Journal-Times (Grayson, KY)

Wednesday's Post

March 28, 2012

Grandkids are more fun than their parents

March 28, 2012 —     I warned you several weeks ago that I would be looking to my grandchildren for help with this column, especially to distract me from all of the serious stuff I’ve been thinking and writing about.

    It wasn’t long ago our home phone rang in late afternoon and my wife answered.

    “Hello Grandma, this is Harper,” said our six-year-old grandson who lives in Northern Virginia with his father, mother and three-year-old sister, Scout, on one of those historic estates.

    His dad is the caretaker of that 1,000-acre piece of history with its main house of 12 bathrooms and 10 bedrooms.

    “Grandma, I’m calling you for advice,” Harper said, somewhat matter-of-factly and in his best grownup voice.

    When his grandmother asked what kind of advice he needed, his reply was a surprise.

    “I need to know how to get my little sister out of the top of this tree we’re sitting in because she’s climbed a lot higher than me,” was the lad’s calm response.

    While Grandma tried to catch her breath and come up with the right answer, Harper went on to say that he and his sister had been chased out of the tree by their dad several times that day but it was so much fun that they came back.

    Their mother had gone to town and Dad was out of sight without his cell phone which Harper just happened to have with him in the tree.

    Grandma finally persuaded him to carefully climb down and take the cell phone to his father who quickly came to Scout’s aid.

    Before the phone conversation ended, Harper was asked what he would have done if Grandma had not been home to answer the phone.

    “I was going to call the fire department to rescue us.”

-----------------------

    Our granddaughter Kennedy was about three years old when she reached a surprising conclusion from one of life’s lessons.

    Grandma heard her in the kitchen and asked if she was eating butter which she had been told repeatedly not to touch.

    The little girl’s reply of “no” was muffled, sort of like you were trying to talk with your mouth full of butter.

    Grandma gently scolded her about lying and asked her to open her tiny mouth where the last morsels of butter were melting away.

    At that point, she was put in time out and told to stand in the corner for two minutes.

    When the time ended, Grandma picked her up and asked Kennedy if she had learned anything from the experience.

    The little tot said she had, indeed.

    “Next time I won’t open my mouth.”

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