memories

Grandpa’s Job Description Is Still Under Review

Two days in a row, I got to help my daughter with a different assortment of kids. Both adventures were worthwhile, although one definitely fell more in the grandma column.

On Wednesday, with very little notice, Abby let Judy and me know that the twins’ echocardiogram appointment was in just over an hour. Could one of us go with her? I’m pretty sure this was the first I’d heard of the appointment, but my schedule was more flexible than Judy’s. Rather than have me drive to her house and leave from there, Abby swung by to pick me up.

As we drove, Abby caught me up on her week. With her mother-in-law in town, we hadn’t seen as much of her or the kids. Their house isn’t that big, and we wanted to make sure the other grandma, who lives out of town, had plenty of time with her son and family. Living with an in-law can be challenging in unexpected ways. Abby may have shared a couple of examples, but I’ve forgotten the details. Since I’m also somebody’s in-law, I’ll stick with the unofficial motto: “Smile, nod, and pretend we didn’t hear that.”

The underground parking garage threatened to delay us further. Drivers waiting for a space could block the entire flow of traffic until they gave up or attempted to squeeze into a spot clearly designed for a smaller vehicle. After watching three or four of these negotiations, we finally got lucky. A truck pulled out of a space that required no complicated maneuvering, but a couple of cars coming the other way seemed to think they had dibs. We’d traveled all the way to the end of the garage and back, and I wasn’t about to let somebody who hadn’t earned the spot take it from us. After briefly considering a career in parking enforcement, I removed my male-Karen hat and returned to Grandpa mode.

Once we found the right office and entertained the waiting-room crowd with a few peeks at the twins, we got down to business. Incredibly, they had two echocardiogram setups, so Abby could stay with one baby while I handled the other. Newborns can have heart murmurs, and since the insurance was available and my daughter is thorough, we were there for the full experience. The technicians examined the little hearts from several angles. Not much real estate to look at, but the technician knew what she was doing.

Twin A, the second one born, was a little more restless than her older sister, Twin A. Abby started feeding Twin B while I stayed with Twin A. When Twin B finished eating, I walked the halls burping Twin A while Mommy took care of the other end of the operation. Abby was grateful they gave her a place to feed the girls. I just looked like a lost grandpa with reasonably good baby skills. We hit traffic on the way home, but since this was Abby’s old commute to work, there weren’t many surprises. One appointment down, two babies cared for, and no one had to explain the burping procedure to me.

Thursday’s mission was more straightforward: spend time with Ellie while Mommy ran errands. My first assignment was to get the garage-door guy taken care of, which requires a little background.

I have one rule for airport transportation: Make your reservation so I don’t have to leave the house before 6:00 a.m. Judy was heading to North Carolina to see her parents, and her sister had arranged the flight using points. Judy’s 4:20 Uber pickup had been uncertain the night before, so I’d removed Ellie’s car seat in case Judy needed to take my car and park at the airport. When I woke up, the car was still there, but the front door and light were on. Judy had successfully escaped without my assistance.

All week, she’d told me her flight was sometime after 8:00, so I’d prepared for a 6:00 wake-up. Four o’clock was another matter. My taxi service has limited operating hours, and sleep deprivation isn’t covered by the family discount. Book an early-morning flight at your own peril.

After taking nearly ten minutes to reinstall Ellie’s car seat, I was ready to ask the garage-door guy to do it for me. His online bio mentioned six kids. Surely, a man with six children could handle a car seat faster than I could. I agreed to new garage-door rollers and the maintenance we’d already discussed, paid him, locked the doors, and headed out before he finished.

Abby had a few stops on her list. First was Carter’s, where she wanted to find clothes for the first professional family picture with all three kids on Saturday morning. While Mom shopped, Ellie and I wandered the parking lot collecting a few “balls” from the cypress trees. An older couple had deliberately parked under one of the trees, despite the threat of dripping sap. They were wiser than I was. At least they had some shade. I was more concerned about the paint job than the people inside the car.

Next came Walmart. Abby had a few things to pick up, and I needed baking soda, the bargain-priced version of the pool chemical that pool stores are happy to sell for five times as much. Both raise the alkalinity just fine, but one costs a whole lot less. Ellie, meanwhile, seemed determined to pull as much Gatorade and peanut butter off the shelves as we would tolerate. The glass jars of jelly were where we drew the line. Grandpa has his limits, and they include broken glass in the grocery aisle.

Costco was our final stop, and that’s where Abby had a realization: “I should probably teach her how to better drink from a cup.”

With all the samples available, Ellie got to try several different drinks. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get the bottom lip of the cup above her tongue. She drank every sample like a butterfly extending its proboscis into a flower. It was an impressive demonstration of how to get liquid into your mouth while bypassing most of the equipment designed for that purpose. Her shirt left Costco considerably wetter than when she arrived.

Then the hangries hit. After tracking down the new location for the freeze-dried mangoes, we ripped open the bag right there in the cart and bought ourselves enough peace to get Mom and Ellie home. Ellie’s hands and cheeks were sticky, her shirt was wet, and she’d consumed enough mango to make the rest of the trip manageable. By the time we arrived, she was no longer my problem. She was the other grandma’s problem, because Abby had twins to feed. That’s what I call a successful handoff.

When I was raising my own kids, I generally knew my lane. As a grandparent, particularly one in a semi-retired state, I’m still looking for the lane markings. I get a request and enthusiastically embrace it. I want to help, and I appreciate Abby giving me the opportunity to make her life a little easier. Whether that means accompanying her to a medical appointment, walking the halls with a baby who needs burping, or supervising a toddler’s experiments with drinking cups, I’m happy to pitch in.

If Abby is nearby, I don’t even have to be the responsible party. I can concentrate on the fun stuff or the burping. I know what to do with both ends of a baby, so there isn’t much I’m going to walk away from. Some requests might require a deep, cleansing breath. Others will get an enthusiastic, “I was hoping you’d ask.”

I’m still learning the grandpa job description, but the basic requirements are simple: show up, pitch in, and don’t be afraid to get your fingernails a little dirty. I’ll keep enrolling students in Grandpa’s Diaper Rash Academy for as long as my kids keep giving me the opportunity. Tuition is free, the hours are flexible, and graduation usually involves somebody handing me a baby who needs changing.

Retirement Is a Full-Time Job

I am having a real time problem. Retirement was supposed to hand me buckets of free time. Instead I’ve traded one calendar for four, plus a grocery list that never ends.

On the bright side, I’m collecting misadventures faster than ever. Documenting them is where I keep losing. So here’s the current lineup of things eating my hours, in the order they occurred to me.

The hockey boys are back, appetites fully intact. They eat well, generally. What we’ve learned is that “eating well” comes with fine print.

For years we blamed their parents for this. A childhood of fast food runs between practices will shape a palate. This year’s contribution to the family vocabulary is the classic “I don’t eat tomatoes” and “I don’t eat cheese,” which after some gentle interrogation turns out to mean no whole tomatoes and no cheese specifically on tacos or hamburgers. Somehow that’s more specific while creating more questions.

We’re navigating it. What we haven’t solved is quantity, since we’re still cooking for our local kids too, and it’s only the start of the second week of practice. Once the warm-up leftovers start surviving in the fridge instead of getting fought over as second dinner after nine o’clock, that’s our signal it’s safe to go back to boring.

Then there’s the billet coordinator, who giveth and taketh. Really, it’s the coach making every call. The coordinator is just one of the minions relaying it with a cheerful “yes, sir.”

All of our boys made it through the first cut and played in the intrasquad scrimmage. One didn’t show well and was on a plane to “Plan B” the next day. The bed sat empty exactly one night before a non-tendered, non-drafted player got invited to move out of his hotel and into ours. I got a little scrappy making that happen, and I regret nothing.

We don’t do this for the money. It doesn’t hurt that there is some, and in exchange we feed these kids well and let them load up the wifi with all of their devices. And, if feeling extremely generous, we even let them control their own thermostat at night.

In three weeks I’m scheduled to acquire two more granddaughters. My daughter is finishing her last week of Zoom consulting, and everyone has quietly agreed it’s better to have grandpa on standby than to have her explain to a client that she needs a minute for baby maintenance.

So my calendar now includes clementine distribution and teaching a toddler exciting new ways to play with toys she already owns, mostly because grandpa needs the entertainment. This is genuinely on my top ten list of things I want to be doing with my life. It has been fulfilling, but grandpa needs a little variety there, too.

The last item is the one I complain about the least: getting to know these hockey kids while I still have them under my roof. Dinners run long. Plans get pushed to make room for them.

Any of them could be gone tomorrow or here through the end of the season, and I’d rather spend the time now than look back in April wishing I had. The billet fees cover food, laundry access, and the basics of keeping a teenager alive. I haven’t run the actual math, but I’d bet money we don’t turn a profit on any of it.

Somewhere between retirement, travel, and grandkids we apparently can’t say no to, the hockey hosting is going to get squeezed out eventually. Whenever that day comes, I want to have done it well and left these boys wanting more, not counting down the days until we stop showing up.

Nobody handed me a vote on how this fall’s schedule filled up, and I wouldn’t trade a single piece of it. I’ll find the time somewhere. Probably by writing shorter posts about it, which defeats the purpose, but here we are.

Father’s Day: Same Tune, New Dance Steps (and a Double-Fly Finale)

Father’s Day this year had all the usual suspects—family, food, and a flurry of “Happy Father’s Day” messages—but also a few new twists that made it stand out. Here’s the recap from the Dad’s-eye-view:

Family Greetings: The Modern Medley

  • In person: Two kids, now in the same city, delivered their best wishes face-to-face—always a treat.
  • Remote: Another kid texted (he’d visited the day before, so he gets partial credit).
  • Combo platter: The youngest offered a text/phone hybrid greeting. Due to half the family being present during her call, her full “Father’s Day” enthusiasm was politely restrained. (I’m saving up for the encore performance.)

Highlight Reel: Dad’s Day Moments

1. The Double-Fly Clap of Legend

With my son as witness, I pulled off an Olympic-level “clap” maneuver—taking out two flies at once.

  • No fly swatter, no problem: Just raw dad reflexes and an innate sense for dramatic timing.
  • Aftermath: Flies disposed of, hands scrubbed, and my son reminded that Dad’s still got it.
  • Flies’ perspective: Worst Father’s Day gift ever.

2. The Men’s Choir: Not Quite the Tenors

At church, all the men got a front-row seat in the choir area.

  • Songs sung: Zero, unless you count my “joyful noising” (which the congregation might not).
  • Dress code: Just face forward at an awkward angle—wide shoulders are a blessing and a curse.
  • Practice required: None, unless you count my wife noticing my unorthodox posture.

3. Wicker Assembly: Dad vs. The Allen Wrench

Outdoor furniture assembly—round two, or, more accurately, round two out of four.

  • Muscle strain: Apparently, the Allen wrench is mightier than the sword…and my lower back.
  • Recovery time: Longer than it used to be, but I still have two chairs left (and plenty of excuses).
  • Note to future self: Next time, consider a nap before assembly.

4. Grandpa Duty: The Sleep Whisperer

After grilling chicken and enjoying dinner, I settled into my most important role—grandpa.

  • Game night: The rest played “Exploding Kittens” while I deployed my legendary baby-rocking skills.
  • Battle of wills: Granddaughter resisted, but ultimately surrendered to sleep, confirming my status as the Baby Whisperer (Retired, but still active).

Looking Ahead: Future Traditions

  • More grandkids? Bring them on—there’s always room for another lap.
  • Father’s Day traditions: If assembling wicker furniture is required in the future, I’ll propose that as my only contribution (with a generous side of supervision).

Here’s to Father’s Days that are the same, but a little different, every year—just the way I like them.