My Metamorphosis

As my time with Luke draws to an end, I have come to realize the enormity of my utter transformation. I don't mean into anything quite as grotesque as a monstrous vermin, but there is no doubt that I have changed. I have suffered a metamorphosis into a blubbering, cooing, baby-talking, stroller-pushing Nana. I have completely earned my grandma card.

For the last two mornings, I have cried over the most inane stories on The Today Show. I, who had previously never watched day-time television, sobbed over the human interest report of the woman whose face had been reconstructed after an unfortunate encounter with a chimp. Tears rolled down my face as I watched the reports of disabled children. I find myself recounting the statistics of mothers with infants: did you know that over 50% of young mothers would rather have a full night's sleep than sex? I know the inside jokes of Kathy Lee and Hoda (Winsday has never been so fun); Al Roker should have never let Morales put him through that boot camp thing.

Yesterday, I edited a former student's personal statement as part of an application to Teach For America. Part of his response was how he would measure success. How have I measured success for the past four weeks? I take personal pride in eliciting a deep belly-burp. I've worked hard on that technique. I'm pleased beyond measure when Luke takes 5 - 6 ounces instead of his usual 4. I have bragging rights that Luke is now wearing 3 month sized-onesies, at only 2 1/2 months! Success for me is in Luke's sweet grins in response to the most inane language on my part.

Luke in his 3 month onesie - with almost a smile

Another alarming transformation on my part regards music. I, who have sung polyphonic chant and Rachmaninoff with my church choir now sing "bath-time, bath-time: everybody takes a bath!" with Max. This jolly tune also works with "pick-up, pick-up: everybody picks up toys!" Max and I dance to the insipid tunes which emanate from Scout, his lime-green digital dog. We madly wag our tails or do the rhumba. Late at night, "Me and My Friend" loops through my head - a terrible tune for an ear worm. Maybe even worse is how often I've listened to classical tunes on Baby Einstein. The tinny version of "Fur Elise" with chirping birds may drive me to distraction. Carmen on a night-time cd - really?? 

While this time with my adorable grandsons has been immeasurably pleasurable, soon I'll need to wear another hat.  In less than a week, I'll be instructing seniors in high school on composition and literature. I only pray that I don't slip and say words I've become accustomed to use lately: "poopie," "potty," and "where's that burp?" among them. I am trusting that this upcoming metamorphosis will be less all-encompassing than my Nana transformation.