For some children, the first day of preschool is exciting. There are a lot of kids to meet and befriend, a large variety of toys to play with and a whole new place to explore. But for me, the first day of preschool was one of the saddest days of my childhood. It marked the beginning of my education and the end of my daily visits with my grandparents.

My mother insisted that preschool would be fun. In fact, she even had my grandparents trying to fill my head with the idea. But I knew better. Even as a four-year-old, I knew that preschool and daycare could never compete with the adventures I had at my grandparents’ house.

As soon as my mother pulled into their driveway in the morning on her way to work, I would go rushing to the door, ready to toss aside the packet of raisins that had been placed into my hand for a quick breakfast on-the-go for a plate full of my grandma’s warm, homemade cooking.

Many mornings it was just the two of us. Grandma would smile as I told her about the newest Care Bears cartoon and my puppy’s latest attempts at sit, stay and roll over. I would sit up and desperately try to make myself as tall as I could as we chatted, somehow thinking that if I sat higher, I would be an adult like her. Dutifully, she played along, allowing me to believe that all adults naturally discussed Care Bears and puppies.

Once breakfast was over, I would help my grandma load the dishes into the sink, then follow her into the living room, eager to see what would be on television. Like many other children, I watched Sesame Street and Nickelodeon, but I also received my introduction to the world of game show reruns. 

Those mornings with my grandma, watching people compete for money and prizes was inspiration for my first career goal- I wanted to be Vanna White. Eager to keep my ambition alive, Grandma would bundle an oversized bath towel over my clothes as a fill-in for Vanna’s dazzling, glitzy dresses and watch as I walked around, pretending to turn letters.

Preschool seemed so boring in comparison. Spending my mornings coloring and singing the alphabet wasn’t nearly as entertaining as mimicking Vanna White and trying to figure out why it was always Halloween on Let’s Make a Deal. Even though there were other kids around, I longed to be back at my grandparents’ home, helping my grandma make lunch and settling in front of the television to watch ‘Days of Our Lives’. 

But I didn’t just spend my time with my grandma watching television. Much of our day was spent story-telling and drawing or painting after she helped spark my love of reading and planted the seed that made me rethink about becoming Vanna White and becoming a writer or illustrator instead. I would drift away from reality as she read me a book or told me one of her own original tales and find myself wherever the story might take me. She made words come to life, which would cause me to routinely taunt my poor mother at bedtime with many passionate complaints that she wasn’t telling stories correctly. But Grandma had so much more to teach me beyond letters and words, things you don’t learn in preschool. It was during our time alone throughout the day that my grandma taught me some of the most valuable lessons a writer could ever learn. She showed me how to truly listen to someone else with my ears and how to read emotions with my eyes; and how to think outside the box. 

Watching my grandma come up with so many amazing ideas, draw and paint images so breathtaking Thomas Kinkade would be jealous and tell me stories entertaining enough to have been penned by Hans Christian Anderson; Vanna White suddenly had competition.

I wanted to grow up to be like her. I wanted to have a mind filled with artistic ideas, the ability to tell a story with pizzazz and alter my voice to fit each unique character, but I also wanted her elegance.

As I cared for my dolls and hosted tea parties in the late afternoon as I prepared for my grandpa’s arrival, I tried to copy her actions. I would lift my hands gracefully and keep my voice soft and pleasant as I offered a plate full of invisible cookies to a teddy bear.

But as soon as I heard the rocks in the driveway rumbling and the engine of my grandpa’s pick-up truck, I would quickly abandon all the ladylike behavior and ran to the door. I’d greet him with a cup of make-believe tea and big hug as I threw my arms around with his waist.

“Hi, Army Beth,” he’d mutter, using his special nickname for me, “good tea.”

As my grandpa said ‘hello’ to my grandma and changed out of his work clothes, excitement swelled inside of me as he prepared for our special time together. Everyday, like clockwork, the two of us would visit together in the afternoon. Some day she would bundle me up and take me for a short drive so I could look out the window at horses running through a field or gaze at a pond filled with baby ducks. Other times, I’d tag along behind him while he did the grocery shopping, sticking my tiny hand in the pocket of his jacket to make sure we did not get separated.

But most of the time, when the weather was mild and pleasant, we’d just sit together on the front porch, staring at the cornfield across the street and the passing cars. I’d curl up on the old, lime green swing and gently sway back and forth as I held my grandpa’s hand and helped him count the automobiles. “That’s one! One red car!” we’d exclaim, doing our best impression of The Count.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but it was by watching those passing cars that my grandpa helped me learn my colors and numbers. Something much more exciting than sitting on the floor, glancing at flashcards in preschool.

Even though I loved watching the cars driving by, hoping a pretty pink one would come along, some of most precious moments I spent with my grandpa were when we sat side-by-side, not saying a word.

I’d sit quietly and stare intensely at the cornfield and hope to see a rabbit hopping around. Grandpa would have a crossword puzzle in his lap, carefully sketching in each answer. But even when he was concentrating on filling in the blanks, I still knew he was thinking of me by the gentle tugs on my ponytail when I wasn’t looking or the silly noises he’d make randomly that would cause me to burst into a fit of giggles.

I suppose I wasn’t really dreading preschool because I would have to stand in a line, read flashcards and sing the alphabet. I was dreading losing the love that surrounded me all day while I was at my grandparents’ house. 

When I was at their house, I always felt safe and loved. It didn’t matter if I didn’t have a father in my life or brothers and sisters to play with; the love I was showered with was more than enough.

Needless to say, I survived preschool and even learned to appreciate it. And I no longer spend every day at my grandparents’ side, but their guidance is still looming inside of me. 

By having to spend less time with two of the people I loved most, I learned to never take something for granted. And now, even as a young twenty-something, when they each take me in their arms, I escape from adulthood and once again become the little girl who always felt safe and loved.