Play Dates and Pixie Dust Brighten Abuela's Week

By ANA VECIANA-SUAREZ

aveciana@MiamiHerald.com

I've been looking forward to this all week, daydreaming at my desk, plotting activities over lunch. This will be the absolutely, most completely perfect Sunday: The grandchildren are coming! The grandchildren are coming! It's the start of summer vacation and the night before Christmas all rolled into one.

I'm a grandmother lucky enough to live within 10 minutes of my three granddaughters, a veritable hop-skip-and-jump from a world of pixie dust and tea parties. I pilfer moments to visit during the week, but my long days and their early bedtimes translate into scarce opportunities.
Until the weekend. And even then a full-scale play date requires careful planning around the kids' busy social schedule -- birthday parties galore! -- and delicate negotiations with the other sets of grandparents. I'm not above shameless bribery.

``I have chocolate,'' I tease over the phone one afternoon. ``Lots of chocolate. And cookies.''
At home they adhere to strict dietary guidelines. At Abuela's house . . .

``The butterfly is waiting for you,'' I tell them another day. And it is, a dead tiger swallowtail that I laid to rest in a jewelry box. Though its yellow and black wings are dry and crumbly, it remains a prized possession, as do a bird's nest abandoned in the bushes and a snake skin I found while weeding.

``We'll go swimming,'' I add, pulling out all the stops. This is a favorite activity, done best with their Zayde, who doesn't care how many times his shampooed hair gets wet.

Then Sunday dawns cloudless and balmy, Miami's attempt at fall weather. All three -- my son's twins and my daughter's toddler -- are deposited on my doorstep and I practically slam the door in their parents' anxious faces. So many rules, so many mandates. I can't believe I've produced such persnickety grownups.

Then, finally, we're alone and together: Let the good times roll.

We bake cookies for Uncle Ben away at college, plucking the chocolate chips out of the dough without remorse.

We study the grass snake that has slipped into the bathtub through the drain pipe and practice the sound of the letter S until we collapse in giggles.
Then, as the sun -- another S! -- settles behind the areca hedge, we go bug-hunting, a bald baby doll and red wagon in tow.

``Skip the children,'' my husband advises friends. ``Go straight to grandchildren. It's a lot more fun.''

He's right. Grandparenting is the ice cream sundae without the calories, the shop-till-you-drop extravaganza without the credit card bills. In other words, pleasure without responsibility.
And yet, cuddling with the third generation fills you with precisely that: a sense of duty, a recognition of accountability. The sweet scent of their sweat, their outstretched arms, the lips puckered for a wet kiss, the soft melody of their childish voices -- all these infuse me with energy and determination. There's a clarity of purpose that arrives with your children's children. The world, and your place in it, becomes more meaningful.

Ah, so this is the reward for all the heartaches of childrearing.

An old friend says my face changes when I speak of my grandchildren. It softens, it opens, it turns welcoming and vulnerable.

I don't doubt it. It's a reflection of my brimming heart. In their presence I feel suddenly and inexplicably beautiful.