Two days before my birthday this year, I happened to be taking care of my 3-year-old grandson Desmond, at his house. This was one of those birthdays that makes you feel that age is not just creeping up on you, it’s already here, staring you in the face. It would be fair to say that I was feeling a little down.
As soon as I came in the door, my grandson runs up to me. Zippy energy is coming off him in waves. He’s wriggling all over.
“Grandma!” he says, trying to lower his voice so his mother, busy getting ready to leave for work, will not hear him betraying the secret she’s told him not to share.
“It’s your birthday!” he says in a thrilled whisper.
I smile and nod because it’s impossible not to. “Yes it is my birthday,” I agree.
He leans in closer, to make sure I hear him. “We’re having dessert! It’s …” (voice lowered even more, but delivered with dramatic punch) chocolate ice cream!”
I’m now giggling. “Oh, I like chocolate ice cream,” I say.
“And with candles on top!” He leans against my knees and his hands grip me with excitement. His grin nearly splits his face in half.
“How fun,” I say, and infected by his enthusiasm, I really mean it. “But Grandma’s pretty old, Des,” I say, without a trace of self-pity. “I don’t know if we can fit all those candles on the ice cream.”
This does not faze him at all. “Then we’ll need LOTS of ice cream!” he shrieks, no longer caring if his mother hears him or not. He spreads his arms wide and his eyes grow huge with delight.
Aged or not, I can still recognize wisdom when I hear it. My mood and my attitude have been healed, which often happens when I’m around my grandson Desmond.
All getting older means is that you get to have more ice cream.