Carol’s Column

Yankee grandchild’s biltong delights

After all these years, we've reached the ultimate comfort zone - the empty nest scenario.

The bathroom is a sanctuary of silence and the lavatorial throne is ours to enjoy in solitary splendour.

No longer do we have to battle for the phone or wear mufflers to dull thumping decibels. No more does a stripped car engine reside on the diningroom table and no longer do I find mushrooms growing on smelly socks under unmade beds.

We eat spinach and paw paw, (hated by all our offspring), sleep late and eat-out when we feel like it.

It's called freedom.

And then our granddaughter Maya, a 14-month-old ball of constant energy arrived with her parents on holiday from the United States.

Whoever said children are an investment, grandchildren the dividends, is right.

"Go out," we said to our kids. "See your friends, enjoy yourselves, we'll look after Maya. We WANT to look after Maya."

Melissa, a first-time mother left us with a list of rules. No salt or sugar. Biltong is too salty and it's got germs (she's American), no chocolate and ice cream for Maya, etc.

We were as good as the situation allowed us to be, taking to grandparenting with enthusiasm.

"Maya is teething," said my husband as she tried to put a broom in her mouth.

In ancient Lazar tradition, he selected a perfect piece of biltong. Narrow enough for her to grasp in her tiny hand, hard enough to be chewy, but moist enough to be flexible.

"That's Oupa's girl," he said as she nibbled away contentedly, massaging her gums. It may just be coincidence, but during her four-week-stay, at least four new biltong-aided teeth popped out effortlessly.

In the heat, we compromised, giving Maya fruit suckers instead of icecream which was fine until she discovered soft serve with a flakey in the middle.

Happiness is a baby wearing no clothes eating an icecream filled with chocolate.

Our son returned alone to the US, leaving his girls for a further blissful two weeks.

Ecstasy.

There were a few problems such as the car seat into which she has to be strapped before we could venture out. More complicated than a jet fighter pilot's harness, it took us days to work out how it fastened.

The push pram we never did master although it was demonstrated to us on several occasions. Eventually we settled on carrying Maya or letting her walk. I took the high chair apart to clean and was never able to put it together again.

Aware of our responsibilities as African grandparents, we took her to see the penguins at Boulders, the baboons on Boyes Drive and to listen to funky music on the Parade. She swam in the Atlantic and the Indian oceans and saw a sun fish.

We replaced "Old McDonald had a farm" with "Old Van der Merwe had a reserve" and instead of oinking and baaing, we roared like lions, honked like zebras and shrilled like fish eagles.

Yesterday, as she slurped a milkshake at a trendy cafe, a young guy walked past.

Tall and jet black, he smiled. "Dada!, Dada!" screamed Maya with delight and held up her arms.

He picked her up for a cuddle.

"That's her father?" I heard a blue-rinsed woman say to her pink-rinsed friend.

"No!" she exclaimed. "He's black."

"But she called him 'Dada'."

"No, she was saying 'dark, dark'" said her friend.

Ag, ja, well, no, fine.

As I write, Melissa is packing and tonight she and Maya fly home.

Part of my heart is flying away.

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