“IDON’TWANNATALK”

DECEMBER 6, 2023 – A regular feature of life at our house is our granddaughter’s drop-off on weekday mornings. Her dad—our older son—pulls into our driveway on his way to work, and out hops “Sassafras” or “Sweetie Pie,” depending on how late she got to bed the night before, though “Sweetie Pie” is the far more common disposition. In either case, well before her arrival we unlock the back door so she can let herself in and announce her arrival. My wife and I then repair to the living room to enjoy our cups of fresh morning joe as Morning Joe preaches to members of the “Extreme Radical Socialist Marxist Democrats of Excelsis Deo” choir. The instant the back door opens, dire prognostications from the preacher’s soapbox are overwhelmed by joy and delight: Illiana’s appearance from around the corner.

Invariably, Sweetie Pie is glad to see us as demonstrated by happy hugs and sunny greetings. Sometimes, however, she responds to our salutation with, “I’m not talking.” Her vow of silence never lasts more than a minute, and with the right mix of patience and humor, “Sassafras” always becomes “Sweetie Pie.”

Depending on how much time we have before the “limousine” chauffered by my wife or me leaves for school, a number of activities unfold. First is Cheerios and milk in a “Madeline” bowl showing the storybook girl in front of the most famous landmark of Paris, with a side of sliced strawberries, never to be mixed with the Cheerios, by the way. Converging with nutrition (my realm of responsibility) is hair treatment (my wife’s bailiwick). Following these critical steps is self-directed play time, which can run the gamut from doll care to drawing to reading to joke-telling—until, my wife or I suddenly realizes what time it is and announces in urgent tone, “We have to go now—no joking!”

Just as her dad was at the same age, Illiana is a “car talker.” Subject matter varies—as does initiation. Sometimes it’s a whimsical Q and A started by her (e.g. “Grandpa, what sound does a unicorn make?”); sometimes probative (e.g. “Grandpa, do teachers have to pay for their classrooms?”). On other rides, I initiate conversation (e.g. “Illiana, how are your cats doing these days?”). The more interesting exchanges involve observations made by Illiana that reveal how perceptive she is in reading people.

Sometimes, though, I get a hint of “attitude.” On this morning’s drive, for example, when I asked, “Do you have any idea what’s on the agenda at school today?” Illiana said “No” in a tone that given my emotional IQ, I interpreted as, “And don’t ask any further about it.” Nevertheless, I persisted. “Do you want to speculate as to what might be on the agenda?”

“Idon’twannatalk!” she said in a cranky voice. I knew enough to drop any further questioning about the day’s agenda, but as always, I wanted to deploy humor to counter “attitude.”

In those rare instances (at our house anyway) when Illiana exhibits some form of “attitude,” I say, “Tell you what. Whatever you do, I’m telling right here, right now . . . do not smile or laugh. I’m serious. No laughing allowed . . . uh! Do I see a smile forming on that face?! Do I? No smiling and absolutely no laughing!” You’d be surprised by the efficacy of this simply silly technique, even though Illiana is well acquainted with it.

Today I tried a different approach. “Did you say, ‘Idon’twannatalk!’?” I asked, stealing a glance at Illiana in the rearview mirror. She repeated it. “Hey, Illiana! I have an idea.”

“What?” she said, falling for the trap.

“We could invent a whole new language,” I said. “We’d call it ‘Idon’twanna . . . talk’ . . . but . . . we’d have to get the right accent. Let me hear you say it again but with the best accent you can muster.”

“Idon’twannatalk,” she said with added affect.

“Oh, I like that. Say it again—same accent.”

“Idon’twannatalk.”

By now laughter filled the car—front seat and back.

“Idon’twannatalk,” I said, with even greater theatrical flare. “How’s my accent, Illiana?”

“It’s getting better, Grandpa, but it’s more like Idon’twannatalk.”

The exercise in language craft took us all the way to the school entrance. “Okay, Sweetie Pie,” I said. “Time to switch gears. Remember to keep smiling, be kind, and pay attention in class.”

By the end of my usual send-off, Illiana had unbuckled herself from her carseat, strapped on her pink “Fjällräven Kanken” backpack and jumped out of the car. “I love you, Grandpa!” she said in English—with a delightful lilt.

“I love you too, Sweetie Pie,” I said.

So much for the “I don’t wanna talk,” I thought, as I drove happily away.

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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson