Let me catalogue some of the delights of seeing my Polish grandchildren again after five months.
The way they move with a forward tilt at a semi-trot.
Their delight in drinking from a real glass – or putting spaghetti into it.
Their sure footedness, even when they’re looking up high and pointing at a plane.
The way they wander off in the park, focused on iridescent bubbles or a coveted toy.
Maja’s confidence clambering onto a whale on springs and making it bounce wildly, or pulling herself up a ladder or onto a bench.
Janek’s delight in a purloined duck on a stick with flappy feet, and the way he ran to me and cuddled up with the duck hidden behind us when someone else showed an interest.
Maja playing contentedly by herself inside a train cubby house.
Janek stomping through a bed of geraniums and releasing the characteristic geranium smell.
The pair of them in my apartment, noticing mirrors on the ceiling, and other things I hadn’t seen.
Both of them sucking on bones scavenged from Tata’s rib dinner.
The way they kept us on the hop exploring Mariensztat square – the fountain, the puddles, the little boy statues.
The whole gloriousness of being eighteen months old.
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