Any unbiased observer would readily admit the child can be a bit of a pill. Named Owen at birth before his first birthday, which happens to be this weekend, he had secured a new moniker, Owenzilla. One day last week he was visiting a certain grandparent, without parental supervision, and in a moment of lapsed attention, through a quick period of trial and error, discovered how to open a cabinet door. Before the echo of the first meeting of the sauce pan with the door, the result of a hefty swing, had completed its reverberation said grandparent had bolted from a seated position into a full throttle dash for the kitchen. With delicate admonitions whose tone might seem to the more experienced and the toddler praise, the pan was delicately removed from the child’s Owen’s hand and the cabinet door closed, whereupon he was lifted up and carried into another room where a favorite treat was provided as distraction. That same week, only several days later, Owen, affectionately known as Owenzilla, visited, again without parental supervision, another grandparent. On this particular day the grandparent sat himself upon the sofa and gently and thoughtfully pecked away on the laptop computer, composing epistles of wisdom for the saints. Owen toddled himself about the coffee table, occasionally moving closer to the grandparent to place his small, delicate hand upon the grandparent’s leg. Interpreting the grandparent’s involvement with the laptop as a statement of consent, Owen gently and quietly made his way into the kitchen. Within moments, being possessed of the analytical mind that he is, determined the proper way to maneuver the folding doors of the pantry to his advantage. As the grandparent pecked away at the computer his thought processes were suddenly interrupted with the metallic clang resulting from the reverberation of a sauce pan against the metal leg of the shelves. The grandparent quickly rose and dashed to the kitchen. Once there, he made an experienced assessment, reached over and moved items of a glass composition to high shelve, returned to the living room, and proceeded with his pecking, this time to the tune of a percussion melody. Several days earlier, when Owen was with the certain grandparent, he was outside enjoying the chirping of the birds, the gentle breeze upon his face, and the braying of the donkey in the pasture adjacent to the home. He and his grandparent were darting about the environs exploring the colors and scents of the flowers. With a glance to the side, Owen, affectionately know as Owenzilla, dashed toward a puddle of water that had collected in the lowest point of the driveway. He looked over his shoulder as he made his dash with a devilish look upon his face. Grandparent with an effort that belied her age dashed after him and in the split second before Owenzilla’s left foot contacted the surface of the puddle, scooped him up into her arms and spoke those gentle words of admonition. That same week when the child made a dash toward another puddle while under the supervision of that other grandparent. He made a similar dash for a large puddle in this grandparent’s backyard. This grandparent watched from the porch and his laughter joined with Owenzilla’s in delighted glee when the water splashed up and he slipped and rested his butt in the mud below. For the first one, Owen is the first grandchild. But for me he’s one of six.