“Hi Dad. How is Mom feeling today?” Amy, our oldest daughter, is always so caring and concerned about others. She knew her mother was ill and, as usual, she was the first of our children to call and inquire about her mothers’ current status. Yet, as I heard her voice utter those innocent words, I sensed just a hint of urgency in her tone of voice. I felt something, a barely noticeable awareness, and an intuitive sense of impending doom. All of my defenses were summoned unconsciously, collectively forming in anticipation of the question I knew was coming. Gathering like the swirling mist of an early morning fog my thoughts began to race exploring every alternative, searching for a way out. Amy and I continued our discussion of my wife’s illness and recovery with my brain multi-tasking the parallel experience of concerned husband, proud father, and panic-stricken victim. Now I knew the feeling the swimmer lounging and enjoying the waters of some beautiful lagoon felt when they first saw the dorsal fin of the shark circling, close by, preparing for the final approach. As we shifted into small talk about other subjects, I could hear the theme of the great white shark, from the movie “Jaws”, droning with a steadily increasing tempo. Amy is a wonderful, kind and sensitive daughter but now she was a mother on a mission! The moment I had known would some day come was here. I knew the drill but this time I would not be the understudy for the star. This time there was no one else to pass the baton to. Amy’s voice swelled to a crescendo as her tension grew and she finally released her request. A simple and honorable request every mother has to make at some point in time. A request every grandfather is confronted with at some point. “Dad, I need someone to watch the girls just for an hour or two while I run some errands. I promise I won’t be long. The girls really want to see their Papaw.” I heard Arielle in the background saying, “Papaw can you come over and play?” My voice, without warning, immediately answered yes to both questions as my mind was still reeling with thoughts of indecision and incompetence. I hung up the phone after saying goodbye to Arielle and Chloe, smiling and feeling awkwardly anxious.
My wife can always tell. No matter how well I disguise my actual concerns and wrap them in some embellished rhetoric the subtle nuances of my feelings are always picked up by her radar. I was doting on her and slowly, ineffectively collecting myself for the journey to the land of children when she caught me gently by the arm and did what she always does. She reached right past all my blustering defenses and touched me with that intimate connection, the intricate combination of loving experience we have shared for such a long time. “You’ll do fine”, she said as I started to leave. “Remember this is your first chance to really let your granddaughters get to know you. You’re not their babysitter you’re their Papaw.” I kissed her goodbye and walked to the car wondering whose idea was it to call me that silly name anyway. It seems so archaic and awkward. What was ever wrong with Grandpa? That at least has some ring of tradition and familiarity. I grumbled my way out of the driveway and distracted myself further with thoughts of similar silliness in an effort to cope with the anxiety I was feeling. Oh, I have earned my stripes in the trenches of parenting. I have war stories to swap with any other veterans of the campaigns fought in previous years. The battle of the bulge (changing diapers), dodging the artillery (feeding a toddler), guard duty (stairs, cabinets, drawers), and being a medic (middle of the night vigils complete with rocking chair and Amoxycillin). But that was a long time ago.
“PAPAW!!!!!” Arielle raced ahead of her sister, Chloe, and wrapped her arms around my legs as Chloe stood there dancing, side to side, staring at me through her Mickey Mouse glasses. Amy and I exchanged pleasantries as she got her coat and gave me instructions on naptime and snacks as the girls began their onslaught dragging me down the hallway to their bedrooms. Amy paused just before leaving and with a knowing nod, which seemed very familiar; she said, “The girls are really excited you’re here to be with them. You’ll do fine.” Then she was gone. I was lost in the sounds of musical toys and Dora the Explorer.
There we were the three of us sitting in the middle of the floor. A, 51 year old psychologist, father of four and grandfather of three with his three year old and eighteen month old granddaughters. I am an expert in human behavior and problem solving of the developmental issues of human experience. Yet sitting there with all my professional training and skills fashioned in the process of helping others cope with the challenges of life something became obvious to me. Something I think my wife and daughter were trying to tell me intuitively. Gradually I knew. As Arielle challenged me with her quick wit and intense curiosity about so many different things and Chloe entertained me with her circus act of funny faces and tumbling giddy enjoyment I saw and heard my children. I remembered the four of them in nanosecond snapshots. I was reconnecting to the natural and joyous reality of being with children. My grandchildren. We moved into the living room for more fun and I sat there and taught them, Hand- hand- fingers- thumb, dumditty dumditty dum dum dum. The transition was almost complete. One final challenge remained. The girls waited expectantly with wide-eyed grins. Arielle showed me one last time and cheered me on as I gathered all five foot seven inches of tubby- torso and did the first tumbling somersault I had done in many, many years. I was exhilarated and the girls were thrilled. My renewal was complete! I reveled in it.
Life is not always about skills and expertise. Some things are more important. Amy and my wife had reminded me as only they could. Somewhere, in the midst of Blues Clues and tumbling drills, in the rediscovery of games and rituals conceived in fatherhood, I was now reconnected to what had been before. The essence of parenting and grand-parenting was not in the medals earned in previous years of toil with our children. Nor was it in the myriad skills accumulated over time, which make us competent caregivers. No, it is in fully allowing ourselves to be, really be with them as who we are. The girls had helped to remind me. There had been a renewal of awareness, a rekindling of connection.
I pulled out of the driveway with Amy and the girls waving from the window. The smile on my face was irrepressible as I hummed the songs I had learned from the girls. Papaw. What a great name.
Michael D. Griffith, Ph.D.
(1190 word count, 5 minutes)