They call me Yaya. For people, they’re on the short side. For humans, they are the bright side. These little gnomes known as grandchildren are my dears and my delight and my delovely. Although the lumbar distress I feel after lifting the little chunks isn’t so lovely.

No pain no gain, as they say.

If my back is functional, I will spend my time with these little creatures before they get hairy and smelly and start dating girls named Venus or Chanticleer or Esmerelda Dagmar.

You’ll see us on Fridays. Two little dumplings and an old broad with an overbite. The little ones and I make a pilgrimage to anyplace where you can get dirty with a slide and a bathroom. You name it. Fo-fo Figgly (now Bright Child, but we like the original name) in Oak Park or Underwood Family Farms in Moorpark or the duck park, also known as Conejo Creek Park North. You know the one . . . near the T.O. Library. Quack quack.

“Hey Yaya, what’d you bring me? Can we go to the duck park today?”

Hello, you marvelous creature. You certainly look like your father. As long as you don’t look like my ex-husband, I’m happy.

I’m bringing you blueberry coffeecake, and your mother gets a skinny latte along with a kick in the butt. If you want to go to the duck park, I’m game. Just don’t make me slide down the twistytwirly tube slide again because it was embarrassing to look like a delusional orca disguised as a 3year-old.

Shall we bring the big wheel? And shall we bring your stinky brother with the chubby thighs he inherited from his Yaya?

“I love you, Yaya.” Out of the blue.

No heart surgeon could make a heart pump like that does. No Zocor or cardio kick aerobics or electric shock could make a heart sing like that can. Forget your lousy healthcare plan—just get a couple of grandchildren and your soaring heart will take care of you forever.

Okay then, boyz. I have goodies for squeezy, yummy, sweetsmelling babies with sockittome giggles and hugs that I can feel all the way down to my glowinthe-dark toes.

“Yaya, can I wear my blue Batman shirt and my green basketball shorts and my brown Scooby-Doo crocs to the park?”

Sounds good to me. Your mother would have a heart attack. I don’t think there’ll be any competition for Armani in this house.

We head to the duck park, survival kit in hand. Bread for the ducks. Water and Sponge Bob Band-Aids for the babies. Altoids and ibuprofen for Yaya. Sunblock all around. Eeeeuw yuck.

“Yaya, you ran the yellow light. You’re supposed to stop.” I can’t get away with anything. Should have put in my order for colorblind grandkids.

Twenty-month-old Gavin is having a little trouble with English but has a hearty command of Gavin-ese. Can’t understand a word he says except “Yaya,” with more bravado than a Super Bowl referee belting, “First down!”

I hand the boys the bread for the ducks, which they fire at the poor animals like hailstones on the prairie.

“Relax, guys. Easy. Everyone needs to come out of this alive.”

We pull out Thomas the Tank Engine sippee cups before we head for swings, chasing the squirrels along the way.

“Yaya, there’s another one! Look!” Hudson shouts, thrilled at the sight of these speedy little critters.

I’m not so speedy, but I’m a pretty spiffy Yaya. Preeeeeettty spiffy.

You can write to Elizabeth Kirby at kirby@theacorn.com.