Hal and I are in the middle of a three-week adventure of watching the grandkids while their parents are diving off of Honduras (a much needed holiday). I feel like I’m diving into the deep sea of raising young children. I don’t remember it being this hard. Or fun.
I’m not getting much writing done, so this will be a short blog.
The other day, I told Peter (six years old) that I was “going to fix lunch now.”
“Grandma!” he protested. “You can’t fix lunch. It’s not broken!” He wasn’t joking. His literal autistic brain would not let me fix anything if it wasn’t broken.
There’s simply no arguing with his logic, so we negotiated the language and decided I could make lunch.
Which I did.