Dear Diary: My Pleasure!
Will’s parents needed a bit of help late this afternoon, owing to the attack of a nasty flu bug that laid Ryan low and put Megan in the impossible position of not being able to do anything for her husband. I was called in. Lucky, lucky me.
I popped in a taxi, sped downtown, and scaled Château Gizmo. I washed my hands at every turn, and nothing else that I did was more remarkable than that. I ran a couple of errands and washed a few dishes.
Mostly, though, I sat like this, in the grandfatherly position known as “Cat & Canary.” The cat in this case is not going eat the canary, however, because holding it is too delightful.
I complimented Megan on having studied the major points of grandfatherly gratification. When I arrived, she was stressed, Will was wailing, and Ryan was cramped on an extra bed that he was too beleaguered to clear off. Within half an hour — well, Ryan was still feverish and miserable; there are limits to my magic powers. But Megan was contentedly feeding her contented son, and — what’s always essential in these crises, necessary if insufficient — the kitchen sink was cleared.
Although Will’s mouth is open in the photograph, he is as silent as the you-know-what. As zonked out as a sophomore.
Megan asked if I saw anything of myself in Will’s little face. I had to confess, with lingering surprise, that I wasn’t looking. I had certainly thought that I would. When Megan was Will’s age, I peered at her with narcissistic abandon. But I don’t seem to need any supplementary assurance that Will is my grandson. And that is sweet.