see me.

Then his binky popped out of his mouth! It landed just up and to his left behind his head.

"Argh!"

Leo wanted it bad!

"Ehhhh!"

His eyes nearly popped out of his head.

He leaned to his side and arched his back and reached and fussed and kicked and kicked and squirmed and then all of a sudden his right hip toppled over, his left hip popped free of the carpet, and Leo rolled over!

"Whoa!"

Leo knew he'd done something new! He forgot about his binky though now it was right before his eyes.

He looked at me, raised his eyebrows, and wrinkled his forehead.

"Uh?"

I laughed.

But he had rolled over on top of his left arm and it was still pinned beneath his tummy. He lay on it, his neck and back arched, his head up, his knees and feet elevated, and he rocked back and forth on his tummy, groaning and grunting and straining. He finally got his right elbow up near his face so he could use that arm to lift his chest just a little bit higher.

His left arm popped free!

"Whoa!"

Complete success!

"Way to go, Leo!"

I cheered.

Leo was silent for a moment as he oriented himself to this new position and perspective.

"Good job!"

But Leo had never liked being on his tummy. Hmm. Now he was uncomfortable and well on the way to frustration. He grunted and fussed. He kicked his legs and flailed his arms as he complained.

I call this behavior his swimming lessons.

Though Leo didn't really cry, his squirming and distress as usual quickly made me feel sorry for him and I turned him again to his back.

He looked up at me and grinned.

"You did it!"

I put his binky back in his mouth and got up from the floor and back to my easy chair and my laptop to tinker with my book. Just a few minutes later I heard strenuous grunting and looked up at just the right time.

On his side he grunted and strained and then—

"Whoa!"

Leo rolled over again!

I emailed his mother the news and when she and his father got home from work they tried to tempt Leo into performing his stunt.

No.

But this morning as his father watched I got down on the floor behind his head as I had the day before and it was not long before Leo was on his side and then his hip popped free and Leo had rolled over again!

"Hooray!"

Then when his mother came into the living room his father got down on the floor and in moments Leo had done it once more!

"Yes!"

I began this record of the acrobatic event just after his parents left for work this morning and I was just about to post it when I heard Leo's grunting and babbling register discomfort so I stopped my editing and checked.

"Ick!"

My reward—

A big messy, sloppy, thick green gray yellow liquid poop! It had leaked out of his diaper and onto his outfit and onto his blanket and even onto the cushion and plastic pad of his vibrating chair!

"Yow!"

As fastidiously as I could I picked Leo up by his ankles and shoulders and carried him to his changing table. I removed the nasty diaper, removed his soiled outfit, wiped him down five times, cleaned him up, put on his fresh diaper, and slipped his head and arms into his clean suit.

Finished!

Leo looked up at me, pink, cream, perfectly calm and still, and smiled.

I smiled.

Leo grinned.

I laughed.

Leo couldn't stop smiling.

I lifted him into the cradle of my arms and laid him on the living room floor while I changed the plastic trash bag in the dirty diaper dispenser. I inserted the new bag, closed and tied the full stinky bag, and dumped it into the bin behind the garage.

On the way back into the house I felt a damp spot on my tee shirt.

I looked.

"No!"

Two quarter-sized spots of liquid yellow green poop!

Baby love.

The dirty laundry is in the washer, I'm back in my chair with MacBook in my lap, and Leo lies on the floor with the hiccups.

They stop.

He quiets.

He sleeps.

I think I'll call this—

Nirvana!

8:00 a.m. Tues., June 23, 2009. On Sunday evening I returned to Lincoln to resume my duties as Leo's babysitter.

Monday morning I received my welcome from the boy in the form of a big, wet, messy, green poop.

I sat erect with my knees and thighs together and Leo lay on his back in the crease between them and looked up at me, playing, smiling, and grinning.

But several suspicious noises issued from the baby boy's nether region and I suspected that this time they were not just farts.

His father was about ready to leave for work.

"I'll change him before I leave," he said.

He lifted Leo from my lap and carried him into the bedroom and laid him on his changing table.

"Whoa!"

From the bedroom I heard several exclamations.

"Agh!"

Not only had Leo's diaper been soaked with green pea soup, the poop had soiled his outfit, which acted as a wick, and even his father's shirt, too, during Leo's brief transport.

"No!"

Then when I stood to fetch myself another cup of strong, black coffee from the kitchen I noticed three damp spots on me, two at the hem of my tee shirt, one on my shorts. Leo had leaked and left a little green poop soup on me, too.

"Uh oh."

By eight o'clock Leo was once more clean, dry, diapered, dressed, and happy, and his father and I had changed our soiled clothes. There was a small, stinky load in the washer in the basement.

The rest of my duty that day was uneventful.

As usual when Leo's mother got home from work at five I took my five-mile walk on the nearby pedestrian trail. I lugged an extra jug of water along with me and walked a tad slower than my normal pace.

It was humid and the temperature was 95, a dangerous combination the weatherman said.

By the time I arrived back at my daughter's home seventy-five minutes later the small hand towel I carry, my visor, head band, shirt, shorts, and socks were drenched with sweat.

I set down my water jugs, cell phone, and house key and sat at the picnic table on the patio to remove most of my wet things before I went inside, first for a cold shower to lower my body temperature and then a warm shower to clean up.

My daughter walked out to get the mail and to take a look at me.

"Oh my god!"

She laughed.
    
"It was a test!" I said.

I wrung out my sopping wet tee shirt. Sweat splashed onto the concrete. After I had cooled down and cleaned up and had dinner, in the living room Leo entertained the three of us, plus my wife on video chat, till bedtime.

My annoying restless leg was at peace last night, thank god, and I don't remember any nightmares. This morning Leo is napping in his chair as I type my post and his parents are sipping coffee and reading the morning paper.

Leo is so cute when he wakes and stretches.

He arches his back, he curls his legs way up to his chest just as far as they'll go, he clenches his fists and raises his hands and arms above his head, he squints his eyes, and he purses his mouth till his lips are fat and the tip of his tiny tongue peeks out, his face turns red, he grunts, he wrestles from side to side, and then—ah!—he stretches, he stretches, he stretches, he stretches, he stretches—

He stretches!

Ah!

He releases and relaxes.

Oh!

Leo sees his father! Leo smiles. He turns his head and sees his mother. Oh! Leo smiles. He sees me. Oh! Leo smiles.

Oh!
 
May all beings embody the great way, resolving to awaken.
 

11:30 p.m. Thursday, June 17, 2009. If you'd like a summary of my babysitting today, just take my six previous posts of Grandpa Babysitting, delete all references to illness, death, and horror, and average what remains.

That's it.

Leo slept, ate, peed, pooped, played, and smiled, and except for the lack of a nap Grandpa did the same.

Oops!

Sorry, I know, I know, way too much information.

I apologize.

But the more interesting drama for the past two days has been taking place in my dreams, no, not in my dreams, in my nightmares.

Night before last I found myself sitting a pew, yes, a pew—don't ask me why—between the comedian Milton Berle at about age fifty and another comedian about sixty whose face I could not quite place but who I now know was the silent film star Buster Keaton.

There was a roast of some kind going on, but that entertainment was not in my dream. In my dream, Berle was taunting Keaton sitting just to my left in our pew. Berle would lean across me, even stand on occasion to get closer to Keaton, make a joke at Keaton's expense, and then laugh loudly at his insult.

Keaton's shtick was deadpan.

Not once did he crack a smile. He would listen solemnly in silence to taunt after taunt from Berle and then reply with single syllable.

I couldn't quite understand what either of these men was saying. Berle would howl with laughter and resume his comedic vituperation.

I said nothing, did nothing, simply turned my head from side to side to follow the action like a tennis match.

The scene changed.

Six or eight people who had been at the roast were waiting in line to greet the two hosts of a party. I could see only the first host and I didn't recognize him. When people got to the head of the line they embraced each host and gave him a big hug.

I was third in line.

I hugged the first man, patted him on the back, and moved on. I hugged the second man and patted him on the back.

When I released him and stepped back, I realized the man was O.J. Simpson. I was startled, completely discombobulated, and felt instantly awkward, but I knew the look on my face expressed only that I was puzzled.

What the—

O.J. smiled at me, broadly, obviously pleased by my reaction, perhaps by the success of this deception that had somehow managed to get me to embrace him and to hug him. His hands still clasped my upper arms in a gesture of familiarity and affection, our faces only a few inches apart.

He grinned.

"You may remember me," he said in almost a whisper. "I used to play football."

Feeling uncomfortable, awkward, lost, and lost for words, I could only stand there, trapped in this celebrity vignette, looking confused, looking right and left for any clue to comprehension, for any way out.

I woke up.

The next night I found myself in a room full of Nazis who had discovered my identity and were preparing to torture me. I thrashed about their mountain cabin, doing my best to destroy papers and other odd items of evidence.

Of what I do not know.

I grabbed something that looked like a length of extension cord, perhaps it was a reed, and tried to stuff it into my mouth and chew it to pieces.

I failed.

Two men yanked it from my mouth and pinioned my arms. A third, obviously the leader, laughed at the futility of my squirming and struggling to free myself. To my horror he poured gasoline on me from a small red plastic can.

My hair and the left shoulder and arm and breast of my gray suit were drenched and he laughed again. I prepared myself for unimaginable pain.

I thought of Thich Quang Duc, the Vietnamese Buddhist monk whose self-immolation in the streets of Saigon in 1963 is the subject of a famous news photograph.

I steeled myself for fire.

The scene suddenly changed and I saw on the floor the severed hand of the man who had been about to ignite me. The stump of wrist was red with blood.

Had I done this?

I wasn't sure.

Who?

How?

Again the scene changed.

I was a passenger in the front seat of a driverless car that had just sailed off the edge of a mountain road and over the steep precipice of a cliff and now in superslow motion was falling, falling, falling, falling,  falling down.

I curled up, I brought my knees up over my stomach, my elbows together over ribs and chest, and with my arms, my wrists, and my hands I protected my face.

I prepared for impact.

5:00 p.m. Wed., June 17, 2009. As Leo slept this morning in his basket chair I was in awe of his precious pink and cream beauty. He'd been asleep for almost two hours and he was just beginning to stir.

Three times in thirty minutes he lifted his arms to the sides of his head and stretched, big time, arching his back and extending both arms and legs as far as they could go, pressing his tiny cream and pink ears beneath his tiny cream and pink arms, his hands behind his head, one tiny foot and its tiny cream and pink toes emerging from under his light summer baby blue blanket, squinting though never once opening his eyes, and pouting and pursing his pink lips till they were full and fat and the pink tip of his tiny tongue peeked out between them.

The second time he did all this he accompanied it with a grunt.

"Uhh."

Then a kind of whine.

"Mmmm."

Back to sleep the baby boy returned.

The third time there was again the grunt and again the whine and then Leo opened his mouth and made an unhappy face and a cry.

"Waaa!"

Back to sleep once more the baby boy returned.

One tiny cream and pink knee was visible, free of its baby blue cover, his right arm and hand at rest at his side, his left arm and hand, tiny fingers in a tender curl, at rest on the ever so slight and regular rise and fall of his breast as he breathed.

As I watched my grandson sleep he lifted one arm and for a moment held his hand in the air before he lowered his hand and arm gently to its natural position of rest at his side.

A sound—

"Mmm."

He didn't wake.

Now as I am about to post these observations he is waking again, from yet another nap, in his vibrating chair, his eyes fixed on me in an even, steady, soft gaze, his green binky bobbing, just slightly, in his mouth.

Recognition!

He smiles.

He stirs.

The effort required is too great, his cream and pink eyelids too heavy, the ceiling fan, revolving on slow, on very slow, too hypnotic.

Leo sleeps again.

5:05 p.m. Tuesday, June 16, 2009. Yesterday I felt sad, just a little sad, a wide, silent, shallow, lukewarm sea of sad that lay all day like a subliminal pool of mood in the background of my activity.

When I paused to look in my heart, to feel, there it was, just as it had been the previous time I stopped briefly to check.

I knew its origin—the death of a family friend the day before, the three times I watched my mother shed silent tears, memories of love long past, my long distance relationship with several of my children and grandchildren, the hours I had spent on the road, a word that hurt.

To express it I posted "Tears, Idle Tears" and "Tithonus," two gorgeous poems by Tennyson on death and decay.

But Leo would have none of it.

He'd snooze, stir, wake, grunt, stretch, and smile, look up at me from his changing table with still more smiles of gratitude, love, and amusement as I wiped and diapered his bottom, and then, his head lying in the crook of my elbow, he'd chug three or four ounces of his mother's milk, burp, smile, babble, coo, and then on his back on a blanket he'd babble and play before he fell asleep to begin all over again his infant routine.

"Hi, Leo!"

In the morning he sat for an hour in his basket chair and wrestled with his bib and with his hanging toys. With his left hand he got the red plastic ring in his grip and he tugged and grunted and squirmed and pulled for many minutes to try to get it to his mouth and in for a taste.

"Oh my!"

His objective was not possible but Leo wrestled and squirmed and pulled so hard for so long that before he gave up not only his feet but his ankles, too, were well out over the bottom edge of his gently bouncing chair.

"Look at you!"

Today, too, he slept and drank and played and smiled and slept and drank and played and smiled, but today at the end of his naps both in the morning and in the afternoon he woke with a start and a loud, sudden, unhappy cry.

On each occasion I jumped up from my easy chair to see.

"What?"

Leo squirmed and yelled and cried.

"Leo."

He was hungry.

"Waaa!"

I got a bottle of his mother's milk and warmed it in the kitchen sink and for the first time in nine days I saw Leo really cry.

"Waaa!"

He made a terrible frown, an angry grimace.

"Waaa aa!"

Two tears fell from the corner of his left eye and rolled down his cheek toward his perfect, pale pink ear.

"Leo."

He wouldn't wait.

"Waaa!"

In the ugly mask of tragedy he made of his mouth and lips I recognized an ancient and familiar look of fear and pain.

For the fraction of an instant an image flashed in my head, the sad, wide eyes of a starving, nameless, brown mother sitting on the barren earth of a refugee camp, her flattened, empty, hanging breasts exposed, her baby boy beyond hunger, his empty belly bulging, his eyes open, too, wide and empty, silent, too sick to cry, dying in her arms. They'd given up. They stared at the camera. Now for one moment in my mind they stared at me.

"Leo!"

The image dissolved.

In my left arm and lap Leo lay and leaned forward and lunged toward his bottle. I helped him hold it in his two pink little hands.

He drank.