The Boys were up for a visit. After of full day of “Running Uncle Gerry Ragged,” they fell asleep on the sofa. Knowing that Mom was tired and her arthritis was kicking her, I offered to help get them to bed.
My attempts to rouse the 7-year-old were an epic failure. He wouldn’t budge and fought every attempt to wake him.
Momma nudged me aside and said, “That’s OK. Here’s what you need to do. I used to do this with you and your sister.”
She started talking to him in a calm, reassuring tone, giving him instructions for every step. Up off the sofa. Hold on and let’s walk … one step at a time. He never woke up.
After a pit-stop at the bathroom, she helped him navigate down the hallway and into bed. The scene was repeated with the 5-year-old.
She had done that with my sister and me over five decades before. Years later, she guided my sister’s daughters down the hall and safely into bed.
Now, I was watching her lovingly tuck in a third generation. Once they were in bed with covers up to their necks to ward off the chill of the night, she sealed it with a kiss, sending them off to the land of sweet dreams where there are no worries.
Why should there be? Memaw was there. She knows what to do.
