Ashtyn

Ashtyn screamed out in the night, “Mommy!”—the one word that sent a chill down Mimi’s spine. She rushed from the bed and hovered outside the door in the dark hall. Would she scream again? Would she be too upset to be comforted by her grandmother? Mimi prayed she would accept her arms, her hugs, her kisses when the fears of the night crashed in. Mommy was a long way away. She and Daddy had taken their long awaited tenth anniversary trip to Washington, D. C. and Williamsburg. Mimi and Poppy were babysitting.
What a precious thing Ashtyn was. She was the sixth, the end, only two years old. This made her all the more precious—one last and splendid gift from God. Her little warm body cuddled against her grandmother when they sat on the sofa, her hugs and smiles adding joy to Mimi’s life. Her special kisses were saved for Poppy.
They had had their problems this week. Ashtyn wanted Mimi’s toenails painted red to match hers, not the usual buff color. It had taken them a while to find the red polish, but persistence paid off. They both had hair that tangled easily. The spray detangler helped them both. They both wore pink often and cropped pants on chilly days.
The sippy-cup caused the biggest problem for them the first time they went up for bed. Mimi filled it with milk for nap time, just the way Mommy wanted. They went upstairs together. Mimi perfected the routine just the way Ashtyn liked--a silky pink blanket over her, another by her ear, and the bunny by her other ear; then, Mimi gave her the sippy-cup. Catastrophe! The milk poured out and over her entire face! They were startled, both sets of eyes wide with surprise.
Ashtyn didn’t cry. She didn’t get mad. She just calmly said, “The milk spilled.”
Mimi cleaned Ashtyn’s face and found a baby bottle for her milk. Ashtyn looked skeptically at the bottle as if allowances had to be made for poor Mimi and quietly went to sleep.
During the sunny afternoons she loved the swimming pool, thought she was as big and as independent as the boys. Once her water wings were on, she climbed down the ladder, sank into the water up to her chin, and floated away. No amount of help was accepted. Mimi watched, keeping a keen eye on her every move—“I do it!” ringing in the air.
The swing called to her whenever she went into the yard. Poppy was the only one patient enough to stay with her, swinging and swinging. She never tired of the swing- thing. She floated through the air again and again, her hair lifted by the breeze, her face pleased with the sensation. Poppy was there long after Mimi and the boys had grown tired and retreated back into the house.
Sometimes, Poppy sat in the swing next to her swinging in perfect timing. Sometimes, he climbed into the playhouse cleaning, repairing, or checking the construction, but eventually, he was back behind her, pushing and pushing. Whenever he let her bump into his stomach with a loud, “Oops!” she squealed with joy. It was such fun to torment Poppy.
One time when Mimi looked out, Ashtyn was sitting in the swing perfectly still, silent, quiet, waiting, no movement in the swing at all. She didn’t say a word, never complained, never demanded more. Moments later, Poppy came hurrying back from the direction of the garden, and the swinging began again.
Ashtyn and Mimi chased dog hair. One of the dusting wands became dedicated to the catching of dog hair wherever it tried to hide. They chased dog hair under the sofa, in the laundry room, across the floor. Ashtyn shook the wand with all her might outside the kitchen door. The dog hair flew across the yard, catching on the flowers and plants.
Early one morning she watched a small bird gathering up the hair, obviously padding a nest with the soft, fuzzy warmth. Poppy and Ashtyn watched him from the table and talked about what a wonderful bed dog hair would make.
She could certainly hold her own with the boys. She bossed them and tried everything they tried. When they ran around the yard as knights with swords, she ran behind only because her legs were shorter. When they yelled she was a princess and should stay in the chair, she yelled, “No! I want a sword!” and chased them around the pool.
The tennis ball belonged to her. She had told everyone, and she was wonderful with it. She made baskets--backward baskets--with it. The ball flew up into the net, then out and over the top. She rolled it around the family room and stored it among the shoes with firm instructions that no one was to move it. No one did.
Sidewalk chalk created masterpieces for her. Poppy drew horses (or were they dogs?) for her, and she filled in the bodies. Blue, held in her sturdy little fist, became her primary color. She colored the head, the ears, the legs, and in the meantime, herself. Her entire little body tinted a pale, chalky shade of blue.
Daytime was a safe, fun experience.
Now, she had cried out in the night. Would Mimi have to go into the room? Would she cry again? All remained calm and quiet. The even breathing could be heard through the door. All was well. Still, Mimi stayed and waited, standing in the cool dark hallway, listening. If she cried again, Mimi would be there in an instant. Nothing! Mommy was not called again. In the bright blue light of morning, Mimi was absolutely acceptable for every little problem; in the dark, however, a grandmother was just not quite good enough. Mimi turned, paused yet again, then went back to bed to sleep, to rest, and to keep an ear open for Ashtyn.