For the past thousand years I’ve been stuck on the phone schmoozing with several bottle-drinking youngsters, because that’s what bubbies do. But what is there to talk about to people who can hardly talk? Especially after you’ve exhausted all the crucial questions, like, “Henny, where is your bunny?” and, “What did it eat today?”

The solution came soon enough. Each Friday, I catch up with my faraway son, until his Shloimy tugs at the phone. Then my son puts his son on the line, and I ask him this and that and the other, all while waiting for him to get bored so I can go back to my son. One Friday, I talk with Shloimy while baking, my fingers deep in gooey chocolate chip cookie batter.

“Shloimy wants a cookie?” I ask my three-year-old grandson.

“Yes,” he says, as if he’s won a prize.

I ask my son to supply the goods, and Shloimy — cookie in each hand — gives the phone back to his tatty. Which kid needs a talking toy when they’re occupied with cookies? So starts a tradition of sorts that passes down the family grapevine. I become the official cookie-bubby among my toddler fans.

I love it, because giving cookies is what bubbies do. And to be honest, it’s an easy out to a conversation going nowhere. All the grandchildren really want is to feel loved, which they do when Bubby gives them cookies. Now I can schmooze with my children, toddler-free.

It works perfectly on both ends until my get-out-of-toddler-schmooze-free card backfires when Raizy cuts her 16th tooth. The little pip-squeak figured out a way to get cookies when her mommy says she needs to eat her yogurt first. Whine in front of the phone and say, “Bubby!” Sori gets me on the line and I become the good guy, following the script in Raizy’s play, so she can munch and crunch and feel loved.

The problem is, she calls each eating session, after each bite of soup. That’s a hundred times a day. Then her sisters and brothers need to talk with Bubby, too. Sure, we schmooze about tigers and dolls and kings. We sing. But at some point, I get an itch. I served my toddler-stage time, now I need conversations that are a tiny bit more stimulating.

“Ma, just give them a cookie and put down the phone,” my teen daughter suggests.

But I can’t just hang up on a grandchild!  Luckily, my husband calls from his cell so I’m free to say, “Zeidy is calling, bye zeeskeit.”

“Why talk so long?” Bochur asks.

“Because that’s what bubbies do.”

Or do they?

I slip into my jacket to meet friends for an evening get-together when the house phone rings.

“Sori, I’m on my way out. Something important?”

Silence.

“Hello?”

Light breathing.

Oh! Sigh. Now I’m stuck at the door. “Raizy wants a cookie?”

A soft whisper.

I want to leave. Now. “Bubby is bringing Raizy cookies. Wait by the door.”

I press off, stuff two cookies into a ziplock and step out. I detour en route to my get-together to ring Sori’s doorbell. It dings over a wailing sound.

Raizy stands at the door, face blotched a cranberry red, tears coursing down her cheeks like there’s no tomorrow.

Poor kid. She wanted cookies over the phone, the way she’s come to expect. But I can’t always be the bubby super-schmoozer. It’s not working for me, which means it’s not good for them either.

I bend down to Raizy’s eye level, press the bag into her hand. “See. Bubby brought Raizy cookies.” I caress her cheek. “From Bubby’s house.”

She sniffles and sticks her thumb into her mouth.

But she takes the cookies. Because who doesn’t want more cookies?

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 923)