On day five of caring for my 2-year-old and 8-year-old grandsons full-time, I almost snapped.
I had slept just a few hours and woke up dehydrated, my tongue dry and sticky, my head aching. In the bathroom, I noticed yellow specks on the porcelain rim. Not surprising with a 2-year-old in the house.
But then, at 7 a.m., there it was: a puddle circling the toilet with a musty odor rising from it. I flicked on the fan, reached for a paper towel to sop up the mess, and cautioned myself against overreacting.
My grandson said he could do things himself
Throughout the week, I had offered to help, but George always said he could do it himself. Then, he’d slam the door into its frame.
That puddle challenged my composure. “Keep calm,” I told myself. “He’s only 2, and at least you’re not changing poopy diapers.”
George knocked and asked if I was taking a shower. I stepped into the hallway and let him know I wasn’t happy.
No answer.
I told him there was pee all over the floor.
Both Grandpa and his older brother, Stanley, had shown him how to pee in a toilet, but apparently, George liked to lift the seat and aim for the circular opening. I’d watched him steer an RC car through impossible turns, so aiming into a toilet shouldn’t have been difficult.
George dropped his head. This non-stop chatterer went silent. He turned toward the wall and buried his face in his shoulder.
After breakfast, George became his talkative self again as he drove trucks through kinetic sand, performed somersaults off the couch, and wheeled his scooter from room to room. When he needed a bathroom break, he opted for nature pees in the backyard.
But then, as I made lunch, George scooted into the bathroom and slammed the door.
I gave him some time, then slowly, silently, peeked inside. He wasn’t sitting. He wasn’t standing. He was kneeling — reaching toward the back wall with a gigantic wad of toilet paper. The bowl was clogged with more paper — voluminous amounts of it.
What I wanted to say: WE TALKED ABOUT THIS!
What I actually said: Nothing. I just sighed.
My grandkids taught me an important lesson
That’s when big brother Stanley intervened. During the day, George followed Stanley around, imitating his every move. At night, they shared a bedroom. They had bunk beds, but instead of using the top and bottom, George and Stanley chose to sleep side by side, arms around each other, in the bottom bunk.
Stanley took one look at George on his knees, flashed a big smile, and suggested I praise him for his good work.
Then Stanley looked right at George and told him what a good boy he was. No mention of clogging the toilet. No scolding that the mess was unnecessary. No criticism of the sticky wet floor. Not even a reminder to wash his hands. Just arms open for a hug.
I stood there speechless for a few seconds. Where I saw disaster, Stanley saw effort. While I considered a lecture, he opened his arms.
I herded both boys to the sink for hand washing before lunch. After a bite to eat, we played with Monster Trucks, and when George got cranky, I put him in bed for a nap. Then I played cards with Stanley and cleaned the bathroom with chlorine bleach.
When George woke up, my husband suggested an hour at the park. With Stanley at a friend’s house, George, Grandpa, and I headed off on foot.
They taught me we all need a little grace
George is Grandpa’s boy. Every sentence begins, “Grandpa, watch…” or “Grandpa, look at this…” or “Grandpa, can I….” He holds Grandpa’s hand in every parking lot and sits in Grandpa’s lap for every book.
But as we approached an intersection and Grandpa prompted him to hold hands, George surprised me.
Instead of taking Grandpa’s hand, he reached for me, squeezed my palm, and held on long after we crossed the street. His tiny fingers curled into my fist said he wanted us to be right again.
At bedtime, when he usually chose Grandpa, George asked me to read him a book. Five books. We didn’t talk about bathrooms or disinfectants or a better aim. I just snuggled him in my lap, pulled a blanket over us, and read the words slowly, to enjoy the story a little longer. I tucked him under the covers with Doggie, his favorite stuffed toy. I kissed him and said I love you.
It was 8 p.m. when I joined Grandpa in the living room, too tired to read my own book, pick up stray Hot Wheels, or empty the dishwasher. Longing for bed myself, I thought about the last several hours and what I should have done better.
And I realized the lesson of the day was not how to pee into a toilet, reason with a 2-year-old, or keep a bathroom spic and span.
The lesson was that we all need a little grace.
Stanley praised George, not for succeeding, but for trying. When was the last time I’d done that?
In our world of high expectations, perfection often feels like the goal. We’re so conditioned to correct and fix — our children, coworkers, or strangers on Instagram — that we forget what encouragement looks like.
And then there was George. Without words, he reached for my hand, an ordinary kindness with extraordinary power. Adults often forget this truth, too, that love repairs itself with simple gestures.
The best love, I realized, isn’t earned through perfection, but offered in the middle of our messes.
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