That mushy spot on the brain that develops overnight when you become a grandparent only gets worse when it is a great grandchild over whom you are doting. Case in point, Lilly, my three year old, grinning, irrepressible towhead. Once in a restaurant, while our party was waiting for entrees to arrive, I shared my strawberry malt with Lilly, spoon by spoon. And she reminded me if she thought I was taking an extra turn with the spoon. I never remember sharing anything that was more fun than that.
Just the other night, when she found me unexpectedly at her house, she climbed up next to me and patted my rotund belly and said something that implied that there was a baby inside. Her mother corrected her (while giggling). Then Lilly kept patting my corpulent gut, saying, "MY Papa, MY papa." If I had all the money in the world I couldn't buy that kind of joy. She was so transparently glad to see me that I didn't care if I did nothing else than spend time with her.
We read books together. We discuss the pictures and how the text goes with the pictures. I try to say something silly to make her laugh, and she constantly melts my heart with her million dollar grin. The love of a child is precious. They are so (relatively) innocent, and they give of themselves so freely. What a great sin it is to betray love like that! No wonder our culture esteems child abuse as an especially heinous crime. Throw the book at 'em!
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