I, Granny, took the helm at approximately 1200 hours.

Steering a true course, all was calm for the day. The squab finished his mess; skies remained calm, no squalls of crying.

Grandson and I played toss with a small orange ball and spent hours crawling around. Tumble salts off my legs; giggles of delight. Peek-a-boo’s repeated over and over again by a 57 year-old woman play-acting like a doggie. A true “Blues Clues” companion was I.

Eye-rubbing near 2000 hours, both the Babe and the babe. A bottle administered via rocking chair. Lost the little one to the Land of Nod.

Too concerned to evacuate to the upstairs bedroom, decided to sleep on the couch. And, good deal, the Hallmark Channel held a never-before-seen tear-jerker.

Asleep by midnight, the Watch was awakened @ 0730 by the crib’d emonitions of “UP.”

Creeking to an upright position from a couch-slept night, I hobbled into the Babe’s room.

“OK, Paco, ‘UP’ you go.”

And he went off like a wind-up toy, weebly walking toy, towards the living room. He found the little orange ball and giggled.

From sleeping on the courch and crawling around the previous day, the old babe was a wreck from Mommy muscles that hadn’t been worked for some time.

“Steer clear of the corners of that living room table,” I ordered. The Babe only looked over his shoulder and smiled.

I headed for the kitchen. Half an hour later, pablum anointed most of the child; I wore the remainder on the better part of myself.

When I announced “bath time,” Himself replied with a resounding “UP!”

“It’s got to be the kitchen sink, kiddo, Granny can’t lean over that tub or I’ll be a pretzel bent a fourth night.”

“UP,” was his reply.

I wished his Uncle Alex was with me to hear the word à la mode. Maybe he was giving his God Father an acknowledgment.

“Hey, Paco, if I dress you in a brown United Parcel (UP) uniform, give your a truck, could you make all your deliveries before the end of the day?” A diaper full of day-before-dinner was his reply.

How Teamsters, I thought.

“Alright, Commander, I get the message . . . Into the briney you go, float those rubber duckies.”

Finally bathed and sweet smelling, the toddler was off again weebly-walking like the Little Tramp sans walking stick.

As for Herself, soaking wet and pablum pelted, I was too watchful to take a shower. “Better to take a bath,” said I.

For safety, I barricaded all the portals with dining room chairs, except for the Babe’s room and adjacent bathroom.

Relaxing in the hot, bubble bath water, I enjoyed the sounds of my Grandson playing in the next room. Eyes closed, I let the bath work its miracles. Yet the pitty-pat slap of hands upon ceramic tile invaded my reverie.

And then the grunting sound. My eyes opened.

Standing next to me was HIMSELF. He had a look upon his face akin to Ahab seeing the Great Leviathan break the ocean’s waves; one eye was cocked with a grim but smiling countenance.

“Enough,” I said.

“UP,” he replied and splashed the tub’s waters with a defiant slap.

“Baloney,” I muttered.

His response, a Bronx cheer and hasty exit.

Fifteen minutes later I was dressed and ready for the new day. I made my way into the Babe’s room, reclined on the floor as he watched his “Blues Clues” video. The Babe turned to me and giggled, put his arms around my neck and kissed me on top of my head.

I kissed his cheek in return.

“UP,” he said, with a smile.

Better than this, I thought, it seldom gets.