This is the highlight of my week. No, that's not right. I underestimate. It is the highlight of the month. Better than an invitation to a swanky soiree. More satisfying than a chocolate lava cake.
We are baby-sitting the twins.
Abuela -- that's me -- is ready. And Zayde stands at attention, too, waiting for his marching orders. We are an experienced couple. Between the two of us, we have seven children, seven who have been fed, diapered, bathed and rocked. Seven who broke us in with sleepless nights and ear-piercing howls -- not only during their crib phase but also in their college years. Veterans is what we are.
But that, we learn, counts for nothing. Watching over grands, particularly the small, squirmy kind, is not a passive activity. It requires stamina, vigor, energy, endurance and strength. Did I mention fortitude and resilience? With twins, double the effort, then some.
Yet, it helps if you have the necessary equipment to keep them contained and entertained. So I clear out the counters, move around the furniture, put out the singing caterpillar and the beeping, bleeping ball. The portacribs go up. The exersaucer comes out. The interlocking alphabet mat spreads over the tiled TV room floor. (Never mind that at 7 months their oral fixation overpowers even their interminable curiosity.) I check the supply of diapers, bibs, wipes, onesies, pacifiers, socks.
Finally Ava and Caitlyn arrive. ''The little bald people are here!'' I announce, and wish for the accompaniment of royal trumpeters.
Their gurgles and giggles send me into such a paroxysm of love. I am forever surprised by the power of this passion, by the way their gummy grins manage to wipe away the accumulated years of cynicism and exhaustion. Precious, precious darlings.
Mom has written out a schedule of eating and napping. In the baby bag, there is a supply of powdered formula and food that looks like unappetizing mush. The twins' diet is strict and nutritious, a variety of vegetables and fruit and cereal. Some day . . .
''Girls,'' I tease as soon as their mother leaves, ''how about some pizza?'' They drool their approval. I envision a future of afternoon teas and library story hours.
For now, we are limited to placing them on the alphabet mat. We watch them play, a captive, admiring audience at their beck and call. When they grab the plastic key rings, we laugh. When they suck their toes, we ooh and aah. When they pull themselves up on the coffee table to stand, we applaud.
They are so entertaining that we invite others to come by. And so it turns out that on a weekend night our middle-age friends, a group slowly coming to terms with mortality and misplaced ambition, become mesmerized by pudgy feet and dimpled hands, by easy smiles and endless da-da-da-ta-ta-ta-ma-ma-ma. Life, I'm convinced, doesn't get better than this.
What is it about the children of our children that transform us? Do they imbue us with a sense of completion? Can we recognize the legacy we leave behind in the echo of our face in theirs? Are they the second chance we get to enjoy the mundane?
At playtime, or before bed, or during a dinner of peas and peaches, I suspect that the answers to these questions -- and so many others -- probably do not matter much. No, not at all.
