I am looking at a little one right now, giggling at him running around singing, "Ho, ho, ho!" at my stuffed Santa on the hearth.
He is Jackrabbit, the 19-month-old son of my baby brother. He is the babiest of my parents' grandbabies, likely the caboose of the 11-child grandtrain. He has velvety brown eyes and chubby cheeks, and a grin that makes you temporarily forget how naughty he can be. Or, at least, not care.
Yesterday I also had him, because his regular babysitter's child has the 'flu. I made him laugh by tying a big jingle bell to his belt loop, then singing "Jingle Bells" at him every time he shook it.
Seeing my own children with their infinite patience and tenderness toward this child makes my heart swell. Gently and calmly, they keep little hands from trouble, hug and pat and play.
I saw the same respect and care when we visited a retirement home recently, when Larry drew up a chair toward a particularly lonely looking lady, chatting and listening until he had her twinkling and cheery. Curly Sue and Moe made their rounds like jolly fairies, sprinkling smiles and kind words around the room.
Can I really be raising these fine children? An ill-equipped, impatient, overbearing, demanding parent like me? No, it must be God's doing.
Uh-oh. It's taste-test time in Fisher Price land, so I'm off to rescue Sonya Lee.
