Are You My Grandma?

When I dropped Scarlett off at Bible School for the last time, there was a white-haired lady standing in the hallway. Scarlett ran to this lady, squealing, "Grandma!" and gave her a hug. Then she went into her classroom. This lady? She was not Scarlett's grandma.

The elderly lady and two of the other Bible School teachers were all giggly, and "Grandma" said, "She has been calling me 'Grandma' all week! Do I look like her grandma?" She was all smiles.

And I said, "Yes." And nodded emphatically.

But y'all? I told a lie. In a church. To a little old lady. I am so going to Hell.

Scarlett has four sets of grandparents. And that's not including the "greats." So, pretty much, if she sees a white-haired or otherwise elderly-looking person? She figures they must also be her grandparent.

But I could not tell this smiley, nice lady, "No, you just look old." So I lied.

At a work-related baby shower, Scarlett decided one of my coworkers must be her grandpa, and she said, "Mommy, I'm going to go sit in Grandpa's lap." I had to physically restrain her until I could convince her, in frantic whispers, that he was not her grandpa.

If we are at the store, and nice elderly person stops to comment on how cute my girls are? Scarlett will practically scream, "Momma! That's my Grandma!" Usually, I just smile and shrug, hoping that their old-person hearing will confuse them and make them think she must have said something else. It works every time.

So, if you are out somewhere, and a sweet brown-haired toddler comes running up to you, shouting about grandparents? That's my Scarlett. And also? You look old. Sorry.

Commuter Drama

I have been in the car all day today, and it is only one o'clock.

This morning, before nine, I drive Scarlett to Bible School. Sosie is with us. It is beyond heavy lugging her around in her car seat, but I cannot send Scarlett inside alone. It is so hot that just being in the car for the five minutes it take for the cool air to start blowing from the vents leaves us sticky with sweat. There is a fine sheen of sweat over me, leaving me slick enough that I imagine if Scarlett tried to run and jump onto me, she would simply slide down my body like a piece of hair on a shower wall.

Sosie and I come home. I manage to vacuum and start folding yesterday's laundry when the phone rings. It is Michael. "Babe, is my wallet on the counter?" he asks.

I look. "Yes, it is." Pause. "Do you need me to bring it to you?"

"Yes."

Michael works on a military base. He cannot get to work without his photo I.D., and it is sitting on our counter. I put Sosie back in her clunky car seat, we drive to the front gates of the base, and we deliver his wallet. Then we turn right around and drive back home.

There is about an hour left to feed Sosie and watch a little TV before we must go back out again, this time to collect Scarlett from Bible School. When we get there, and I have huffed and puffed my way to her classroom, in the heat, carrying a giant, heavy car seat and a chub-chub baby? There is drama.

Scarlett, again, does not want to leave. She is sobbing over some kind of bean bag toy that she wants to keep playing with. I explain, again, about "toys for everyone" and the fact that we must leave the bean bag here. She can play with it again tomorrow.

Finally there is acceptance, and we walk to the car, uphill, in the baking sun, one hand clutching the car seat and the other clasping Scarlett's tiny hand. When I start to drive away? Scarlett bursts into fresh tears.

"But I want to go to Bible School!" Sigh.

"Honey, we have to go home now. Bible School is over. You can come back tomorrow."

This exact scene plays itself out three times before we get home. Three times in about fifteen minutes. I don't know what all they get up to at Bible School, but whatever it is? REALLY makes Scarlett tired.

Now we are home. I have about an hour to get us all ready to leave again. Sosie will go back in her car seat. We will all go back in the hot car. The girls will go to my sister's. I will go to work. And we will do most of this again tomorrow.