A place of your own.

It's happened about 40 or 50 times over the last 20 years.

We had our 3 and 5 year old foster children returned to their mother recently. That doesn't happen often. (getting back with the mom) What happened next does.

We had a rest from the sights and sounds of toddlers, thinking we'd not have to do that for a while...maybe no more. After all, while we look pretty darned good, we've been parenting for a long time...and little ones are....so....well....little. You know.

But then, we got the call.

"we have a small family of children that just need a place temporarily - a short time - just till we get a permanent situation arranged...so can you take them?"

"yes"

Then it begins. There is a room shuffle. The oldest son is now in the large bedroom. He's got a double bed and the distinction of the "big room". Of course, looking in the room brings to mind the chorus to the Elvis song - you know the one - "...in the ghettttoooh..."

He gets ejected to a smaller room so the 3 and 4 year old new kids can have a room together. The new 2 year old is going in the smallest bedroom that was recently vacated by our former 3 year old. Yes, I did say we just got a 2, 3, and 4 year old.

My wife and one of our grown daughters sized up the room situation. They took beds from 4 bedrooms as well as the attic, remixed them, re matched dressers, toys, trinkets, curtains, blankets, and everything that makes a kids room the kid's room, and worked for about a couple of hours.

When the dust had settled (I was there for the heavy lifting and then went away), I quietly walked through the new arrangements, particularly the room for the new kids (due to arrive in an hour or so at that point). There was play china on the little table, and little dolls and stuffed animals strategically placed in what had been the ghetttoooh a couple of hours before. I imagined these little ones displaced and torn from their family walking in to their new place...their new Mommy, temporary or not, had made it just so.... like she has for these many years...a special place...one where you can sleep peacefully.

The Lord watches over these little lambs.

But He likes them to be quiet at bed time.

Unauthorized photography prohibited

There was a bad accident on the road leading to our development about a month ago. It was bad enough that the county put up some new signs "Do Not Pass" along the road to try to avoid a repeat.

When you think about it, that's kind of a dumb sign. When I was a kid, I wondered why they had a road after a sign like that? Why would they build a road past a sign they didn't want you to go past?

Of course, we had a sign in my neighborhood where I was growing up that said "Slow Children". I objected to the implication, until, being bright like I was, I realized it must be referring to my sister.

But the one that was most heinous was the sign indicating the exit to the town we lived in. We lived in a town named "North Reading". The sign said "No Reading". Now you tell me, I thought, why would they put a sign up instructing you not to read it?

Sheesh.

You can be the special one

I am blessed to be a grandfather. It's "grand" in the sense of "big" (which is age-driven, physical and status). The status part of the "big" means I've been a father for a very long time and that I am this for a pretty "grand" (large) group.

I have grandchildren by a couple of different paths. I have 7 and one on the way the old fashioned way. I have 7 others and one additional one on the way through other means. In all cases, these kids call me "Poppa", slip occasionally and call me "grandpop", "poppy", "pops", and other such traditional titles. Whatever it is, the title is their recognition of what I am in their life, a privileged insider to them who fits a special seat. For them, they get to climb on me, to look under my mustache, to puzzle over why I have no hair on top but do have hair on my face, to ask about when their mom was my little girl...

I remember the special place my grandfather had in my life. He held the keys to a lot of mystery. One of them, the one who I remember only as as a very young boy, was a "tickler". All I really have left of memories of him is a good feeling, a special affection that I have when I think of him. My other one, who was alive into my adulthood, was someone who I always counted on to validate what I did - if he approved it must be right. He tickled also.

It is a special honor indeed. They are spread from Africa to South Dakota, and when I get to see each of them, some once a week and others once every couple of years, I am reminded of the importance of this job. I see their smile, hear their laugh, tickle them, and let each of them know how they can be the special one.