Bob

Batz

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September 24, 2007

Batz vs. Batz in the Baby Likeness Battle

Isn’t it funny how whenever another grandchild comes along, the grandparents immediately start making comparisons?

Two days after Jesse Krishnan Batz became the newest member of our family, Sally and I motored to Pittsburgh to meet him.

As we sat there in the living room admiring the baby, I observed “He’s definitely the spitting image of me.”

Sally, surprised by my words, asked “How do you figure that?”

“Just look at his black hair and dark eyes,” I replied, confidently.

Sally looked, and then shook her head.

“Get real, Gramps,” she said, “I’ve seen photos of you when you were a baby and you had no hair at all and your eyes were light blue.”

I quickly changed my approach.

“On the other hand,” I said, “maybe it’s Jesse’s nose that makes him look so much like I did when I was an infant.”

Sally quickly countered my move with an icy “Wrong again, Wishful Thinker. His nose is much more beautiful than your nose was when you were a baby. In fact, and please don’t take offense, but your nose still isn’t anything to write home about.”

Then Jesse started crying and it was Sally’s turn to play her cards.

“Ya know,” she said, “I have a sneaky feeling I cried just like that when I was a newborn.”

Then it was me shaking my head.

“Oh, yeah,” I said, “well, just how would you know that, anyway?”

She smiled and replied, “Women’s intuition, I guess.”

Sally leaned down to peer at the baby. “Then again,” she said, “it could be his ears that make him look so much like I did when I was two days old. Yes, I do believe it’s his ears.”

The battle lines were drawn and for the next 20 minutes Sally and I went back and forth as each of us tried to gain the upper hand in the friendly dispute.

She went first when she took the baby’s tiny hands in hers and stroked his fingers. “These are definitely the fingers of a future pianist,” she said softly, then added, “My parents enrolled me in piano lessons when I was three, you know.”

Then she turned to me and asked, “Did you ever play the piano, Grandpa?” She said it sweetly, but her words were wrapped in sarcasm.

Sally knew darned well I never had piano lessons, unless, of course, you count the ones with Miss Esther Brown, who was as old as dirt, had the personality of a marine drill instructor, wore her hair in a bun and smelled like moth balls.

When I was eight, Miss Esther Brown gave me a cardboard keyboard to practice on because my parents didn’t own a real piano. Have you ever tried to get any kind of sound from a cardboard keyboard? It ain’t easy, pal.

I was still reeling from that blow when Sally suddenly reached down and touched Jesse’s feet.

“My, my,” she said, “just look at these dainty little feet. My parents enrolled me in ballet lessons when I was four, you know . . . and I still have photos of me in my tutu around here somewhere.

Then, obviously sensing victory, Sally turned to face the guy who has two left feet and added, “Did you ever have dance lessons, Grampy?”

That’s when I knew I was in trouble. She clearly had the upper hand. My mind raced as I tried desperately to find a way to counter her vicious piano-lessons-dance-lessons move and then it came to me.

I gazed down at our new grandson one more time and declared, “I think it’s the glasses that make him look so much like I looked when I was his age.”

When I turned to peek at Sally, she was wearing a shocked look on her face. “Glasses?” she finally said. “For your information, he’s not wearing glasses!”

“Exactly!” I triumphantly declared, “And neither was I when I was two days old.”

That said, I excused myself with an ear-to-ear grin and left the room to celebrate my come-from-behind victory on the front porch.

© 2007 North Star Writers Group. May not be republished without permission.

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