Sunday, February 27, 2011

Sunday Morning Phone Calls

Most days when the phone rings at our house, we all try to avoid answering it. I can't put my finger on why exactly we dodge the phone because we do enjoy talking to our friends and family so far away. But the fact is, as soon as the phone rings on most days we all shout "NOT IT!" and immediately try to look busier than each other in an attempt to evade the telephone.

Most days that is.

But not on Sundays.

When the phone rings on Sunday mornings it turns into a pushing, shoving, screaming race between Maya and Ben to pick up the phone first. When the phone rings on Sunday mornings they fight to answer the phone because they know it's Grammy and Grampa calling. On Sunday mornings, instead of everyone shouting "NOT IT!" we all shout "it's GRAMMY!"

It should be noted here that Eric and I stopped fighting for the phone first because even if we do reach the receiver before the short people in the house we can't have a decent conversation for the shouting in the background:

"Can I talk to Grammy? Is it my turn yet? I want to talk to Grampa! Can I talk on the phone now? How about now? It it my turn now? Can I have a turn? Why can't I have a turn? I want to talk to Grammy and Grampa! I want to talk to Grammy and Grampa! I want to talk to Grammy and Grampa!"

"Me talk? Me talk? My turn? Me talk? My turn? I talk now? I talk to Grammy? Me talk? I talk to Papa? Me talk? My turn now?"
So we just stand back and let them duke it out politely talk about who goes first. Maya usually wins this "discussion".

Maya prattles on to Grammy and Grampa about her week, telling them the minute, intricate details about her week, the books she reading, what she did during the week, things she is looking forward to in the next week.

They talk about how freezing cold it is outside here in Saskatchewan and how pretty Grammy's flowers are in BC. Grammy really likes to rub it in that they can be outside without risk of frostbite. Maya really likes to rub it in that it hardly ever rains here. 
Ben tells Grammy and Grampa all about his toys, his favourite blanket, and the cat. He tries to show them things in his bedroom; he's only three and doesn't understand that Grammy and Grampa can't see him over the phone. They ask him all sorts of questions about his week. He babbles on and on. I'm sure Grammy and Grampa don't understand most of what Ben says, but they love to listen and chat with him.

Today, Grampa was really funny.

Being the sweet boy that he is, Ben often tries to pass the phone to the cat next. That's when I swoop in and rescue Grammy and Grampa.

They don't speak Catonese.

I try to hide away in my bedroom to chat with my mom because even though Ben and Maya have just had their turn on the phone and had been functioning just fine without my help all morning up to this point, they need my attention. NOW. I don't understand what it is about holding a phone to the side of my head that suddenly renders my children completely helpless. They require my assistance, my attention, my refereeing skills, my opinion on the economic crisis, my next breath. I tried talking to my mom about it one Sunday morning. I think she said something about how my siblings and I were the same way, but I couldn't quite hear her over the din of my children clambering for my attention.

The magic of a Grammy phone call is strong enough to overcome the family's phonephobia (that's a real word, google it) for one morning only. The next time the phone rings we are all back to calling out "NOT IT!"

Until the subsequent Sunday morning, that is.

2 comments:

  1. i relly think it is a funny ending.why did you say that we bug you? the post is really good. i liked it because it made me feel like i was almost calling grammy and grampa.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Thanks for compliments, Maya!

    And I didn't say you guys "bug" me. But you have to admit, you two do follow me, ask me endless questions, try to jump in my lap, and the like while I'm on the phone. Yes, you *and* Ben both.

    It's a good thing I love ya so much!

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Ramble on. . .