No, I mean I don't think I'll ever be a
great grandfather in the sense of Facebook/bumper sticker/t-shirt
messages. You know what I mean. The Facebook post that says, “'Like'
if thinking of your grandchildren brings a big smile to your face.”
Or, “Retired engineer, full-time grandpa.” Or even, “Ask me
about my grandchildren.” Sure, you can ask me about my
grandchildren, but if I have to go much further than their names,
we're going to be on rocky ground.
I'm more the, “”Who are these
children, why do they keep following me, and why do they keep
calling me grandpa?” type. I've also considered a t-shirt that
reads “I take my grandchildren everywhere, but they keep finding
their way back.”
I'm sure you're smirking a knowing
smirk, and telling yourself that would be quite bad if it were true
and I wasn't just trying to be funny, while you're harboring the
thought that it just might be true, which would allow you to feel at
least a little superior. Well, here's the thing. As far as all that
goes, it is true. I'm not terribly demonstrative about how I feel
about my grandchildren. You should let smugness and superiority out
of their cages! And don't waste a millisecond on guilt. Feeling proud
of your grandchildren is a good thing.
Still, make no mistake- I happen to
think my grandchildren great and I think they know that. I think
their parents, my daughters and their husbands, know it too. The
grandkids range in age from 17 to eight or nine, four boys and a
girl. I do not dote on them, although I might if we all lived closer.
I do not spoil them, ditto. I don't smile at the very thought of
them, although I often laugh at many of the clever things they've
said and done.
The way I treat them is, I think, a
continuation of how I treated my girls when they were growing up. I
had a difficult upbringing because of the way my mother was treated
as she grew up. Her stepfather, my grandfather, was the town drunk, a
violent and abusive man. My mother was never taught how to be loving
and nurturing. She was taught to stay out of the way and take cover.
I didn't want to be like that, so I
tried to strike a balance between discipline and letting them find
their own levels. How did I do? My ex-wife would probably tell you I
was too easy on them. The kids themselves? I don't know. They seem to
have turned into adults I like to hang out with, raising kids who are
loved and supported in all that they do.
My older daughter Jennifer, her
husband, my son-in-law, Mark, and the three boys were able to visit
us for this Thanksgiving. That allowed Jennifer to go with me to my
monthly appointment at the cancer clinic to see what that was all
about. Her sister Alison had visited me when I was in Brigham and
Womens for my stem cell transplant, so now they had both gotten an
up-close and personal look at my cancer and its treatment.
Jen's two boys, Jacob and Mathew, have
been spending a week with us each summer for the past number of
years. They missed this year because of my health issues, so they
were very happy to be able to come up now, even if it was only for a
couple of days.
By the very nature of those visits, we
had developed a relationship with Jacob and Mathew that was different
from that of the other kids. Sure, in time, the others will all get
the chance to come and stay with us in the summer, but for now it was
just the two older boys.
Therefore, when I was diagnosed with
cancer, though I was concerned about how all of the kids would react,
I had a feeling it could be worse for the two older boys- in part
because they were... older, and also because we had spent quite a bit
of time together without their parents around, time when my attempts
to divert them from the straight and narrow were only mildly
successful. They would not watch an R rated movie for example,
without calling to get their parents permission. I was all “They're
part of The Man and all The Man wants to do is keep you down. C'mon
boys. Let's Up the Revolution and watch “The Rise of the Planet of
the Apes!”
What did I get for my efforts?
“Grandfather... There are rules. We must call mother and father to
make sure they give their approval to our movie choice.” Okay, so
that might be a slight exaggeration, but only slight. Instead of
helping to raise budding revolutionaries, I was helping to raise
budding Citizens of the Year.
I love these kids and I love my
daughters, who are their mothers, and their dads, who are my
sons-in-law. My girls grew into women about the same time I was
wrestling with many of my own demons. There were times when, it
seemed to me, that they're turning out as well as they did was a
pretty close run thing. It wouldn't have taken an awful lot for them
to have turned out very different.
So, yes, I love my grandkids, all of
them. But, I personally don't need messages on clothing, crockery,
bumper stickers or anywhere else, to remind myself of the fact.
Besides, let's face it. When we wear the shirts, drink from the cup,
put the 30-cent stick on our $25,000 car, those messages aren't for
us. We know our grandkids are outstanding. We display those messages
for the benefit of those around us. We want everyone else to know
what we already know: your grandkids are the best. If you used your
Captain Crunch Super Secret Decoder Ring on any of those messages,
regardless of medium, you'd unravel some variation of: “My
grandkids are way better than your grandkids so you can just suck
it!”
There are a variety of versions of
the story that gives this blog its name. The pony is the constant in
all of them. A man is on his way to a party when he comes across a
young boy shoveling ass over tea kettle at an enormous mountain of
manure. The man asks the child if he wouldn't rather go with him to
the party than shovel all that poop. The kid says, “No way man.
With all that poop... there must be a pony in there somewhere.”
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