Letting My Grandson Play Me Like a Violin

Dear Jack,

You are a curious nine-year-old. After asking me why my hands are unsteady when I eat, pour or carry things, I explained that I have been diagnosed with a “benign, essential tremor.” As you pursued the subject further with “How do you get it?” I responded that it’s hereditary, and that my father inherited it from his father, and that I too inherited it, but not my brother or sister. Oh, how I tried to assure you that just because I have it does not mean it’s something you have to worry about getting.

Within minutes you closed your eyes and extended your arms, shaking them in your best imitation of someone with a tremor. “I just wanted to see how it would feel,” you told me.

Trying my best to suppress my laughter, I said: “Please don’t do that because it hurts my feelings.” You immediately said: “I’m sorry.” Weeks later you told me you asked your paternal grandparents why I have the tremor, and you told me: “They said they don’t know.”

It was great being able to keep you and your sister Lucy company in your Wynnewood, PA home while your parents took turns emptying out the house you lived in between pre-school and the start of 4th grade at Bubb School in Mountain View, California. I was especially proud of you for thanking your bus driver for delivering you home each day after Merion Elementary, a little more than a mile away from your new home.

I also know how thrilled you are to have cousins close by in Delaware. I guess bragging is part of being a nine-year-old, and I considered asking you to stop repeatedly asking Lucy and your cousin Emily: “Isn’t my new loft bed cool?” Listening to you, I almost wished I could have a loft bed with a desk underneath instead of my queen with the Tempurpedic mattress.

Shortly after that bed was assembled by a free-lancer who needed a good three hours to accomplish the task, you did invite Lucy and Emily to climb up and shoot videos on your new platform. Before the free-lancer left, I saw that he left one Allen wrench and a super thin grip wrench. Should I have instructed you to put the tools in a Zip Loc bag in a junk drawer in the kitchen? Oh well. . . 

At the same time, you miss your friends in California. You’ve discovered that even without a phone of your own, you can use your iPad to FaceTime with your pals, especially Liam. It’s not the same as getting to play baseball with him, be coached by his wonderful dad, or work on “asynchronous learning” together, but it helps.  

Because of the insane price of housing in the Silicon Valley, people there live in much smaller spaces. I did have some reservations about your insisting on giving your California friends a FaceTime tour of your new quarters Back East, including a basement for jumping rope, jumping from the staircase onto an old mattress from your now deceased great grandmother's home, or hitting tennis balls against the wall. 

As you realized long before I did, you have mastered the art of playing your grandmother like a violin. After walking to that nice independent book store in Narberth, Pa, you said: “Please, please Bubbie, can I have the Rubik’s cube; I have a YouTube video about Rubik’s cubes.”

You are too old to have thrown a temper tantrum the way you did when you were ages 3, 4, 5 or 6 when you were denied something your little heart desired. I didn't rule out the prospect of you pouting. But making me feel guilty didn’t take much out of me emotionally, and $15 later, your approach was very effective.

I could elaborate on you and Lucy’s request for IHOP’s takeout for dinner, guilting you about my own concern for catching Covid as I did the pickup requiring me to crowd into a tiny corridor at IHOP’s Ardmore, PA location. Or my misgivings about twice fulfilling your requests for treats requiring me to enter Wawa’s, and tap on a touch screen touched by everybody and her aunt or uncle – and all because you said: “Oh please, Bubbie! Aunt Dana says Wawa has the best soft serve ice cream.”

Shortly before dinnertime of the day before I was due to head home to Boston, you pleaded with me to bake a pumpkin pie, and pulled up numerous recipes on your iPad to show me how easy it would be. Did you realize how much I loathe cooking or baking as you continued to say: “Please, Bubbie. I really want to do this"? 

Minutes later, you and I were headed to a Giant’s grocery store for the pie filling ingredients, a frozen pie shell, and a pint of Vanilla Haagen Das. Being a salmonella freak, I cringed as you asked to crack the eggs into the mixing bowl. But I knew I had to let you do it, and besides you have been really good about washing your hands, all thanks to Covid.

“This is delicious,” you announced as you tasted the final product. The filling didn’t hold together as well as I’d hoped, but you were incredibly gracious about eating it.

I have since found another pumpkin pie recipe that doesn’t call for half and half or evaporated milk, which is likely to yield a firmer texture. If you still have that additional pie shell in your freezer, we can have a do-over when next I visit.

Please limit your YouTube time, and be nice to Lucy because it really hurts her feelings when you smirk at her, instead of saying: “I disagree.”

Love, Bubbie Bonnie