The Sleepover

Fast asleep, my wife pops up, hacking. She’s aspirated her spit—she insists I call it, saliva. Whatever. I reach up out of my slumber to show my support by patting her back, even though I know that’s of no real help. Shows I care and that I’m not upset that she woke me up at 5:48 on a Sunday morning. Actually, being jerked out of a dream was a good thing: I couldn’t find my coat, then my keys, then where I parked my car—way too much like my waking life.

But then, the coughing brings in our seven-year-old granddaughter—a sleepover—into our room. She crawls in bed between us wearing her princess something-or-another nightgown. How she sleeps in that scratching tu-tu thing… Anyway, she lets me know she’s not a princess she’s a Siamese kitty, pretending to be a princess. And would I like to be the mommy Siamese cat? I’ve not had my coffee, which makes me less than the smartest grammy, causing me to say something really stupid, like, “I’m a white Persian cat.” I open one eye to see baby Siamese kitty’s one eyebrow hovering over me—raised. I’ve seen that eyebrow before; it’s my mother’s. That snaps me to, and I agree that I’m the mommy Siamese. I shush her because I see that her other grammy—the one that woke us up—is now back asleep. That grammy has sleeping problems, so I’m trying to be compassionate—at 5:57 a.m., without my coffee and a scratchy Siamese kitty in bed with me. The Kitty raises my mother’s eyebrow once again and says, “At this point, this is when my parents getup.” I swear, the tone of voice that comes with the eyebrow has made its way through the generations…Or she’s channeling my deceased mother.

“I’ll meet you out there,” I tell her, as I pull my arm out from the covers and gesture to the universe. The eyebrow leaves but–it seems–is back within seconds, hovering, flicking my face with her Siamese paw. I get up. Don’t want to wake up the alarm clock grammy, who seems not to notice what’s happening to me. I think, she’s faking it…but I’m not judging.

My granddaughter and I meet out by the TV. She wants to watch Netflix. We have Netflix but it takes two remotes and a skill set I don’t possess without two hours of coffee and staring aimlessly. I say, it’s Mickey Mouse Club or nothing—only one click on one remote. A big Siamese groan fills the room. But I deftly get to Mickey fast enough to make the kitty forget about Netflix. That’s when she asks for breakfast…It’s only 6: 17a.m. Who can be hungry!

The coffee pot was set to go, so I push the button and open the refrigerator and spot a container of yogurt and an orange. When I return to her and Mickey, she’s working on a book, well, actually it’s her second book this morning. She’s fast at work writing and illustrating her novels. One of the stories is about the four elements and what they do for us. Good grief! The second book is less intellectual, but entertaining—more her grammy’s style.

When she’s done with her books, she asks me to send them to the publisher for publication, which, in her world, means stapling them together. Then she preforms an author reading. (She’s come to mine, so she knows the gig.) So, now, she’s ask me to build a library for all her works, hopefully, she says, it will be done before she gets dressed–I don’t know why she wants to do this, perhaps the scratchy nightgown is getting to her.

She seems not to have noticed that I didn’t get her library done, didn’t even get it started. I’m sitting with my coffee, a stapler, and watching Mickey Mouse. She gets on the computer, deciding to go digital, and creates pictures, titles, hitting the print button and collates (yes, she says, collates—where does she get these words?) her pages reading her third book for publication. The morning whizz is eating, creating, and collating when the printer dies…Geez Us!

Now she’s ready for building her library…Damn it, where is her other Grammy…I think my compassion has it limits. It’s now 9:03. I get our two puppy Cavapoos–those are real dogs–and head for for the bedroom, in quest of the Sleeping Grammy.

(On a totally different subject, scroll down to: “My Tits Were Out to Ruin My life.”)