Grandpa H sounds surreal; hope it lasts for years

As I drive to Reading, Pa., to meet my week-old granddaughter, the title Grandpa Holleran remains surreal, although I’ve heard it a hundred times. My grandson Wes, who is approaching 2½ years, has begun to use that term. But it remains odd, as if somebody started the DVD of my life story, advanced the scene selector too far, and stopped at grandparenthood.

Turn it back. I’m too young, too active, although I willingly accept the role of grandfather. I am sure I’ll shed a tear in a private moment when I hold Vivian Grace for the first time and hum “The Irish Lullaby’’ in her ear, just as I did for infant Wes.

That’s the joy of grandparenting. Play with them, read with them, laugh with them, even sing to them, but pass them off just when it is time to change a pungent diaper.

I’ve spent time reflecting on this emerging role. I am wishing for more than my predecessors. My maternal grandfather was killed in a road construction accident when I was about 2½. Never knew him. My paternal grandfather passed when I was 14.  I wasn’t mature enough to measure him as a man, to understand his impact on the family.

My own father, Francis, passed at 61. I recall the grief, the lionizing, the impact he had on his community over 40 years ago, but I was only 24, smart enough to “know it all’’ but too young to place everything in perspective. My mother Eileen’s words still ring in my head: “It’s what you learn after you know it all that counts.’’

Her words still resonate. Age and parenthood wizened me up. Instead of bellyaching about what I don’t have, I’ve learned to appreciate what I’ve got.

I wished my father, Fran Holleran, the Morristown athletic director, had been around to experience his grandchildren. He would have reveled in watching Caitrin Considine excel at lacrosse in northern Virginia, or Michael Francis Holleran lead the fast break for Lemon Bay High School in Englewood, Fla., or Claire Holleran win a NJCAA national title as an Alfred State cross country runner. He would have equally appreciated Liam Francis Holleran competing in Masterminds or Mary Brigid Considine leading Fisher House efforts on behalf of veterans, but, given his love of underdogs, I suspect he would have rooted mightily for Katie Holleran at Special Olympics. Instead of warning me not to trip over the sidelines in the Morristown gym, he’d have told Katie to watch the lines in the snow — “They just painted them.’’ True to her Holleran DNA, she did fall over the finish line and she did win first place.

Why whine when there is so much to celebrate? Sure, he missed his great grandchildren — Padraic Considine’s son, Viggo, Erin Holleran Carter’s daughter, Reese, Michael’s son, Noah, and Claire’s children. But it’s my generation’s turn at grandparenting. My turn has been filled with reading “Go Dog Go,” running and swinging in the park, watching fireworks and Christmas lights, and climbing on jungle gyms.

In the wee hours one night, Vivian Grace and I made our tour of a darkened house.

“Too ra loo ra loo ral,  too ra loo ra lie.
“Too ra loo ra loo ral, that’s an Irish lullaby.’’

As she drifted back to sleep (babies and retired guys have the best lives, although babies don’t have delusional dreams of the Super Senior PGA Tour), I wondered what the future might hold. Will she be thrilled to gather with her cousins at Aunt Maureen’s riverside home each summer? Will she jump in the St. Lawrence River and shiver from the cool water? Will she sit transfixed with oohs and aahs when the firemen shoot July Fourth fireworks over Holleran Field? Sports? Medicine? Adirondacks climbing? Gosh, writing?

I hope I’m around to witness it all. It just depends on the fates.