At the airport. We park the car and walk in to meet Jean and Samuel at the baggage carousel. Our tall blonde daughter had pulled off her last bag when we see them. Her son is in a car-seat attached to an "umbrella-stroller," absorbing through bright blue eyes the hubbub around him.

He takes maybe a minute to decide he knows us, or if he doesn't, we're still all right. On the way home, I sit in the back with him, trying to exchange languages, but mostly just loving him.

How can such passion be contained? It can't. It wells up like a geyser, soaking lover and beloved equally.

Their flight was uneventful. Jean negotiated with another passenger to keep the seat next to her empty. I hear her say, "He was screaming," and fear the worst, the kind of scenario Dave has so often described. He says flying businessmen toss a coin, and the "winner" gets the seat next to the fussy baby.

What Jean means is that Samuel squeals when he sees something he is interested in. He doesn't speak English yet, but is fluent in funny sounds, grimaces, and screams.

The heart has a language all its own.

He loves to engage people and get a laugh, and while he was awake on the airplane, that's all he did, his smile dazzling, lined with perfect white teeth.

Dave can't get over the fact that the baby he last saw at Christmas is NOT a baby any more but a 20-month-old toddler. We stop at Waffle House for breakfast - all right, to show the boy off to our friends there. Satisfied that he had entertained everyone in exchange for half a waffle, we go on home and turn him loose, watching to see what breakables we need to pick up and which require only a stern "No, Samuel."

Amazingly, he doesn't have to be told twice, just keeps on running around and around the central core of the house.

The stairs were a concern, but he shows them little interest. There are plenty more curiosities to examine. We bar the kitchen with a gate, and latch the doors to the laundry room and half-bath. Although he's tall enough to reach knobs, he still can't quite get enough traction to turn them.

From Monday to Friday, things can change. This is one that did.

From earlier visits at his house, we knew the boy loves wheels. Jean and I took him to a little playground near her home in Leesburg, Va., and the moment the swing stopped, or we'd meet him at the bottom of the slide, he'd make a run for the gate. Actually, it wasn't the gate he wanted. It was the stroller leaning against it. No, it was the wheels of the stroller leaning against the gate.

Anything remotely "wheel-shaped" takes his eye. We let him get out cooking utensils and he discovers that a stainless steel lid makes a dandy wheel if you toss it by the handle, and with a little twist. It rolls along on edge until its energy wanes, and then twirls itself flat with a truly satisfactory sound, clanking to a halt.

Balls are OK - they roll, but they're not wheels. A stroll, window-shopping the storefronts at Braelinn Village Center, ends abruptly when Sam-I-Am spies an abandoned shopping cart. It has wheels and can be pushed, but better still, the wheels can be examined closely by a boy lying on the pavement, face flat and turning from side to side trying to get a better close-up of the wheels.

I fuss about dirty fingers, and cannot understand how they escape painful pinches when poked behind a wheel that rolls so easily. Best not to worry.

Fear and love wrestle for the upper hand within a Grandma's breast.

We send the lad home now, not much the worse for wear. Most of the spills were learning experiences, like tripping over the lintels of the numerous porch doors, after which he stepped over very, very carefully, holding the door frame.

The worst one was my fault. I lifted him into the hammock and when he tried to sit up, he lost his balance and I lost my grip, and he rolled to the wooden porch floor. It was the first time he'd fallen hard enough to cut a lip and bleed all over himself and Grandma, and the first time his mom saw him dripping blood. She kept her cool despite the ensuing caterwaul. A frozen first aid "ice pack," held relentlessly on the lip, soon stopped the bleeding.

Thank heaven for little boys who survive grandmothers in spite of themselves, teeth intact and pretty red lips already healed.

Dear Sam-I-Am, you're safely home now, back with the family that loves you almost as much as your Grandma. It takes three of them plus your dad to do that. Grandma will see you in a couple of weeks when we come for your sister's graduation. I miss you already.

Hurry, June!

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