Being a Grandfather is the absolute coolest thing ever. I catch myself staring at my grandsons in awe and wonder and I drift off to some spiritual place I have never been. It’s a new “happy place” for me. I have had some happy places before but never have I had a place that makes me stare and giggle like I do when the little crumb crunchers are around. I know it’s not a new feeling and bazillions of other grandparents have felt the same way so I won’t profess to discovering the magical elixir of life or even profess to be the primary author of the “grandparents for dummies” hand book. No sir, none of that. I am simply discovering a brand new happy place.
It is a well known theory that grandparents are supposed to spoil their grandkids and send them back to their parents, full of sugar, hyperactive and openly defiant to the rules they must adhere to in their own homes. I think for the grandkid, it must be like going from Chucky Cheese pizza with a pocket full of tokens, to being locked up in solitary confinement with nothing to read but a dictionary.
It’s very safe to say that I loved all my grandparents, but I was fortunate to experience varying degrees of grandparent contact, so I consider myself somewhat of an expert on the grandparental scale of spoiling. For example, my maternal grandparents always lived close by, so there was never any degree of “super-spoiling” because they would actually have to deal with the consequences of their own loose behavior with the grandparental rule book. Even though they were close, they would still give us “youngins” (as they referred to us back then) a pass on minor infractions such as leaving the lid up, some public nose mining and an hysterical but occasional rank expulsion of wind from the dairyaire. Now that I think of it, one of my grandmothers (I won’t say which one) could actually break wind with the best of them. She coyly pretended to be embarrassed by the wayward escaping gas, but we all knew she was happy to blow off a little steam. This is where I note that, I paid very close attention to grandparental standard being set at the time and I have lived up to those lofty standards.
My Paternal grandparents lived in a different state and I absolutely loved to visit them. I remember that almost immediately upon arrival I was given just about anything they could afford, so staying with them for any length of time was like staying at some sort of all-expense paid Sandal’s vacation spa for kids and I was more than happy to make myself right at home. “Why yes Grandma, I will take that third slice of fried pie before I have finished my vegetables. Thank you, Grandma!”
Now, many granules of sand has fallen through the hour glass, and I have become the doting grandparent, I get to live very close to my own grandchildren, very close. We are actually in the same neighborhood, well actually we are just one street over and I think we have made it work quite well. Truth be known, If the real-estate agent could have found a house next door to them, I would have bought it, sight unseen.
The fact is, I get to see my grandkids as much as I want, and the agreement is this; they have to let me. The arrangement is excellent for all parties involved, especially me. I have found that I can change diapers like the tire man on a NASCAR pit crew, even those overly plump diapers that spark the gag reflex. I mean really, changing a toddler blowout diaper is just like riding a bike, except the memory is that of your dumbest bike crash ever. First you first look around to see if anyone saw you crash and then you pretend like you knew what you were doing and lastly, despite the pain in you are in, you try to walk away without limping, as if you were meant to do what you just did. Once the diaper blow out is changed, I have learned that it is important that you check yourself for any “cast-off’ samples and attend to it appropriately. I must tell you though, the new wrinkle for me in diaper changing is that as a young father changing diapers, I had girls, no boys, so I never had a loaded cannon pointing straight at my face with each diaper change like I do with my grandsons. They seem to take delight in pulling the trigger on that cannon the minute the little package is revealed.
My oldest grandson likes to watch “hulk smash” videos or “Peppa Pig” while sitting next to me in my chair, and I have found that It is a true happy place for me. I don’t care to watch “Hulk smash” as much as I enjoy a riveting episode of “Peppa Pig” but he is the boss, we watch what he wants to watch. What I know for sure is that while he is next to me, with those tiny little feet crossed comfortably like mine and I have my arm around him, I can feel him breathing against me, I can watch HIM as he intently views a giant green man destroy everything in his path or an adorable little British speaking pig solve her problems with the help of her family and friends, I am happy. He doesn’t know that I am watching him, focusing in on every detail and admiring what a special gift that God has given me. My friends, THAT is my new happy place.
Happy Place