My youngest grandson is now six years old.
Of course he’s not the only one. Finnegan lives a little more than two hours from my home. I’m able to see him as often as I am willing to drive to New Hampshire.
He is willing to spend time with me, playing and teaching me new skills. I’m learning to understand the sorts of computer games young boys enjoy. Truthfully I’d rather watch him battle the waves on a sunny San Juan beach than strut through the maps of Mindcraft.
My other two grandchildren are actually adults now, so I understand how precious and fleeting time happens to be. The other two have interests of their own, which is what all parents and grandparents wish for. It just isn’t as much fun for those of us who are on the sidelines.
Being six, Finn has developed his own set of best friends and plans. He has a cat, named Nicholas Cage, who is willing to let him share a bed. The cat is a cuddly, marmalade piece of fur that often sits on the window sill watching the forest near their home.
I tell Finn he is my best friend, because he is. He grins and goes on typing as he moves through computer worlds.
This winter, which seems to be lasting into the alleged springtime, Finn and I spent a week in Puerto Rico. It was there he began swimming without a life jacket or floats. He’s good at the dog paddle and actually taught himself how to stay afloat.
He continues to learn new skills and impress his old grandmother.
Time passes too quickly but I enjoy grandmotherhood and all its special minutes.