This is the world according to a child. A piano is where all of the stuffed animals need to line up and stay put until the weekend is over and someone else puts them back in the box.
They look happy there and, oddly, it makes me happy seeing them there. So I don’t fuss about how my granddaughter ought to collect them up and put them away at the end of the day. I don’t care.
This is the fundamental essence of being a grandmother – not caring about the stuff that took the joy out of being with children when I was the parent. Each time I’m left alone with one of my granddaughters, I feel like I’ve been dropped in a little joyful conspiracy to do whatever we want, talk, not talk, make cookies, buy them, walk in the neighborhood, lie on the couch, pretend we are…
View original post 300 more words