Down Home: You can’t dry tears with ice cream

Sometimes, grandparenting is harder than it looks.

Although, judging by the faces of the folks surrounding Ezra and me in Dairy Queen, it probably looks hard sometimes, too.

Ezra and his mama, Lindsay, came to visit Joanna and me the other weekend. For about 99.44 percent of their stay, a good time was had by all.

On Sunday, Joanna, Lindsay and our other daughter, Molly, attended a matinee performance of Wicked, the terrific musical prequel to The Wizard of Oz.

So, after church, I picked Ezra up from the nursery and drove him home. While I prepared lunch, he walked around the house with our dog, Topanga. I knew he was looking for his mama because he kept saying, “Muh” every time he entered another room.

“Mama, Jody and Molly are at a show,” I told him as I picked him up and strapped him into his booster seat.

“Show,” Ezra said. He didn’t have a clue what “show” meant. But he figured out his mama wasn’t home and wasn’t going to be around to eat with us.

Lunch went smoothly. We chatted as we ate.

You know how a little kid can say the same thing over and over and over and over and never get tired of saying the same thing? Well, that can be good sometimes. Because I don’t always understand what Ezra is saying, but he never gets annoyed telling me again. Eventually, I usually guess the right word. And then he repeats it—his version, at least—and I repeat it again. We’re learning to communicate.

Ezra and I played with his trains for a little while after lunch, and then it was time for a nap. He drank a cup of milk while I read four books out loud. Then I sang “Jesus Loves Me” and Lyle Lovett’s “If I had a Boat,” and he leaned into his bed.

But visions of his non-present mama must have danced in the little guy’s head. He woke up after about an hour, half as long as his usual nap. And when I—not his mama—came in to get him out of bed, he was, as they say about the Queen, not amused.

“Muh,” he said over and over, between sobs.

“Mama will be home before long,” I said as I changed his diaper. A 2-year-old and his granddad probably don’t agree on the definition of “long.”

“Hey, buddy, how about let’s have some fun!” I chirped. “Wanna go get some ice cream?”

“No,” he replied, but I didn’t think he meant it.

We drove to Dairy Queen. I ordered two frosty treats. That’s when Ezra demonstrated he meant it.

The last time we went to Dairy Queen—near his home in Buda, with his mama and daddy and Jody—he loooooved ice cream. He probably would’ve eaten all our ice cream that evening.

All the ice cream in all the Dairy Queens in Texas wouldn’t soothe his little soul.

But on a sunny Sunday afternoon, Ezra cried buckets of grief for his absent play-going mother. All the ice cream in all the Dairy Queens in Texas wouldn’t soothe his little soul. So, he wasn’t about to take the first bite.

That’s when I did what any self-respecting 21st century granddad would do. Pulled out my phone and played Mickey Mouse and Thomas the Train videos on YouTube while this little joy of a boy calmed down, dried his tears and snuggled against my chest.

When we were quiet and the battery indicator on my phone glowed red, I asked, “Hey, buddy, wanna go see some ducks?”

“Yes,” Ezra replied.

We threw $2.63 worth of melted ice cream in the trashcan and headed for the park.

We walked by the water. We chased the ducks. We “drove” the “trucks” in the playground. We visited the ducks again. And we went home.

Eventually, Jody, Molly and Ezra’s mama, Lindsay, returned. Boy, was he glad to see her, and so was I.

Next time the girls leave us guys alone, we’ll actually eat some ice cream.