As my daughter and the twins prepared to spend their first night together outside of a hospital, my daughter’s body was remembering that it was no longer pregnant. Her body was rushing back toward its original configuration, and she realized it would be helpful to have a support parent nearby, just in case. Judy also fulfilled an earlier request from our daughter by delivering a French toast casserole for breakfast. Evidently, postpartum support now comes with catering.
When Judy returned around 8:30 in the morning, she wasn’t alone. Ellie was with her. I had been given a few days off from grandpa duty, so I was mentally prepared to give up whatever part of my day was necessary to keep her entertained. After our usual clementines, with the optional dried mango, I was ready to reacquaint myself with my granddaughter. The plans I had for the day were only marginally important anyway. The next few hours were a blur.
We walked to a different, more toddler-friendly playground about a mile from the house. Ellie was a little timid at first, but she eventually dove in. The slide was better than our usual one, and the tunnel was perfect for a game where Grandpa reached through one opening while Ellie crawled toward another. This qualified as premium entertainment. We wandered around the open area near the park, where one of Ellie’s favorite words, “doggie,” quickly became relevant. We found a dog in the backyard of one of the houses. He looked old, and I was initially concerned about his temperament. Then I noticed he had three legs. He didn’t look threatening, and he certainly wasn’t a threat, but we still had to return to that yard several times so Ellie could announce “doggie” to the appropriate recipient.
The playground also contained a pair of socks and shoes that appeared to belong to the same person. There was a small water playground nearby, but the water had been turned off for more than a couple of weeks. I have no idea how someone could leave their shoes there for that long without realizing they were missing. I know Ellie wouldn’t. The mile home was a different story. Ellie was ready to be home shortly after we left, which meant Grandpa eventually carried her for a significant portion of the trip. When she was walking, however, she was busy collecting weed samples from the yards along the sidewalk and dropping them into the storage compartment underneath the stroller. Eventually, she realized she would have to run tests on all of these samples and had failed to document where each one came from. The scientific process demanded that she throw them out.
She was more successful with some of her field research. At one house, she insisted on completely denuding a birch tree of its bark from about her shoulder height to her knees. She peeled off each piece, scrunched it in her hands, and moved on to the next piece. There was a “For Sale” sign in the yard, and I don’t think I saw any cameras capturing my discomfort. If this had been my child, I would have bolted her into the stroller, smiled through the screams, and kept moving. I am, however, a grandfather. Grandfatherhood has given me a remarkable ability to redefine questionable behavior as “a learning experience.”
Even dogs that showed no particular interest in participating from the other side of the street were awarded the title of “doggie.” I had to keep Ellie from hopping the curb and attempting to catch them and give them a hug. The dog walkers generally understood the situation and kept their doggies moving. The “Grandpa-carrying” portion of the walk introduced another concept: touching trees that hang over the sidewalk. Ellie saw no meaningful distinction between those trees and the trees that required Grandpa to walk across the brown stuff formerly known as grass. Grandpa won that battle, barely.
We share water on most walks. I tolerate a higher degree of floaties and crusties on my straw than many people would find acceptable. Ellie especially likes it when I drink a small Gatorade and leave a little in the bottom. I fully tighten the lid, then back it off just enough that she can unscrew it herself. She then buries the mouth of the bottle in her mouth and works diligently to extract every molecule of flavor remaining. This is one of the privileges of being a granddaughter.
Lunch was spaghetti, and its journey from plate to mouth was not especially efficient. Her clothes provided the clearest evidence. The bib captured what it could, but the fork-and-fist feeding techniques still have some limitations. The backup plan of peanut butter and toast also experienced some logistical challenges. When Ellie finally went down for her nap, I ran to the store for a couple of things we needed for dinner.
At WinCo, I ran into someone buying what appeared to be every bulk bay leaf in the store. “We live in the country,” she explained. “Our neighbor likes to make curry, so she always has us buy them when we come to WinCo.” There was obviously a reciprocal agreement involved, but I didn’t dig into it. Some relationships are best left to the bay leaves.
At Sam’s, I needed two bundles of flowers. Pink roses for our daughter and a nice arrangement for Judy. The woman handing out chip samples next to the flowers wasn’t having much luck. “I’m not moving any chips, so I might as well help you out.” She proceeded to help me pick out both flower bundles. She also showed me that there are bags on the side of the flower station to cover the bottoms of the stems. I have purchased flowers for decades and had somehow missed this entire system. I scanned everything with the app and checked out. I also avoided the chip samples. There are some sacrifices a man must make.
I wasn’t home for long before Ellie wailed. She had been talking to herself before I left, so I have no idea how long she actually slept. My attempt to watch our hockey boys play the Cow Punchers in Minnesota didn’t get very far. It wasn’t quite snack time, but Ellie had reviewed the schedule and decided it was. With Judy gone to take our son and daughter-in-law to the airport for their long journey to India, and me trying to keep a toddler entertained until her parents returned from doing “new baby” things, I didn’t make much progress on the dinner I was preparing for them.
Eventually, Judy returned, and everyone else left. I started prepping onions and stew meat for what I eventually called “Hungarian Beef Fajitas Pasta.” It isn’t the real name. It just seemed to best describe whatever combination of ingredients ended up in our bowls. Judy looked at the pile of dirty dishes and temporarily transformed into her alternate form: Dish Fairy. I’m not a Pokémon person, but the description seemed appropriate.
Between now and whenever our daughter’s life settles into some sort of manageable rhythm, Judy and I are going to be a couple of the lackeys who help make that possible. It isn’t exactly the vision I had for retirement, but I wouldn’t choose any other path. I get to attempt mind melds with my granddaughter. I get to watch two tiny babies begin their lives. I get to see our daughter figure out what it means to be a mother of three while knowing she doesn’t have to figure it out alone.
I’m learning that being involved isn’t a scheduled activity. There isn’t always an appointment on the calendar or a defined block of time where Grandpa is officially on duty. Sometimes it’s a casserole. Sometimes it’s flowers. Sometimes it’s carrying a tired toddler home while she collects weeds for a scientific study she will never complete. Sometimes it’s just being there.
I’m still working on the flexibility part of this retirement thing, especially when it involves putting my own plans aside. But there are worse things to learn how to do.
And right now, I’m in a pretty happy place.
