I visit my grandson Adam once a week at his daycare center in the West Seattle nursing home/senior residence where his mother is a social worker.

It was not easy to come up with a time that would work for both of us for those visits. (I am never keenly interested in events happening early in the day. I never suggested that I visit him during the morning.)

I lost track of some of Adam’s schedule, as Lisa explained in detail when his activity time was and that lunch was at 11:30, followed by a nap until 1:30 or so, and then snack, and on and on.
 
Oh, then his time outdoors in the playground at 2:30, which he must not miss, as it gives him opportunity to burn up some energy.  (Could it be I was not listening carefully when she said that?)

At one point, I emailed my daughter and suggested that she have Adam’s people get back to my people and then someone could tell me what to do when. 

Enough complexity, already.  I just wanted to visit the little guy.

We have a schedule now.  One day a week, I arrive at Lisa’s work place at around 12:30 or 12:45.  I call her, and she comes out, hops in the car and we go to a nearby Subway and share a sandwich.

After lunch, I take Lisa back to work, park and take the stairs or elevator down to the daycare center. 

At 1:15 or 1:30, I collect Adam—after one of his caregivers tackles him to smear sunscreen over him—and the two of us are free to do whatever we choose. 

Actually, I get to choose, but he seems to have strong veto power, so sometimes we do not do exactly what I had in mind.

Incidentally, I love having a stroller in my car trunk.  It flops around back there and messes up any space I might need for groceries, but it just makes me smile to see a stroller in the trunk, so I keep it there all the time. 

I think other grandmas do that, too.

One afternoon, I checked Adam out of the Baby Room and plopped him into the stroller I had parked outside the door.

At 15 months, he is not especially enamored of strollers anymore. I struggled--red-faced and sweating--with the straps and buckles I had neglected to sort out beforehand. 

Adam was unimpressed by my inefficiency and began kicking restlessly.  Finally I triumphed, and Adam was secured in the stroller. I was pathetically grateful for his smile when I kissed him behind the ear. 

We headed for the elevator, bound for the sunny outdoors.

My granddaughter Annika was a quiet, tractable toddler, not much like this boy cousin of hers. If I expected an active little boy fresh from a nap, already wiggly in his stroller, to settle for a gentle meander around the grounds, I was wrong.   (To be continued.)