Anti-Gramps
by Beverly Beckham
This grandfather has a soft side after all.
I call him, with affection, the anti-grandfather. I laugh when I say this but it’s the truth: My husband does not like children.
He’ll tell you he does. He’ll tell you he likes them just fine. From a distance. Out of earshot. When they are sleeping. When they turn 20.
He maintains that he is simply not a kid person full of cutchie-cutchie-coos. But this is an understatement. “Will you please stop crying and tell me what you want?” he actually said to one of his own wailing children way back a million years ago when we were young and she was just a baby.
“Do you actually expect a 1-year-old to respond to ‘What do you want?'" I asked this man I’d pledged to love for better or worse. And he looked at me and in all seriousness answered, “Yes.”
He talks to children as if they are adults, always has, which is fine now because our children are adults. But when they were 2 and 3 and 7 and 10, he treated them as tiny 30-year-olds.
What he didn’t understand and doesn’t still is that children aren’t miniature grown-ups. They don’t complain when they’re hungry. They cry. They don’t curse when they fall down. They bellow. They don’t sulk when they don’t get what they want. They scream. And they whine sometimes, a lot of the time. And they have meltdowns when they’re tired. And they kick the back of chairs in movie theaters and on airplanes until you remind them, gently, — not with a mean look and pressure on their knee — not to.
They are impatient in lines and at restaurants. (“Why do they call them waiters when we’re the ones doing the waiting” my son piped up one day when he was 4 and we were too long staring at other people’s meals. This prompted my husband to nudge me and say, “See what happens when you treat a child like an adult?”) Admittedly it was an adult remark. But minutes later this very same child was sobbing because the waiter forgot his french fries.
I tried to explain to my husband then about empathy, “I’m sorry the waiter forgot your french fries. But he didn’t mean to. He’ll be right back, I promise.” That’s what you should have said to him. Not, what are you crying about? What are you crying about does not help a situation.
But empathy, sympathy, seeing things from a child’s point of view, eluded him.
Flash forward a few years, though, and give him a broken hearted 16-year-old and he is Mr. Understanding, Mr. Wonderful, Mr. I Can Do Nothing Wrong. He listens to her vent, then says all the right things. Then buys her a pretty bracelet and writes her a confidence-building note.
The truth is he was home free, skating on smooth ice for a long, long time, saying and doing everything just about right because our kids were finally grownups and he could relate! They had stopped begging to watch The Wonderful World of Disney when he was tuned into 60 Minutes. They didn’t balk every Thanksgiving when he insisted they try the herring and sour cream. They no longer rolled their eyes whenever he would attempt to persuade them with reason why they should or should not do something.
They actually listened to him. They even thanked him.
It was a love fest, I swear. I love you. You love me. We’re a happy family, minus Barney — for a good ten years.
And then our kids had kids.
Just one at first, a novelty, a cutie. My husband never cutchie-cutchie-cooed but he never said, “Will you please stop crying and tell me what you want?” either.
Then there were two and this one and his mom and dad lived with us for a while.
Then there were three and then four and now they are all here sometimes and someone is always spilling milk or Cheerios, or asking to watch Dora, or fussing because it’s nap time, or needing a diaper changed, or running into something, or getting a finger stuck in a door, or wanting to play ball or blow bubbles.
And the anti-grandfather has nowhere to run.
“Let’s watch golf,” he says to the 3-year-old.
“No, thank you. I want to watch “Backyardigans.”
“Try this,” he says to the 4-year-old and hands her an olive stuffed with blue cheese.
And she hands it back.
He’s different with Charlotte. She’s 8 months and hasn’t a clue that he likes big people better than little people. She reaches for him when he walks into a room and she sits on his lap and babbles and smiles and doesn’t fuss at all.
He reads the paper to her. They watch golf and football. He shows her the numbers on his BlackBerry.
The other day something startled her and she flinched and her lip trembled and she started to cry.
And he didn’t say, “Why the tears? You have nothing to cry about.” Amazingly, he didn’t say anything at all. He just did what grandfathers do. He held her close, patted her back, kissed her head, and smiled.
| So like my husband! We have four grandchildren from a yar and a half to five and a half years old.They can do know wrong at holiday dinners in our home.Of course,they each have something special to do at the table.When we go to a restaraunt,I always have "My Lovebug Bag" filled with the essentials and activities to do during that long 10 minute wait until pizza is served.All is well!
When we go out for a casual dinner and if there is a child within site,my loving husband says,"Let's change tables".I don't want any whining or noise.Well,that's PAPA....I was just slightly upset when we changed tables twice last week.I said,"You're a Grandfather" now.His response is the children should stay home.Restarants are for adults.Of course our grandchildren are the exceptions....I should never forget my bag full of activities!!!
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