"Sometimes I wake up Grouchy, sometimes I let him sleep"

Last night Kaleb, one of my adorable grandchildren, spent the night. On these nights his Grandma will take him upstairs and read to him in our bedroom until he falls asleep. Standard operating procedure is that if a grandchild is spending the night in our bed, Grampa is relegated to a guest room. It's not that I'm anti-social. The kids in our family transform into wee little flails when they slumber, throwing elbows and knees with uncanny accuracy at kidneys, and groin.

I haven't slept well lately, and do even worse in the guest beds. Our downstairs guestroom (we have two, if you can believe it!) faces the alley where a streetlight casts intense illumination. Even with the shades drawn, slight indoor breezes will admit a shaft of light that unerringly hits me right in the eyes in the night. I'm fine if I face the wall, but if I roll over, it's only a matter of time before I get the equivalent of Officer Clancy's flashlight.

Thursdays are Grandchild day. Gemey, already an early riser, is up with the chickens with Kaleb. I am a night-owl, and am hampered by a restless night. I wake to the thip thop thip of Kaleb's footfall, and hide under the covers. He says "PeePaw?" and I jump out "Grr!" to his delight. Then, I slump back down.

I can hear Gemey ask Kaleb "Do you want to go with me to get your brother, or stay here with Grampa?" Kaleb elects to stay and play hockey. That means I have to rise earlier than normal and keep an eye on Kaleb, less he do something dangerous like buy agricultural futures oin margin. I protest the arrangement. Stern words of rebuke are my reward.

Kaleb's voice is like the singsong of robins, cheerful and guileless. He is in a stage where he parrots what you say to him, and it's painfully sweet. He is such a little boy, paddling around and getting into things. He invents games, and this morning, I have to toss a ball into an orange cup. We sit on opposite beds in the guestroom, and toss the ball. We toss a ball back and forth. "Ready?" I ask. "Weddy!" he replies. If it drops to the floor, Kaleb will say "PeePaw geddit". A fan of morning sloth, I respond "How about Kaleb get it?" Usually he says "O'day" and climbs down, picks up the ball, labors back up to the bed and we return to our game. I hit it a few times, and he thinks this is the coolest thing.

He tires of catch, and begins opening up decorative tins on the windowsills. He removes the lid, and looks inside. In and out, open and close. He is an explorer, and a commemorative tin to him is as much a discovery as Tutankhamun's tomb. We find a leftover Easter egg, (mercifully it is plastic). Open close, in and out. It is impossible to be grouchy under these conditions.

Tim McNabb