Just a Typical Grandfather

The Boston Herald

Oh, if you could see him…

His eyes shine. His skin glows. He grins constantly. Plus he struts. Yes, the man struts. He holds his head just a little lower than the clouds, squares his shoulders and struts - jaunty, eager, proud steps - like a man who has fallen in love.

I suppose, in a way, he has.

From the second he knew about his daughter’s pregnancy, he changed. Conversations full of layouts and designs, meetings he’d attended, golf games he’d played, began to meander to stories about morning sickness and weight gain. “The doctor told Kathy that said there was nothing to worry about, but that she should watch her weight. And he said that next month, she’ll be able to hear the baby’s heartbeat.” 

Overnight, be became impassioned about childbirth. Words like amniocentesis, placenta praaevia, ultrasound, and fetal monitor rolled off his tongue as easily as pagination and computer printout. He became involved in the pregnancy. He knew the size of the fetus at every stage; he knew what organs were developing; he could debate the advantages of natural childbirth versus spinals versus epidurals.

For nearly the entire pregnancy, he was deliriously happy. Only at the end did he frown when the doctor said there might be a problem. The baby wasn’t in position. The baby wasn’t dropping. It was time, and the baby wasn’t ready to be born. A Caesarean might be necessary. 

“Don’t worry,” women who had had babies told him. “Doctors don’t know everything. The baby will be born when it’s good and ready to be born.”

But he continued to frown. 

He was at work when it happened. The phone rang and a happy, tired voice said, “Dad? Dad? You have a granddaughter.”

A granddaughter. A little girl. His own grandchild.

After he asked, “Are you all right? Is she all right? Who does she look like?” After he oohed and ahed and gasped and cried; after he sat at his desk for a while, alone, quietly taking in the fact that his baby had a baby; after his brain acknowledged it and his heart reveled in it; after all this, he stood up, and he was taller than he’d ever been - inches, feet, yards taller. 

He flew to Florida to meet this baby. He spent his vacation there watching her, holding, listening to her gurgle, stealing her away from his daughter and son-in-law and his wife, every chance he could. “She gained a half a pound while I was there,” he declared when he arrived home, a half a pound tangible proof of his love. 

Now he calls every day. “She didn’t sleep well last night. She isn’t eating enough. Kathy’s going to try giving her supplementary bottles,” he declares over a cup of coffee. 

Supplementary bottles.

When his own children were babies, he didn’t know these words. He didn’t know the difference between the first trimester and the last trimester. The birth of his children was a mystery to him. He wasn’t allowed to take part. He wasn’t invited to the doctor’s, to childbirth classes, to the delivery room. 

Then, after they were born, when they were infants and toddlers, he worked two jobs, 16, 18, 20-hour days. He would creep in at night, tiptoe into their room and kiss their tiny heads. In the morning, he would peek in again, kissing them once more before he left for work. But he wasn’t home to feed them. He wasn’t home to tuck them into bed. He didn’t have the time to spend with them or the luxury of holding them. 

They were grown before he did.

Now he is a grandfather and he has the time.

So he’s phoning (“She cooed to me today. She probably knew it was her grandfather.”) and watching home videos, (“Look at that baby! Isn’t she beautiful?”) And showing off the latest snapshots (“Have you ever seen a prettier child? Tell the truth, now. Isn’t she a love?”) and planning a winter vacation.

And, of course, he’s still strutting. You might have seen him. Ten feet tall. A grin on his face. A bounce in his step. His head in the clouds.

Just a typical grandfather, that’s what he is, thrilled and smitten, and proud of it.