*Jean-François is thoroughly French but most of his ancestors were Spanish (re: last name Lopez). His grandsons call him "abuelo."
While my maternal skills will likely forever go untested (I just turned 42!), I have been yanked forged ahead into grandma territory. Spoiler alert: this role is the same character as Aunt Claire, but poorly dubbed in French. Two of Jean-François's grandsons, ages 3.5 and 4.5, spent a week with us. We swam, we built sand "chateaus," we harvested the remaining onions from the garden, and we went for thinly-veiled long walks to drain them of excessive energy -- often foolishly followed by eating ice cream.
They're good kids, but are the age when every thought is verbalized. They love nothing more than chattering with each other and dissolving into laughter repeating nonsense syllables. Thus, I seethe with exasperation and annoyance, pathetically trying to score points with sarcastic answers to the torrent of banal questions like, "What did you buy at the grocery store?" Me: "Food." Like a fairytale villain, within my outwardly youthful/middle-aged body dwells the soul of a withered old crone, plotting to cast a spell of everlasting silence.
We had a reasonably good understanding both literally and figuratively. Unlike last year, Jeremie didn't correct my mispronunciation when reading stories aloud. And they understood my tone, if not the exact phrasing, when I admonished, "You no it can do, you will be made worse if you done!" And, "You must stop, yous, to talk, only you sleep!" It was nice to be able to swear occasionally in English and go completely unnoticed.
Jean-François and I morphed, at times, in response to our duties in loco parentis. I got to see his dad-type-behavior, his interest in teaching and sharing experiences and fun, his affection and discipline and and tenderness for seemingly indestructible balls of energy that are obviously fragile, vulnerable little creatures. We had each other's backs and tag-teamed the less fun parts (see: butt wiping) to give each other breaks. We found respite sharing a stiff drink, eating chocolate while the kids napped, talking about politics, and remaining sexual beings as a sort of bulwark against the degradation of personhood effected by small-child demands.
I know, it was only one week. Anyone with children will want to (slap me?) roll their eyes at my prissily dipping my toe into .00001% of their life. But I'm not a parent, I'm just a (sort of) grandma.
