I’m Getting There

For years, my friends, almost all of whom were grandparents, would crow and wail about how mystically transcendent it was to be with their infant grandchildren. They couldn’t wait to babysit or have them come over for a visit.  I, on the other hand, who did not until recently become one of those whose genes had been passed down the natural selection pathway, greeted those psalms of glory with skeptic cynicism. What the fuck was the big deal?

Look, I would say, the kid may be cute now, but that’s cuteness borne out of size.  All infants, anything in miniature, are cute. Yes, all of them. Even the ones who will grow up to be serial killers. Do you think that when Charles Manson was a baby his family looked at him crawling around and said, “God, the kid’s a monster.” Of course not.  They cooed and giggled at his every chuckle and dirty diaper.  So, how does anyone know that the little grandchild they are cooing over isn’t going to grow up to be a Manson, or a Nazi, or maybe even worse – a Trump.

Well, my turn came. It came later than most and it came as a big surprise. But, it came.  And I have been a grandfather now to the lovely Olivia for almost two years. The logical question then is – has my attitude changed?  The answer is: a little.

I adore my children. There is nothing that makes me happier than their happiness. Happier even than  I would be if Mitch McConnell was caught having sex with one of his grandchildren. 

When I see the light shining in my daughter’s face as she interacts with her baby, that’s mystically transcendent. Her kid, on the other hand, well, I’m getting there.

 I love my grandchild. She is smart and beautiful and sweet. To watch her play and smile is a joy, for about an hour or two. But, to be with her for a long stretch of time is kind of like having to keep listening to a dentist’s jokes after the laughing gas has worn off.

My wonderful wife and I have babysat for our Olivia for the past two Saturdays. I have lost count of the times I have sung “Baby Shark”. It has to be in the four figures. I not only sing it, but I find myself making odd sounds with my mouth as I do. All this is to try to coax out a laugh from the kid. She laughed at the first sound that my wife made, so I felt obligated to continue the comic genius of blowing air through my lips. When I say “continue”, I mean, like, for a long time.

Olivia is lucky to have parents who have given her at least six billion toys. I am trapesing all over the house to follow her on her totally aimless journeys from one of those playthings to another. There must be a rule in baby-world that no toy is played with for more than 30 seconds. This I would not complain about because my attention span is about the same length, but the problem is that this forces me to move from place to place. Moving is no longer my strong suit, especially once I’ve sat on the floor. 

And then, of course, there are the books.  “War and Peace” they are not. Who writes these things? I am not criticizing those people. No, to the contrary, I’m jealous.  The idea that there are people who get paid to write shit like, “The tiger goes ROAR” is more of an injustice than that Lindsay Graham sometimes gets to be happy.  I read these books to Olivia. Again, I seldom get through one of them before she insists on another. She is impressive. She knows all the sounds that the animals make. This, I’m sure, will stand her in good stead if she becomes a zookeeper.

So, again, have I changed my mind?  And again, a little.  I now understand better the joy of being with a grandchild, however irrational it might be. My past cynicism was based solely on reason. That’s not everything. There must be something in our makeup that compels us to appreciate our offspring. I wonder if Darwin was a good grandfather. I hope that I will someday become one. Olivia deserves that.