Sharon Randall: Practice makes perfect: Confessions of a benchwarmer grandma

I am not a real grandmother yet, but sometimes, if I'm lucky, I get to practice.

I say "practice" because that's all it is. I suffer no illusions. As any second-string benchwarmer will tell you, there's a world of difference between shagging balls at practice and stepping up to the plate when the game is tied in the bottom of the ninth.

Make no mistake, I am proud to be a benchwarmer grandma. My children are not ready to be parents yet, and I applaud them for having the sense to know it. God forbid that I or any other fool should try to rush them.

I'm willing to wait as long as I must. Not thrilled, exactly, but willing. Sometimes "willing" is the best we can do. In the meantime, I practice as often as I can. Sometimes I go for days without getting near a baby. I hate days like that. But this week I got to practice twice.

First, there was Lara. She is 2 years old and came all the way from Europe to meet me. She and her parents live in Hungary, but when he was in high school, her daddy lived in my attic. Then he moved out, leaving one plug-ugly yellow T-shirt that he swears isn't his. We've been mailing it back and forth across the Atlantic ever since.

Lara speaks bits and pieces of four languages — English from her dad, Dutch from her mom, Filipino from her nanny and Hungarian from her playmates — all at once. It makes for interesting conversation.

One day, while she was napping, her parents went shopping and left Lara with me. I could hardly wait for her to wake up. And then she did.

"Hi," I said brightly, in my best practice-grandma voice, patterned after the one my grandmother used with me. "Want me to tell you a story?"

She answered loud and clear in a universal language I call a hissy-fit. I'd forgotten what it's like. I won't forget again soon.

"Wanna watch TV?" I asked, clicking on "Sesame Street." The fit eased to hiccups. I'd not seen Bert and Ernie in 25 years. Boy, did they look good.

"Wanna cookie?" She looked at me. I gave her a half and ate the rest. Then I ate two more.

We watched "SpongeBob SquarePants," "Kenny the Shark" and a little bit of "Dr. Phil." Then her parents came back. Boy, did they look good.

"How was she?" they asked.

I smiled.

The next day before they left, I stuffed the yellow T-shirt in the bottom of Lara's diaper bag. She promised not to tell.

Then my daughter called with a question I had longed to hear.

"Mom," she said, "would you mind baby-sitting for Oliver?"

Mind? When I arrived, Oliver was sleeping, curled up in his bed with his short little legs pulled up to his Buddha belly.

Is there anything on Earth sweeter than a sleeping baby? How about a sleeping, 8-week-old, miniature dachshund?

Like most new "parents," my daughter and her boyfriend were a bit uneasy about leaving their newborn pride and joy.

"OK, Mom, here's his food and his toys. And here's stuff to spray if he has an accident, which he does all the time."

"He'll be fine," I said, "go."

I could hardly wait for him to wake up. And then he did.

"Hi," I said brightly, in my best practice-grandma voice. "Want me to tell you a story?"

He didn't exactly throw a fit. He just barked — one sharp little "a-r-r-p!" — stunningly loud for something so small. Then he bit my ankle. When I picked him up to calm him down, he licked my face and chewed my hair.

"OK," I said, "time for TV, and let's have a cookie or two."

I'm getting pretty good at grandma practice. Maybe someday I'll get in the game.

Sharon Randall is the author of "Birdbaths and Paper Cranes." She can be reached at P.O. Box 931, Pacific Grove, CA 93950, or at randallbay@earthlink.net.