Long, long ago . . . in another time and place . . . maybe another galaxy or dimension . . . a piercing bright light shattered and splintered the darkness. Out of the chaos and dust there emerged a ghostly figure . . . crawling from the rubble . . . coughing . . . hacking. Slowly emerging from a time nearly forgotten . . . Papa!
That’s not quite the genesis story of how I became a grandparent. I can blame that on the science of biology. It is my children’s fault. Several of them went off, got married, and started having children. Suddenly I was a grandparent . . . and with each new child that was born I was thrown deeper into the realm of grandparenting. It was as simple as that—simple biology. I blame this all on my children, but then again, I guess the wife and I had our part to contribute. After all, we brought them into the world. Actually, it’s all Adam and Eve’s fault. They should have left the forbidden fruit alone!
Papa is what my grandchildren call me. It wasn’t the name I would have chosen to call myself. It was predestined. The grandkids call their grandmother—my wife—Nana. Nana picked her name. She also picked my name. I was hoping for a more fearsome name . . . a name which would command respect . . . something along the lines of “Grand Supreme Being Who Command Fear and Respect”. But, no! I got Papa! It’s a tough moniker to live up to but it seems to work for everyone else.
Well, maybe not everyone else. I’m sure my children and their spouses have had a few names for me that are not printable. I have learned that that comes with the “grandpa” territory. It no longer matters to me as long as they don’t forget to call me to the dinner table.
Being a “Papa” is tough. Things have changed since I was a kid. What once was the “norm” or the “acceptable” has changed. Grandparents are under the microscope and are constantly being scrutinized. Our children—as parents—have become our adversaries once they crown us with grandparenthood. They don’t trust us. I don’t get it—they’re still alive! We got them this far, surely, we can do the same for our grandchildren.
But things have changed. These changes have made being a grandparent tough. The rules have changed.
I would never do anything that would harm my grandchildren. I love them too much to ever hurt them. Apparently, some of my grandparenting is quite questionable.
As a kid I loved to ride my bicycle. It was a source of freedom and adventure. I’d jump on my bicycle barefoot and start pedaling away . . . heavens forbid! My children would die if I ever allowed my grandkids to do that! It’s not safe! My grandchildren “armor” up—shoes, knee pads, elbow pads, and helmets. Nearly every inch of their bodies is padded and protected. They make medieval knights proud.
I don’t get it. I never armored up—not even shoes. And look . . . I’m still here. True, the tips of my toes are missing from being stuck in the spokes of the tires or dragging along the ground. A helmet . . . the only helmets we had were either something from World War II stolen from our grandparents or some cheap football helmet. Either one would be killed for sneaking it out of the house or look stupid like a nerd. No one wanted to look like a nerd. There is no greater death than being a nerd.
Another one that throws me and has me scrambling are water bottles. All my kids and grandkids have personal water bottles. Those water bottles go wherever they go. They even got me one that I always forget. As a kid we drank out of the water hose . . . and it didn’t matter whose hose it was . . . it was all fair game. Ours or the neighbor’s—it was all open for use. We always drank our of each other’s drinks. Little did we know about the lead in hoses or the germs from others. Heck, no! We swapped spit. Except with the opposite sex. We knew about cooties. No one wanted cooties. Quess what . . . I’m still here!
As a kid did a lot of things that were fun, and I’d love for my grandkids to experience them too. Today, I’m told that those things aren’t safe. That they are dangerous. Yet, I’m here. I am alive. I survived. I survived riding bikes without body armor. I drank from hoses, shared the same cup and drinking fountains as my friends. Rode in cars without seatbelts, car or booster seats. I jumped off the roof of the house. Climbed trees and really big rocks. Walked to school—up hill both ways—in all sorts of weather by myself. Played with toys that you would need a license to play with today—yard darts, bb guns, sling shots, firecrackers.
And I’m still here.
What grandparent wouldn’t want his or her grandchildren to experience the joy of their grandparents’ childhood? Therein lies the problem. It’s a different time and age. Things have changed. More is known. But it was fun! I want to be that “fun” grandparent—that fun Papa—who lets the kids play. Again, that is the problem. It is not quite the way our kids see it.
I imagine that whenever Papa comes for a visit that my kids increase their insurance on the grandkids. They hide all the sharp things like scissors because I might run with them. They put away all the hoses. Flatten the tires on the bikes. And they lecture the grandkids that Papa is old . . . that he is crazy . . . so beware! He’ll get you in trouble.
They’re right!
Grandparents are there to do just that—have fun. To have fun with their grandchildren. To set them free even if it is only for a short time. To push the envelope. To give their parents reasons to roll their eyes, have their hearts pound with anxiousness. To laugh. To play. To have a good time. And the grandkids are the partners in crime. That is what grandparents do much to the chagrin of their parents.
I survived, so will they. That’s the problem with grandparents. It’s a stage they go through. As my mother used to say, “This, too, shall pass.” She should know . . . she was a grandparent.
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