Adam is seven and Charlotte just turned four. Last week, for the first time, the three of us played War.
Adam's an old hand at the game. He knows that a Queen beats a Jack and a King beats a Queen and that triple war is so much fun. War, for him, is a piece of cake.
But it's new for Charlotte, all the numbers and picture cards, and the laying down and the picking up, never mind shuffling. (How do you do that, Mimi?) She sat uncharacteristically still and furrowed her brow as we played.
The Picture of Patience
But Adam didn't. He was smiley and sweet, reaching over to straighten her cards, getting up to pick up an ace she had dropped on the floor as he patiently explained the game. "I win this time, Charlotte, see? Because 9 is bigger than 7 and 4. It's like when you count, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9," he said. "The numbers keep getting bigger."
Charlotte's frown deepened. This was way over her head. Sorting the cards. Holding them. Counting.
"Where's 16?" she asked.
She caught on a little as she played, throwing a card down when she should. Doing the "One, two, three, war!" almost perfectly.
But she continued to frown and only smiled when the game was finished — we let her win — and it was time to eat candy and read books.
My father used to play War with me, and he was as patient as Adam is. He never said no when I asked to play. He never said, "Do you want to quit? Do you want to finish this later?" He never made me feel that he wanted to be anyplace else, even though he must have sometimes felt that way.
Operating on MST (Mimi Standard Time)
He knew something it took me much longer to learn.
I used to beg my kids to quit in the middle of a game. I threw games, stacking the deck so that one of them would win pronto. I pleaded to play something else. Something faster. Like Go Fish.
Now with my children's kids, I could play War all day, not because the game has changed and is suddenly fun and unpredictable and thrilling, but because I realize that the little people I'm playing with are.
Of course, my kids were, too. But so often I looked right past them at the clock tick-tocking away the hours, constantly reminding me that time was flying and that I needed to work and visit my mother and pick up something for dinner and do the laundry. I had obligations.
And so my body was present, but my mind was often all over the place.
It isn't now. My grandchildren charge into the house and I stop what I'm doing no matter what, because nothing is as important as they are. If they want to make cupcakes, we make cupcakes. If they want to go over to Ward's Berry Farm and feed the goats, we drive over to Ward's Berry Farm and feed the goats. And if they want to play War, we play War.
What We Know (Now)
When you're a parent, you know, because everyone tells you, that kids are kids for the shortest time and they won't always want to hang out with you and eat ice cream and play cards.
When you're a grandparent, you know, because you've been there, that it's a very short time that you are adored. That a child will want you for just so long and then it's over. Then they'll want to be with their friends.
So what you learn is that it doesn't matter if you have to stay up until midnight to finish your work and do the laundry. Most things can wait. Even work.
It's kids who can't wait. Because while they're waiting — to play War, or baseball, or just to be with you — they grow up. And then they don't want to play anymore.
And so my grandchildren and I will play War until they don't want to. And I will savor every moment and not wish even one of them away.
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