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Not ready for Grandmotherhood
Considering my track record, it was a miracle they asked me to babysit.
My son and his girlfriend drove up our lane, their little Golf heavy laden with suitcases and sleeping-bags, with dishes, food, pillows, toys, and a list of instructions. The one-year-old Black Lab lay in Allison’s arms like a baby.
"Thank you so much for looking after her, Verena," Allison said, handing me the puppy.
"We’ll be fine." I hoped to sound convincing.
Giddy with excitement, Allison waved her arms through the opened passenger window, while Kenya scrambled to jump from my grip. Oliver honked the horn as the back-end of their car disappeared around the corner late Friday afternoon.
"Okay my best friend, it’s you and I, " I said, carrying Kenya to the fenced backyard. "You’re going to be a good girl, right?" I said it pleadingly, worried about possible worst case scenarios: her running off, getting lost, or heaven forbid, being run over by a car.
My stress was, as Willy would judge, self-inflicted, fabricated anxiety. But I regarded this week of babysitting as my test to be a grandmother one day. Failure was not an option....
