Shhhhhh by Ferida Wolff

Photo by Ajay Suresh from New York, NY, USA, via Wikimedia Commons

by Ferida Wolff

I was babysitting my two-year-old grandson a number of years ago while my daughter and son-in-law went off for a needed weekend away. I had been in charge at other times but only during the day and not over an extended period. Three decades have passed since I had full charge of a child. I hoped I remembered my mothering skills. How different could it be? I wondered.

Everything was fine during the day. I changed diapers as necessary and had no problem keeping him entertained. We went to the playground where he toddled up the steps and flung himself down the slide. We rode the elevator up and down in the store as we shopped in the local market. He had a two-hour nap after lunch and woke up happy. We took a walk in the afternoon and watched the trucks rattle along the road, a highlight of his day.

Easy, I thought.

Even dinner was a breeze. My daughter said he wouldn’t eat cheese but he gobbled up a whole finger of string cheese. He ate two meatballs dipped in gobs of ketchup, a double helping of applesauce with cinnamon, and tasted a green bean, which he didn’t eat but he didn’t throw on the floor either — a definite plus. After his bath, my sweet grandson snuggled into my lap for a story. We read the book the traditional multiple times and then it was bedtime. I put him in his crib, shut the light, and was ready to leave when I heard the plaintive call.

“Up,” he said.

“It’s time to sleep,” I answered in a whisper.

“No, up,” he repeated.

“Goodnight,” I crooned.

I gently patted his back until he settled down. When I heard his breathing get deeper, I thought it was safe to tiptoe out of the room as I had done so many years ago with my tiny toddlers. I didn’t reckon on my joints. My toes cracked with my first step. How could anything so little sound so loud? It was loud enough to wake him.