Love is Easy - Judy Albietz

It is so easy to love your grand-child. Everyone told me so, so I should have expected it. But how was I to know, really know about this, this absolute joy, this soaring happy feeling when I pick him up. He smiles at me and leans over to give me a peck on the cheek. I taught him that. Then he sticks his arms out for a hug. He taught himself that.

We go outside and dig dirt with the old yellow metal tonka truck. He tells me it’s a loader. We transfer the dirt into another truck. He tells me it’s a dump-truck.

We love to read books. We curl up together on the brown loveseat and read This Truck five times. He knows the words. We read a new book from the library about an 8-year-old kid who decides to move to a retirement community. As a two-year-old, my grandson doesn’t get all the jokes, but he laughs anyway when I laugh.

We sing. We sing the same songs I sang to his father and his aunt. When we don’t know the words we just make them up. We plug my IPod in to the speakers and listen to the Beatles, John Fogarty, the Dead, Pavarotti, Sinatra. We dance around the kitchen and sometimes wiggle our hips just because we like to. Sometimes we hold hands and jump up and down. We eat bananas in the living room even though we’re supposed to keep food in the dining room. He drags the white plastic step-stool to reach for the crackers he sees on the counter. I get them for him. I’m Bubbe. I don’t have to say “No.”