Old Fears

Public humiliation, unemployment, and sudden death are all scary issues for me. I try to be an optimist, but when I lay my head on my pillow at night I worry.
“Will I forget to dress in the morning and find myself at work in my underwear?
Will I have a job next month?
Will I have a heart attack in my sleep?”

These are the fears that creep into my mind. But for my three year old grandson, Addison, these issues are of absolutely no concern. When he comes to my house he wants to chase the dogs. He wants to play games with Grammy. He wants to go to the playground. He is a carefree, happy child. Mom and Dad go to work, pay the bills and search for health care. He has no such concerns.

Playing Mr. Potato Head was his primary concern when he came to visit me the other day. His parents sat bored on the sofa for 15 minutes while Addison and I traded hats and shoes and tongues for our Potato Head Pals. Finally his parents realized that their presence was not required for this activity so they rose from the sofa.
“We’d better get going if we are going to make the 5:30 movie.”
Addison’s Potato Head concentration was broken and he realized that Mom and Dad were leaving and he needed help with a wardrobe problem.
“My pants are soaked.”
“Addison!”
He hung his head while Mom and Dad removed his wet clothes.
“How could you wet your pants? You know better than that.”
Addison shrugged his shoulders and looked at his feet.
Grammy escorted Addison to the bathtub and Mom and Dad left for the movie.

Marty and I dread wide awake grandchildren at bedtime, so to induce sleep; I gave Addison some hot chocolate at 9 o’clock. I read him a story and pointed him toward the bed. His feet and head stretch the netting on each end of my portacrib, so I let him lie down in the queen size guest bed. An hour later, as I lay in bed in the dark I realized that the too small portacrib has an advantage that the guest bed does not, plastic sheets. I hoped that he would find his way to the bathroom in the middle of the night if nature called. I tip toed into his room the next morning and slid my hand around under the covers. To my relief, everything was dry.

Bryce is the bright, inquisitive grandson of my best friend. She takes care of him during the week while his mom goes to college. She knows much more about kid things than I do since she is a full time grandma. I am only a weekend warrior grandma. She recommended we take Addison to lunch at a nearby McDonalds. Bryce likes this particular restaurant because it has a fire engine inside, not a real fire engine, but an outside shell that contains tables and seats. The whole indoor playground has a fire fighting theme. He likes the fire engine and the slides but he refuses to climb to the top of the 20 foot play structure. He explained to Grandma.
“There are firemen stuck to the wall.”
“How cute,” I thought. There are pictures of firemen in the top level of the playground and his 3 year old brain thinks that it is real men stuck to the wall. Despite this warning, I decided to take Addison there anyway.

Addison squirmed and pulled on my arm as I tried to decide on our food at McDonalds. He had spotted the fire truck and the playground and his mind had no room for anything else. Marty took over the food acquisition while I found a table in the fire truck. Addison stood on the seat and looked over the side of the fire truck at the playground. He saw other kids who were climbing and jumping and sliding.
“Grammy I want to go play,” he pleaded.
I was going to be a good grandmother today and uphold his parents’ rule.
“No playing until after you eat your lunch.”
He moaned. He tried to climb over the edge of the fire truck. He stared longingly at the other kids.

After what seemed like an hour and a half, Marty arrived with our food. The fight to keep him inside the fire truck morphed into a fight to get him to eat his hamburger. He took tiny bites and begged to go play. I relented and told him he could play if he just ate half of his hamburger. His face was tortured and twisted as he choked down the last two bites.

He sprang out of the seat and onto the playground as soon as I gave the OK. He happily climbed up the stairs and flew down the slide. He ran back and forth and spoke to all of the children. He jumped up and down on the rubber play surface.

He ran over to our table to get a drink. He squirmed and jumped up and down as he was drinking. Pa Paw quickly interpreted his symptoms.
“Addison, come with me to the bathroom.”
“NO, Pa Paw. I don’t have to go!”
He bent over as he twisted his legs together.
“Yes, Addison, we’re going now,” and Marty dragged him off to the bathroom.

Marty chuckled a few minutes later when they returned from the bathroom. Addison scurried back up the stairs while Marty talked.
“He was in the bathroom at the urinal relieving himself at obviously high pressure when he turned and gave me an incredulous look.
“Pa Paw, I really did have to go!”

I looked up at the high walls next to the playground. I saw what looked like the physical remains of deceased firemen. Flat uniforms suspended above empty pairs of boots on either side. The headless forms were topped by worn out firemen’s helmets.
“Yuck! What happened to those guys?”
I remembered Bryce’s fear. His 3 year old brain must have reasoned that at the top of the stairs was a speeding carousel that would fling you against the wall. Maybe he thought the firemen were left hanging there on the wall to warn the children.

It occurred to me that public humiliation, unemployment and sudden death might be just exactly what a three year old worries about.