A couple hours

A few weeks ago my grandson, Micah, and I were left in the house together – just the two of us. Some people call it baby-sitting, even if it’s your grandchild. I don’t agree, because just as I don’t think you can baby-sit your own children, I don’t think you can baby-sit your own grandchildren – because I certainly can’t.

I think if you are indeed baby-sitting you should be expected to complete a variety of tasks such as feeding the child, changing diapers, selecting an outfit with matching shoes, putting them to bed (or “putting them down,” as they say in the business).

I don’t really do any of those things well, so I would never be called upon to baby-sit Micah, but I can “keep him safe,” as my daughter says. Clearly, I have not given her reason to expect much more from me in this regard.

It was a Wednesday night and my wife and daughter help out at church with a program there. My son-in-law – the baby’s father (I remember when it was unnecessary to explain the relationship) was busy, and since I wasn’t doing anything other than reading and watching TV, I was appointed night watchman

Jennifer had driven from town out to the farm where she exchanged her son for her mother. Jennifer had put Micah “down,” in the crib for the evening (or so I thought). She placed the baby monitor (viewing screen and speaker) on the table next to my chair.

“He’ll fuss for a minute or two and then he should fall asleep,” she said with the greatest confidence. I was settled in my chair when they walked out the door.

From my chair I could comfortably watch two screens. The one across the room was quite a bit larger, in color, and had access to several dozen channels. The one on the table had a grainy black and white display of a child moving about his crib, and the sound quality was rather poor, but I could still tell it was a wide-awake baby.

I turned the sound up on the monitor and down on the TV. Soon Micah began to cry. Then he started to cry harder, so I sprang from my chair, moved quickly across two rooms and vaulted up the stairs, singing seasonal words of comfort and joy along the way.

When I walked into the room by the light of the hall, he was standing up and crying. I picked him up and rubbed his back for a few seconds and then placed him sitting down in the crib. As soon as I did he dropped his head to his chest and sobbed.

Micah cannot yet talk but I heard him say, “Why, Grandpa why? I thought you loved me. Please don’t leave me here.”

I apologized, picked him up and we went downstairs. He played on the floor while I tried to figure out what to do next. After a while we went back upstairs without a well formulated plan, but this time I stood him up next to the crib railing (thinking this was somehow better). The well practiced head droop and deep sob began immediately. Again I heard his pleas of despair and anguish. And again I apologized for being so insensitive and uncaring. After I wiped his tears, we went downstairs again to regroup. It had now been over an hour of keeping him safe.

Now the clock was beginning to pick up speed. I had one last chance, so for our third act I sat in the dark bedroom with him and rocked for a few minutes. When I sensed he was getting sleepy, I set him down in the crib and slid his knees out from under him so he would lie down. Then I turned and walked out of the semi-dark room. For whatever reason, this time he let me go.

Twenty minutes later his mother and grandmother walked in the door. I was very happy to see Micah and I were no longer alone.