Grandpa-ing

Something Was Clearly Going On

With less than two weeks before my daughter finds out what it is like to have a normal human body again, we decided it was a good zoo day. Yesterday’s temperatures were below 90 degrees, and this morning was in the high 60s. Perfect? No. But compared to what Oklahoma has been handing us lately, it was practically sweater weather. With the clock ticking and the opportunity to see some animals actually moving around, we figured we should take advantage of it.

We were rewarded with a great view of the baby elephant born in late June. My daughter kept saying, “Dad, look at the little one.” I saw three elephant posteriors and assumed she was referring to the smallest rear in the crowd. Once I got up and looked around the post that had been blocking my view, I finally understood what she meant. The baby elephant was considerably cuter than the collection of backsides I had been studying. Apparently, I was not the only one impressed. The photographers were out in force, carrying camera lenses large enough to require their own parking spaces. The rest of the animals may not have been particularly active, but they had apparently agreed that the best place to spend the morning was directly in front of the prime viewing areas. The bears, lions, chimps, and gorillas all seemed willing to lean against the glass or accidentally pose for whatever picture the photographers wanted. At one of the chimp viewing areas, we watched a chimp picking up Cheerios scattered on his side of the glass. Even without opposable thumbs, he was doing a pretty good job. On our side of the glass, Ellie was sitting in her stroller with as many Cheerios as she needed to remain happy. It was a strangely appropriate moment. Sometimes it is the little things that make life worth living. Apparently, for both chimps and toddlers, those little things may be Cheerios.

The expected highlight of the trip was the water jets in the Asia area. When we arrived, Ellie seemed a little hesitant. Grandpa performed a variety of highly sophisticated demonstrations designed to make the water look like a good idea without actually getting wet himself. Either Ellie’s curiosity eventually won out, or my performance was more convincing than I realized. Her mom decided to put her in her swimsuit, just in case. A couple of well-timed geysers caught Ellie in the face, apparently giving her all the evidence she needed to reconsider the entire concept. Her attention quickly shifted to a “dead” water spout that she was determined to convince to come back to life. It refused to cooperate. She also discovered that there were many directions she could wander that did not involve water at all. Grandpa did what he could to turn this into a game, because apparently that is part of the job description.

Then came the more concerning behavior. As we passed other strollers and wagons filled with items brought by parents and grandparents to cool down their kids, Ellie began displaying some impressive foraging instincts. She would walk up to a stroller, inspect the contents, and determine what might be available. She grabbed a couple of water bottles, and I refused her multiple attempts to acquire snacks that did not belong to us. Yes, it was cute. It was also a little concerning to watch my granddaughter casually inventory the belongings of strangers. My daughter, meanwhile, stayed close to our stroller, apparently determined to defend our property from the same behavior. We eventually agreed that the “cooling off Ellie” portion of the zoo experience had been something of a bust.

It was after we got Ellie changed back into her clothes that my daughter told me the real story. Ellie had lost her bunny while they were running errands the day before. This was not some random stuffed animal that had been forgotten in the bottom of a toy box. This was Bunny. Her sleeping bunny. Her snuggle bunny. The little guy who apparently doesn’t mind being dragged around by his ears, dropped on his head, or subjected to whatever other indignities come with being a toddler’s favorite stuffed animal. He is her guy. And, based on the report of a difficult night of sleep the evening before, his absence was being noticed.

Suddenly, I had a theory about the zoo. Maybe Ellie’s stroller shopping wasn’t really about snacks or water bottles. Maybe it was a toddler’s attempt to find something—or someone—to fill the Bunny-shaped hole in her life. Her vocabulary is expanding, but it is still not quite advanced enough to explain the deep emotional trauma of losing a favorite stuffed animal. So instead of saying, “Grandpa, I am experiencing significant distress because my primary emotional support rabbit has disappeared,” she may have simply decided to check the nearest stroller for snacks. This particular practice apparently started in the church nursery and has now expanded to random strangers. We may have inadvertently raised a tiny, toddling, food critic with questionable boundaries.

When I told Judy about Bunny, she immediately said, “That poor thing. She loves Bunny.” And she is right. There will probably be a replacement Bunny before the weekend is over. If my memory is correct, the original may have been the generic light-pink variety from Walmart, which means we should be able to resolve this crisis without involving Interpol. This time, though, we may want to make a few improvements. Perhaps Bunny needs a leash. Maybe some Velcro. At the very least, an Apple AirTag. I am not prepared to spend another zoo day explaining to strangers why my granddaughter is conducting a personal inventory of their strollers.

Ellie is about to be promoted to big sister, which is wonderful, but she is also about to experience a fairly dramatic reduction in the amount of attention available to her when those twins arrive. Losing Bunny right before that transition probably isn’t helping. So, yes, she needs a new Bunny. She needs something familiar to sleep with, drag around, drop on his head, and generally subject to the same treatment the original Bunny endured. She also apparently needs Grandpa to stop her from stealing bottled water from strangers, but we can work on that one later.

For now, the priority is getting Bunny back—or finding his replacement. Because if losing one stuffed rabbit has already turned Ellie into a roaming toddler forager, I would prefer not to discover what happens when the twins arrive and she realizes there are now two additional people competing for her snacks, attention, and Cheerios. We may be raising a future criminal mastermind, and frankly, I would rather catch her in the stuffed-animal phase. A new Bunny, a tracking device, and a little extra attention seem like a small price to pay for keeping the family out of court.

Talk To The Team

As my daughter gets closer to becoming the mother of three, I could not be more excited for her. Or more aware that I personally will do none of the work involved.

She has spent this entire Oklahoma summer—certainly the hottest one since we moved here—getting kicked from the inside by two little people who do not yet have names and somehow already outrank her in the house. Yes, I was gone for a few weeks of the summer. That does not mean I wasn’t sympathetic. I was rooting for her from wherever I was.

Of course, when your daughter has three kids, that means you have at least three grandkids. I would like credit for that arithmetic.

A friend sent me a video last week of his grandson getting ready to have a sibling. Since my friend already has other grandchildren, something ugly woke up in me. Not sadness. Something closer to a scoreboard.

I would love to tell you I am above comparing my family’s headcount to another man’s family’s headcount. I am not going to tell you that because it isn’t true.

The frustrating part is that there is nothing productive I can do about it. New kids don’t get born because Grandpa felt competitive on a Tuesday. If I want to add players to the roster, the actual work has to come from somewhere else entirely, and I am, at best, in a spoiling and snack-providing capacity.

I brought this up to my daughter while she was complaining about getting her ribs kicked from the inside and having trouble putting socks on her swollen legs. She listened to my grandchild-count predicament with the patience of a woman who has significantly bigger problems and said, “You need to talk to the other members of the team.”

The team.

Currently, the team has one active member, my daughter, and three others on the bench. Of those, only one of them are currently qualified to help me pad the stats, by my own arbitrary rule that I would prefer marriage happen first. I would welcome any grandkids, of course, but please forgive me for preferring that my kids get married before they start producing them. I don’t think that’s asking too much.

So, let’s talk about how I got here, competitive about something I have absolutely no control over.

I didn’t become a father until my thirties, which means I spent a good portion of my life watching other men become grandfathers while I was still working my way through the fatherhood portion of the program. My wife and I always assumed we’d be the kind of grandparents who leaked enthusiasm out of every pore the second a grandchild showed up.

Apparently, our other kids—the ones older than our pregnant daughter—either never noticed that enthusiasm or noticed it and decided it wasn’t worth compromising on a spouse to make it a reality.

Their loss, frankly.

Their siblings’ children are going to get the toys, the outfits, and the opportunity to have us visit more. There is a reason I didn’t lead with the visits.

More grandkids would obviously help my case when talking to my peers. It would also give me even less free time than I have now, especially since the odds of getting the other two kids’ grandkids within the ten-minute driving radius their siblings enjoy are pretty close to zero.

Realistically, it would mean my wife and I doing a lot more driving or flying to keep tabs on whatever new pieces of our extended DNA show up somewhere else. I’m willing to make that sacrifice, although I reserve the right to complain about the mileage.

So, to the rest of the team, if you’re reading this, I have no deceptive motives in mind.

We’ve already proven ourselves to be pretty good grandparents. We are soon to triple our grandchildren, which sounds much more impressive when you don’t mention that we started with one. Tripling again—or more—is something your sister is not going to be able to do on her own.

So, do everyone a favor.

Spare her body the record attempt. Go ahead and get married, have some kids, and give your sister a little competition of her own. She has set some lofty goals, but we have faith in every one of you.

And to the hockey boys: you have also been added to the team, although I realize your membership is temporary. We are only your parents for the season, which means in a few months you are going to leave, start your own lives, and—if everything goes according to plan—eventually contribute to your own parents’ scoreboards.

Just to be clear, I am not counting any future children you might have on my scoreboard. Those are your parents’ points. I have my own scoreboard to worry about.

We aren’t trying to rush you. You’ve got plenty of hockey, growing up, and other things to figure out first. We are glad to have you guys around, and we will be sorry when the season ends and you head off to whatever comes next.

But when the time comes, remember that your billet parents are going to be looking for ways to keep the family roster growing.

As much as we enjoy having you guys around, our focus has to be on boosting the score in Grandpa’s selfish little game.

So, if the Gruenbaums can’t cook and provide a bed for you next season, we hope you understand.

After all, there is a team to build.

Vacation Eve

With my last full day in the neighborhood before disappearing for a few weeks, I found myself running through a list of “please the people” tasks. The kind of chores that keep things stable enough that no one files a complaint while I’m gone. Some were easy, some were sweaty, and some were just annoying enough to remind me I’m still useful. But this is what a man does to keep the peace and avoid hearing that tone when he returns.

My wife has been gone a couple of days, which meant the dishes from our 4th of July celebration had reached a level of multiplication normally reserved for bacteria cultures. She was off getting her nails done, a choice I tease her about, mostly because I’d prefer spending that money on a seat with legroom instead of practicing yoga in economy. Given my historic financial sins, my debating privileges on discretionary spending are on a very short leash.

The dishes were the big one. Sure, “clean the bathrooms” and “scrub the floors” were probably on her internal list too, but the dishes were the item she’d notice first. If I hadn’t done them, her opening line when we returned would’ve been, “Oh, you didn’t get those done.” I could practically hear it. So I did them.

This morning, I took my daughter and granddaughter to the zoo for what I’m calling an early bake. With twins on the way, our zoo days are numbered, and I’m trying to squeeze in the last few before my daughter’s life becomes a blur of diapers and double feedings.

Despite the heat, we lucked out. One of the elephants was swimming, holding his breath like a showoff while debris bobbed around him like a questionable soup. The meerkats were doing their meerkat thing, which my granddaughter has loved ever since she saw them at the Fort Worth zoo. I don’t think there are too many surprises left at our zoo, but we’re narrowing down her favorites.

The splash pad was the real story. A month ago, she was afraid of it. Today, she received multiple direct hits. She walked across the water exit points while the jets were off, caught a blast directly to the diaper, and the face shot ended things with the decisiveness of a referee whistle.

And of course, the flamingos. She’s obsessed. Maybe it’s the legs. Maybe it’s the color. Either way, they’re now a mandatory stop on every visit.

My daughter didn’t insist I come along, but this is exactly the kind of thing a semi-retired (or fully retired? still unclear) dad can do to help a pregnant daughter survive a summer in Oklahoma.

The rest of my list isn’t strictly necessary, but these are the tasks that somehow convince my wife I still have a unique talent for over-complicating simple things.

Oklahoma hail season never really ends, so I’ll be hoisting my wife’s bike onto the wall rack and then creating a fat man’s squeeze to get both cars into a garage already shared with a storage rack and a storm shelter. Whether an off-season tornado shows up or not, it won’t matter to us. The puzzle will be solved.

The refrigerator has been accumulating pickles, hummus, and corn salsa that have aged past food and into a philosophical question. Tomorrow is execution day. Unless one of my local kids files a stay, nothing in there is making it to the weekend. Trash day is Friday, so if no one is willing to commit to using it, I don’t care if the flies unionize and take over the trash can—their celebration will be short-lived.

Speaking of flies, I refuse to leave the house infested. The kids will be dropping off mail and celebrating our departure the entire time we’re gone, so I can’t guarantee long-term results, but I can at least demoralize the current population before I leave. I’ve already racked up kills over the 4th, bare-handed, as is my way. My son-in-law was amazed the first time he saw it. My daughter wasn’t. She grew up assuming every family had a designated fly assassin. We’ve got the blue-light zapper running in the kitchen, and I’ll be on patrol until wheels-up.

That pretty much does it. I need to grab my swimsuit and the fingernail clippers. My AI buddy assures me they’re fine in a carry-on if they’re standard clippers and not some experimental weaponized grooming device. After a night in Texas where I won’t eat any salads or anything capable of gifting me parasites, my wife and I head out Friday afternoon.

I’m practically in Germany already with zero jet lag. A bold lie I’m telling myself.

I’m ready to hand my wife the reins. Let her steer this wagon for a few weeks while I enjoy the trip she planned for us. She does this sort of thing really well, and I’ve gotten smart enough to just show up, carry the bags, and let her run the show.

When I get back, life will snap right back into its rhythm. Babysitting two days a week, spot-sitting whenever needed, early coffee with peanut butter toast, morning walks, cooking for the hockey boys, and the daily tug-of-war between my to-do list and whatever my kids need. This is my first cruise as a grandpa, and when I return, I’ll reattach myself to all of it with gratitude. I’ll have a few Facebook posts to prove I left my zip code, and I’ll settle back into the boring, predictable life I’ve built around the people I love most.

Vacations are great. But home is where they need me. And that’s enough.

Babysitting, Humidity, and a Balanced Ledger

I want to go on record that I volunteered for this. Nobody made me do anything. That will matter later.

My wife had been excited about the 4th of July Eve plans ever since she heard the OKC Philharmonic was playing a free concert at Scissortail Park with fireworks after. She heard “free concert and fireworks” and I heard “several thousand of your closest strangers, downtown parking, and a heat index designed by someone who hates you.”

The concert started at 8:30 and the fireworks at 9:30, which is great timing unless you live near a small human whose bedtime is 8:00ish. So I made an offer I considered safely hypothetical. I told Judy that since Ellie’s parents wouldn’t be able to enjoy the concert anyway, I could stay home with the baby.

I assumed this offer would be admired and declined, the way all noble offers are supposed to work. Instead, my daughter texted me that Mom said I’d watch Ellie if they went. My generosity had been converted into a signed contract before I’d even finished congratulating myself on it, and I wasn’t even consulted on the press release.

But my wife does what she does.

Here’s my honest accounting of what I skipped. It was going to be mid-90s during the day. The event was free, which is a polite way of saying the whole metro was invited. Parking downtown is always an adventure, and the dinner plan involved either hauling food in like pack mules or standing in a food truck line long enough to qualify for residency.

We’d done the orchestra-on-the-lawn thing plenty of times in Ohio, listening to the Columbus Symphony at Chemical Abstracts, and I knew that routine cold. I knew where to park, where to sit, and when to leave. This event offered me zero known variables and a forecast that guaranteed everyone around me would be operating at about 90% of their normal patience, myself included.

So while the family went downtown, I fed Ellie dinner and followed her around the house for less than an hour. Her exhaustion and her bedtime arrived at the same moment, which is the babysitting equivalent of hitting the lottery. Grandpa did not have to endure the big sad eyes, and I consider that the real fireworks show.

Then I watched soccer and debated whether I’d made a wise decision or simply confirmed my status as the family hermit. The jury stayed out overnight.

The next morning I got my redemption arc. I attended the parade in Edmond as the only male in our entire family delegation. My son passed, and my son-in-law passed. I alone carried the banner of masculine parade attendance, and I did it on one of the hottest mornings of the year, when my bed was right there offering a very compelling counterargument.

My daughter came along and admitted she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been to a parade. I understand that completely. It takes a certain amount of pride in your country to get out of bed on a morning you could sleep in, and I don’t count the 4th as a political event anyway. It’s a celebration every American should want to attend regardless of whatever Washington is currently doing to itself.

We arrived half an hour early, which earned us a seat that was worse than the canopy people’s and better than the stragglers’. In parade seating, as in life, you mostly aim for the middle of the pack and call it a win.

Some observations from the curb. Even at 9:00 in the morning, the sun means business, breezes should never be undersold, and humidity is a monster that needs to be slurped up by a cloud and relocated to a part of the country where I don’t live.

An hour is the correct length for a parade. Anything past that and the babies get restless, and I’m not going to pretend the old people weren’t doing the same math about beating the traffic.

You cannot have horses in a parade without a cleanup vehicle following them, which reminded me of a horse parade we attended near Delaware, Ohio, one of the biggest east of the Mississippi. People there drew chalk boxes on the street hoping a horse would leave its contribution inside their square. After a hundred horses go by, watching one do a #2 becomes genuine entertainment, and somewhere out there, a lucky winner was thrilled about manure.

The Shriners apparently brought every vehicle they own. Every float and car said “India Shriners,” which is the OKC chapter, and I did confirm that a Shriner is a Mason but a Mason isn’t necessarily a Shriner. I now know this permanently, whether I wanted to or not.

They did doughnuts in tiny cars and drove motorcycles in circles that slowly migrated up the route. They weren’t amazing, but they were entertaining, and this being our second year, they were exactly as entertaining as I remembered, which is its own kind of reliability.

An early highlight was a plumbing company float featuring Uncle Sam in a bathtub, either grateful to them for fixing his pipes or too lazy to walk the route. Based on what we could see, our Uncle was fully committed to the appearance of actually bathing, and I respect an actor who stays in character.

The expected inventory was all present. Three high school bands, fire trucks, police vehicles, a couple banks, politicians, beauty queens, and past grand marshals all baked in their own convertibles, waving hard enough to count as cardio.

My wife pointed out that the jazzercisers really had some energy. Their float came early in the route, and I suspect their jazziness declined as the temperature climbed, but they were giving us everything they had as they passed.

On the way home Judy wanted to stop at Sonic for a drink, an idea that was good in theory and then met parade traffic and a short-staffed Sonic that was losing its battle with the drive-thru. Fortunately, air conditioning can repair an attitude in about four minutes flat.

So that’s the ledger for the weekend. I skipped the concert on purpose, and I showed up for the parade on purpose, and I think the books balanced.

The truth underneath all of it is that Judy and I are getting closer to full retirement, which means a whole lot of years ahead of just the two of us deciding what we do with our days. I don’t want her dreading the thought of hanging with me every day, and I definitely don’t want her starting our upcoming trip wondering what kind of a boring guy she married.

Staying home with Ellie so her parents could have a night out was worth something. Standing in the heat while the Purple Heart veterans passed and the chairs emptied was worth more. The kids came over later for a cookout and homemade ice cream, and I’ll be there being adequately social, which for me is the sweet spot.

Judy knows what kind of guy she married. He complains about the humidity, skips the crowds when he can, and still gets out of bed for the parade, because some things deserve the sweat.

Andy: 1, Death by Sneezing: 0

I am the unfortunate one who is “it” today.
It with what? Cold, sinus infection, COVID, mystery crud with commitment issues—hard to say. Whatever it is, it picked me to carry it on Father’s Day. I’m not sure if this thing started two weeks ago or sometime back before our son’s wedding, but the headline is simple enough: I am sick on Father’s Day.

I won’t blame the sickness entirely for my lack of a blog post lately. It hasn’t helped, but it doesn’t deserve full credit. My stubbornness has played a strong supporting role, especially the part where I refuse to rest like a man my age who has, allegedly, earned the right to lie down without guilt. Instead, I’ve been spending my limited energy knocking items off the pre–vacation list: swapping Texas plates for Oklahoma plates, finally closing out a business that overstayed its welcome, babysitting through both scheduled and “guess who’s here” Ellie visits, and getting the house ready for the hockey boys we’re expecting again in the fall.

Written out, it doesn’t look like a heroic montage. It looks like paperwork, childcare, and laundry with extra steps. But when you layer those things over days where my body is operating on the “barely functioning” setting, I’m oddly proud of it. It’s not dramatic, but it’s the real shape of being Dad at this stage: still moving forward, even if I’m wheezing while I do it.

Last night, as we got into bed, my wife gave me a pep talk. At least, that’s what she thought it was. She caught something too—worse than mine, in her version of the story. My theory is we have the same bug, her symptoms just showed up in different costumes. Either way, what I received was the “the next few days of your life will be miserable” speech.

She used gentler, more reasonable words. What I heard was, “You aren’t as tough as me, but I’ll try to support you through the certain misery ahead.” She denied this, naturally. I reminded her that communication isn’t about what you say; it’s about what I hear. And what I heard sounded like a pretty unflattering movie trailer. We agreed to disagree and rolled over for yet another night with no goodnight kiss. Nothing says romance like marital plague protocols.

The funny part is that the night went better than her forecast. I took something for drainage, then waited to see whether it would help or if I was just participating in expensive wishful thinking. She had one coughing fit, so her suffering continues and, by extension, my predicted misery has apparently been extended by at least another day on principle. I blew my nose a few times, rolled from left to right more than usual, and then—somehow—actually slept. Morning showed up, and I felt more rested than her non-prophetic words had promised. For that one night at least, the scoreboard read: Andy 1, Death by Sneezing 0.

Possibly out of guilt, my wife turned the leftover half of a French loaf—the half that didn’t get turned into garlic bread—into French toast this morning. We reheated some sausage, sat down together, and had a real breakfast. We did not hold hands to pray over the food. At this point, I’m not sure how much difference hand-holding makes when we’re living in the same air and sharing every surface known to man. She put up such a strong “no goodnight kiss” boundary when she got sick, which would have been adorable if she hadn’t kissed me the night before my symptoms showed up. By then, the virus had already RSVP’d.

I’m no specialist in germ theory, but I’m fairly confident she’s enforcing a rulebook the viruses never agreed to follow. That said, the French toast was a satisfying touch. On a normal rough morning, “I’ll make the coffee” is about as extravagant as we get. Guilt offering or not, the extra effort landed.

We decided to skip church, too. On any other Sunday, that decision would have been straightforward: we’re sick, we stay home. On Father’s Day, it comes with a little extra twinge. On Mother’s Day, our church passes out “Her-She” candy bars. Hershey, with a wink. I can’t remember if the men get anything. Our big treat is the chance for the willing and able to sit up front in the choir area and help lead the singing. I skipped every practice, which technically should have disqualified me. But practices were optional, and my secret plan was to sneak in anyway and let my voice blend in with the other dads who also didn’t rehearse.

My voice still works. My conscience apparently works better. The close quarters up front started to look less like worship and more like the opening scene of a documentary called “Superspreader: The Tenor Section.” As much as I hated to miss the male bonding, staying home felt like the least selfish choice. I may have lost the joy of singing off-key with the guys, but somewhere a congregation is slightly healthier for my sacrifice.

Tonight’s dinner with the kids is still technically on, but it now carries an asterisk in all the group texts. We might cancel. We might rally. I hate even imagining not being there, but everyone else has earned the right to stay healthy, too. No one wants their Father’s Day dessert with a side of virus.

Whoever I end up seeing today—however upright or congested I am—I’m calling this Father’s Day a win. This year, we added a new daughter-in-law to the family. Our daughter is due late summer with twins. There are murmurs of permanence in the lives of our other two kids, the kind of quiet conversations that sound suspiciously like future weddings warming up in the wings.

Father’s Day has never really been about me, at least not in the way the cards suggest. It’s more of an annual status report on what’s happened over the past year and what seems to be growing underneath all the noise. The real takeaway isn’t “Look what I built.” It’s closer to, “Thank God my kids are out there choosing kind people to build a life with.”

I’d be thrilled to be a grandfather many times over. That’s no secret. But the part that actually feels like a report card on my parenting is simpler: they make decent choices; they care about the people around them; they’re building lives that look, for the most part, healthy and hopeful. My wife and I blurred plenty of roles over the years and improvised more than we’d admit, but the results walking around out there seem to speak for themselves.

On the low end of the scale, they graduated from college and pay their own bills. On the high end, they’re married or moving toward it, they’re happy—or at least earnestly trying to be—and grandkids are starting to appear as the bonus round I selfishly can’t wait to keep playing.

By next Father’s Day, I’ll get another snapshot of where everyone has landed on that spectrum. Maybe more weddings. Maybe more babies. Maybe more ordinary Tuesdays that quietly matter more than any of it. For now, I’m just glad to be here to take attendance. Healthy would’ve been nice. But present and accounted for, even with a box of tissues under my arm, feels like enough.

Baby Power

The doctor’s visit threw off my whole Friday rhythm. When my daughter asked if I wanted to get groceries with her, I said yes before she finished the sentence.

To be clear, I wasn’t excited about Walmart. I was excited about the little face that was going to light up the moment I walked in to pick them up. There may be something wrong with Ellie’s wiring. The girl genuinely loves her grandpa, and I’ve learned not to question gifts.

We hit Sam’s first. My daughter doesn’t have a membership there, so I’m basically her black-market access point to bulk paper towels and cheese. She has a Costco card of her own, so I don’t flatter myself into thinking this is a scheme. She just also likes my company. That makes at least two women in my life who can either see past the rough exterior or have some kind of vision problem. I’m grateful either way.

Sam’s was disciplined. Six items. She knows what she needs and gets it. I am the one running a full moratorium on buying new meat until the freezer is empty, and Friday I was actually holding the line. My only purchase was generic Zyrtec because the generic Claritin had quietly retired against Oklahoma allergies. The doctor confirmed things had been bad that week, which either means he’s genuinely concerned or he’s decided I’m qualified to be one of my own junior practitioners. After forty-something years of doing exactly that, it’s nice to have a professional finally acknowledge it.

Then we crossed I-35 at lunch hour. I do not recommend this.

I drove like the maniac my phone’s driving app is convinced I am and arrived intact. Some guy was doing a multi-point turn out of a handicapped spot right by the entrance, blocking the whole row. I was building up a reasonable annoyance when he leaned out his window and yelled “sorry” as he passed. Forgiven completely, with bonus points left on the table.

My daughter was shopping for ingredients to cook dinner for friends who just had their fourth child. While she worked through her list, she parked the cart near me and I stayed with Ellie. Ellie had other ideas.

The moment her feet hit the floor, she grabbed the lower bar of the cart and started pushing. Not pretending to push. Actually pushing. She got low, got her feet under herself like a determined sled dog, and moved that cart through the meat department like she had somewhere to be.

My job was to steer and keep us from taking out anyone’s ankles. When the cart slowed, she just got more parallel to the ground and found more traction. Stopping was not part of her plan. We dropped her mother off in various aisles like a shuttle service while Ellie kept the operation moving.

I helped a little. A very little. Mostly, she was either trying to earn her nap or fishing for grandpa’s applause. Both worked.

Eventually the baby power gave out and she shifted to crawling, which moved the cart at a speed incompatible with other humans trying to shop. With the child seat buckle broken, I carried her the rest of the way out while her mom handled checkout like the responsible adult she is.

I’ve been thinking about where I was when my own kids did things like this.

Maybe I was there and just forgot. Maybe running on that little sleep meant anything not critical to survival got quietly deleted. The brain makes cuts. Whatever the reason, I missed a lot.

Watching a mind that young make those kinds of leaps in real time—the decision to push the cart, the problem-solving when it slowed, the commitment to the whole thing—is a kind of wonder I didn’t have the capacity to notice the first time around. I’m not ready to explain it well enough to do it justice. What I can say is that I’m embarrassingly glad I get a second chance at it.

Not everyone gets that role. I should probably feel bad about that.

I don’t, though. I’m not ready to share.

The Giraffe Named Ellie

I arrived at my daughter’s house at 8:30 with the “Ellie-approved” stroller and no ambiguity about whether I wanted to be there. The night before, I’d said, “Are we going to see Ellie tomorrow?” She said, “Do you want to go to the zoo?” As if Ellie’s presence made the venue negotiable.

She drove. She recently quit her job to become “Mom of One with a 2 girl upgrade before October arrives,” and OKC morning highways are somehow the least chaotic part of her current life. I had no objection. I rarely fight someone else doing the driving — and when she stays at the speed limit, the car tracking app on my phone briefly believes I’m a responsible adult. When my wife drives, that same app apparently concludes I’ve been drag racing on the interstate.

At the gate, my daughter bought the membership: two adults and as many kids under 3 as you can account for at any given moment. The zoo seemed optimistic about that number.

I should be upfront about something. I’m not a zoo person.

I understand what zoos do. Children see animals, become fascinated with the natural world, and some of them eventually become veterinarians. I applaud all of that from a comfortable distance. I grew up near the Columbus Zoo, which is a good one. I don’t remember how many times I went as a child, and I think that tells you something.

What semi-retirement gives you, though, is availability — and decent enough eyesight to qualify as a tag-team partner for a daughter willing to tolerate your company. I’ve done this before. I’ve taken children to zoos before. I’ve come close to accidentally enrolling a son in the chimpanzee exhibit on a Mother’s Day in the early 2000s, and I only exaggerate that story a little.

My approach to animals is efficient. I look at a wildebeest, think something like, “That is a genuinely unfortunate head,” and move on. God apparently designed these creatures with total confidence. My wife and I cannot pick a paint color for a hallway without four trips to the hardware store, so the idea of just deciding to make a wildebeest is beyond me.

One thing the OKC Zoo has over the Columbus Zoo: at Columbus, the exhibits have large sweeping names like “North America.” At this zoo, they have a section called “Oklahoma,” which appears to contain enough variety to cover most of the continent. Having lived here awhile, I’ve stopped being surprised by that.

Ellie’s highlights were specific and, if you blinked, easy to miss.

The Cheerios in her stroller cup holders were the main event. She’d glance at passing animals, then return to the serious work of gumming the oat circles into paste. The animals were ambient. The Cheerios were the feature.

The flamingos got real attention — they were close to the path and practically fluorescent, and her eyes tracked them for a genuine stretch. For reference, thirty seconds of eye contact from a one-year-old is the equivalent of a standing ovation.

The dinosaur at the entrance barely registered on the way in. On the way out, she leaned back against my chest, looked straight up at the brontosaurus (I think), and smiled at him. I don’t know what she thought it was. The dinosaur didn’t smile back, but she held up her end of the exchange.

In my world, large reptiles are always “him.” I know this isn’t scientifically airtight, but I’ve been consistent about it for decades, and I’m not changing now.

The whole trip ran about three hours. My daughter ran the operation; I pushed the stroller and kept the headcount accurate, both of which I managed.

One of the giraffes is named Ellie. I’d go back just to point at her and say, “Look, there’s the other one.”

Our Ellie fell asleep before we made it out of the parking lot. When babysitting, she can convince me sleep is a hobby she hasn’t fully committed to yet — she’ll run the living room like she’s training for something and still have energy when I don’t. But three hours of flamingos and Cheerios and stroller traffic, and she was gone before I finished a sentence.

That’s why we took our own kids to the zoo, too. It’s not something you say out loud at the time, but everyone knows it. The animals are fine. The nap is the whole point.

Ellie’s Birthday, Plus Two

I found out I was going to be a grandfather to two additional granddaughters in the fall. I was fully aware of twins, but the granddaughter portion came out during the birthday party.

This is the birthday party of the granddaughter who opted to sell her birthday for future naming rights so her uncle and now aunt could get married on the same weekend. She didn’t sign the contract willingly, obviously, but at one year old your legal options are limited.

Our granddaughter Ellie was also involved in the reveal. After interviews with the attendees—each one asked to guess the genders of the twins and which baby would arrive first—my wife and I both went with one of each. I said boy first. My wife said girl first. Most of the other guesses were also one of each, with the arrival order treated as an afterthought.

When the boxes came out, they were labeled “Baby A” and “Baby B,” which sounds less like children and more like a pharmaceutical trial. I did a little research afterward. Doctors can actually tell which baby will come first, and those are the same designations they use. Ellie was held by her dad in one arm, with the Baby A box in the other. When the lid came off, Ellie grabbed a stuffed pink bunny from the bottom. Baby A: female.

Dad and mom had to distract Ellie from what had instantly become her favorite possession so her hands were free for the next box. The Baby B box was preceded by a few tears, which turned into another stuffed animal. I remember a toy that was definitely not blue—pinks and pastels throughout. My daughter tried to convince me it was definitely pink. Family memory is a generous system: it lets everyone be certain and still somehow disagree. Baby B also equaled female.

Gifts followed the reveal. Very much baby stuff. The largest theme was “she loves to play in the water,” so Ellie got a water station, floaties, and a few swimsuits. She had mastered the gift bag immediately—pull out the tissue paper, keep reaching until the bag surrenders. Wrapped gifts were harder. Her mom would start a tear in the wrapping paper, and Ellie would aggressively remove roughly seven percent of it before deciding mom could handle the rest.

The cake came last, which felt right. She timidly dug in at first, like she was unsure whether smashing dessert with both hands was socially acceptable. But once she realized nobody was stopping her, she turned into a tiny wrecking ball with frosting. Chunks were flying off the highchair. It was one of those proud grandparent moments.

The guest list leaned more heavily toward the groom’s side, though the bride’s parents had met Ellie a few weeks before and loved her immediately. Wedding logistics—flowers, a bridesmaid luncheon, the general chaos of a wedding weekend—meant the birthday party got wedged in wherever there was room. Ellie wasn’t old enough to know she was being cheated, which was convenient for everyone.

And it wasn’t even entirely her time. She had to start sharing the spotlight with her future sisters—a cruel introduction to life as the older sibling, but she’ll be better for it, and she’ll have two smaller people nearby who make excellent scapegoats.

One attendee summed up his relationship with babies honestly: “She is more durable now. I am not as reluctant to handle her.” He quickly added that the twins would be outside his comfort zone for at least a year after they’re born.

The gender reveal is worth putting on a calendar. Three granddaughters by fall, two of them already the proud owners of stuffed animals they won’t appreciate for another year. Grandpa shows up regardless of the developmental stage, the fragility level, or the noise output.

Ellie starts sharing the spotlight in the fall. She’ll figure out the scapegoat situation on her own. She seems sharp.

Something’s Going Around

Yesterday I couldn’t pull a post together. Tried a few angles, threw them against the wall, watched them slide like wet spaghetti. Even Mr. AI couldn’t find the thread. I let it go — not a waste, just something to bank for later.

So here I am today, a little achy, coughing in the morning, wondering if something’s coming for me or if this is just what your 60s feel like on a Saturday.

My walks have been fine if your standard is “I checked the box.” Earlier version of me could do five or six miles without thinking about it. My daughter and I took some long ones during COVID. Now I’m listening to a book and ignoring the fact that my feet are staging a slow rebellion.

The shoes are partly to blame. Found a pair I loved — perfect, until this week, when they let some foot pain in like they’d been holding it in reserve. I have Good Feet inserts and a couple of things I ordered online. None of them seems particularly invested in my well-being.

Then there’s the Ellie factor. Playing on the floor with a granddaughter sounds simple. It is not. Getting down is fine. The problem is bending my knees during the playing, and the moment she grabs my finger expecting me to spring upright regardless of whether my leg is folded into an origami crane. She has places to go. The inspection waits for no one. She’s also figured out that closed doors are a lot less intimidating when one of the big people is backing her up.

The germs are probably hers, too. COVID made me paranoid — cart handles, my phone, anything touched by human hands. I’ve relaxed about most of that. What I can’t get ahead of is sharing a spoon with someone who has no concept of germ theory and does not care. I sample things off her tray to encourage her to eat. She samples my lunch with her eyes until I give in. That’s the deal. I’m a willing accomplice.

Oklahoma cedar season is technically over, but I’m not ruling it out. I lived in Texas 15 years and never touched an allergy pill — thought I was immune, that pollen and I had some kind of truce. It left me alone long enough that I got cocky. Now my daily regimen is not exactly intimidating: a multivitamin, an allergy pill, and a baby aspirin. Not a real aspirin. A baby one.

The aches don’t stop me from anything. They don’t usually last more than an hour. Still cooking meals, planting flowers, escorting Ellie from one approved zone to the next.

Whatever it is — age, pollen, shoes, shared spoons — I’ll keep sleeping well and showing up. She’s going to grab that finger again tomorrow whether I’m ready or not.

Ellie at Almost One: Teeth Optional

Almost a year old and still no teeth. She’s not worried about it, and neither am I. Steak can wait.

What has changed is the noise. It used to be a reliable loop of da-da-da from morning until she crashed. Now she’s experimenting — new sounds, new combinations, little vocal detours I haven’t heard before. I started repeating them back to her. She either returns the exact sound or tweaks it slightly, like she’s filing a small correction on my pronunciation. The negotiation phase of our relationship has begun. Once the teeth show up, she’ll unlock version 2.0.

I haven’t personally witnessed the ten-step solo walk yet, but I’ve heard the reports. Credible sources. I’ve spent months extending my hand the moment she wants to stand, and apparently she doesn’t always need it anymore. I watch her parents stand a few feet away and wave her toward them like a tiny flight crew directing a plane to the gate. I understand the instinct. But grandparents don’t care about charts or percentiles — we don’t care about the milestones on someone else’s timeline. We care that the baby smiles and crawls toward us. That’s what recharges my battery. My job is to hold out the hand a little longer than is strictly necessary, and feel completely fine about it.

The toys lately are wood shapes and colored golf balls — not together by design, but they ended up together anyway because that’s how Ellie operates. Rings, stackable shapes, balls. And our coffee table, which has grooves along the side that are exactly the right size to wedge the wooden pieces into. I did not plan this. The coffee table did not consent. But Ellie spotted the opportunity immediately and has committed to filling those grooves every single visit, then yanking everything out with a satisfaction that’s hard to describe. I occasionally loosen a piece that’s too tight. Grandpa as silent co-conspirator. Works for both of us.

The Sleeping Grandpa Gambit

She still tries to rouse me when I’m pretending to sleep. I’ve gotten better at holding the bit longer — eyes shut, no reaction, even as I hear her crawling over to stage her intervention. She grabs a finger and pulls. I stay down. She reconsiders. Pulls harder. I’m not going to pretend I always win this one.

Naptimes are still neither of our favorites. Once she’s asleep, great. The part before that — where she looks at me like I’ve deeply betrayed her by placing her in the crib — I haven’t made peace with that yet. I’ve started the white noise a few minutes early, hold her with the blanket, wait for the signs. Drooping head. Eye rub. Sometimes she goes down without much protest. Other times she wakes up 40 minutes later standing in the crib at full volume, and I have to honestly ask: was she sleeping, or just considering her options quietly? Either way, I do my best and hope her mom arrives before the crankies fully set in.

Every day I babysit her, I want to give her a good experience. Her parents don’t tip, but Ellie’s smile more than covers it. When I have other things I’d like to be doing and she decides this is a perfect moment to inspect every room in the house or eat half an apple very slowly — I try to remember that most people don’t get this.

My patience isn’t perfect. It’s getting better. The sarcasm is not going anywhere, though. Judging by some of Ellie’s expressions lately, she’s already picking it up.