Stay little . . .

My grandson Luca sings along to Twenty One Pilots’ Stressed Out as I drive. I pick him up after school every Tuesday, giving his mom a break from the south county–north county roundtrip commute. Living with his dad half time in Huntington Beach, Luca has attended school here since he was a little guy in pre-K. In what feels like the blink of an eye, he starts middle school next year and will attend his neighborhood school in Aliso for the first time. A big change that makes him nervous and excited all at once. He had a say in the decision. Weighing the pros and cons, he worried about losing the support system he has in elementary school. He articulated his concerns so thoughtfully. When did he grow up?

I listen to his preteen, still unchanged, voice sing out — Wish we could turn back time to the good old days . . .  I smile and wonder if the lyrics mean anything to him. They certainly mean something to me. Today he sits in my car with my phone in his hand, choosing his favorite music, asking me if I know the artist. When I do we sing together. 

My thoughts drift to the good old days. Luca so small, sitting in the back seat watching videos on my phone about sour candy eating contests and haunted houses. As he got older, he installed game apps and played those on the ride. He had an affinity for gore, I always had to ask, “No blood and guts, right?”

“Nonna, it’s fine. It’s not real.”

Still, I insisted games were age appropriate. Many times, during the drive he would shout, “Nonna, look, look, this is so cool. It’s not bloody, I promise you’ll like it.” 

I’d laugh, “Luca I’m driving, I can’t look until we stop at a red light.”  

That never stopped him from asking again, and again.  

Before giving up my phone, I always asked about his day. “Who did you help? What was one cool thing you learned?” Up until last year, he groaned in response to my questions. He disliked school. Teary-eyed he said he wasn’t smart like the other kids. Filled with anxiety and worry, he begged to stay home every day. Back then, I bribed him with treats of his choosing from the nearby corner market if he did his homework with me. He hated the work but loved having my undivided attention. He felt extra special in my company, and I felt extra special in his. 

Now he hops in the car and offers stories of his day without my asking.  He loves science, art, music, and outdoor activities. The love and support of the grownups in his life were huge factors in his success. He is confident and happy. Today when I met him at the gate he asked, “Nonna, is it okay if I go straight home to see my friends?”

I put my arm around him (he is almost as tall as me) pulled him close and said, “Of course.”     

And then I teased, “Aw, you don’t have time for your old Nonna anymore.”

He gave me a worried look. I laughed, “Sweetie, I’m kidding. I’m glad you want to be with your friends. It’s a good thing.” 

Friendships used to be difficult for him too. Now he looks forward to walking to school with his many neighborhood friends in the fall. 

I return to the here and now, and Luca’s singing. I glance his way and push his thick brown hair away from his eyes. I want to put the brakes on time. There are only two Tuesdays left in the school year, and then this chapter will end for Luca and me. His self-reliance is what I prayed for and now that he’s found it, I’m finding it hard to let him go.

In front of his house, he hands me my phone and says, “Thank you Nonna, I love you.”

He jumps out of the car and my returned “I love you” is silenced by the car door’s slam. He looks back, gives me a small wave, and smiles. He heard me.   

On the quiet drive back to Huntington Beach, I think about little Luca, the regular sleepovers, coffee dates and shared sushi are few and far between. The end of our Tuesdays together is just another sign of his growing up and coming into his own. 

A wistful melancholy tugs at my heart. I think of the hashtag I include in every social media post featuring my grandkids, #staylittle I write, as if I could hold them back. 

If only . . . 

My wish is fleeting. They know the way.

xoc