Confessions of a Transplant: I am a MeMe

About a year ago I wrote on how the first grand child is the one to name you. I go by Ammi, so I started with Grammi.

The eighteen-month-old boy calls me Meme (Mee Mee). And then shakes his head just a little so he can see my mop of hair move. While on the changing table, if I lean over, he takes a small fistful and tickles his own nose with my hair.

And smile, giggles and wiggles and his Dad, my son gets a bit frustrated because getting a diaper on a wiggle-butt is challenging enough.

The Transplant who has become accustomed to more sunlight that New England has provided over the last ten days, loves the puddle splashing, the rock finding and then tossing and the little hand that takes mine when we walk.

Like me, he loves a walk in the woods, and creeks and sticks. He said: “Meme, pretty eyes.” But mostly he commands: Up on! Back out! Walk, walk on (sidewalk) Put back! and of course “Bye Bye”

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