The week was going to be a refresher course on parenthood. It turned out to be basic training.
I was a little skittish last Friday when I picked up my granddaughter Vivian for the first time in two months, she locked her eyes on this aging face and burst into a howl. Though a mere 16 pounds, she had the capacity to make you feel like a raw service recruit who had irritated his boot camp drill sergeant. She spared me the tears, but the wailing was damaging enough.
This Reading-Rochester-Akron-Reading shuffle included three 5½-hour car rides – thank goodness our daughter Claire came along – so Mary’s parents could meet their first great-granddaughter. We worried how Vivian and her mischievous 2½-year-old brother would handle all the travel over an eight-day stretch. Our fears were unfounded.
On Day 1, there would be pickleball, which meant the grandparents were flying solo for 3-4 hours, including feeding breakfast to the dynamic diaper duo.
Claire had planned outings with her old pals and an evening of pickleball with her mother. There were trips planned to the zoo, pool and The Strong National Museum of Play, all while grandma was away at work.
Let my parenting trial begin. I already was being ridiculed for an aversion to changing diapers. I was being chastised for unwittingly dropping four-letter words in front of the grandchildren. Plus I hadn’t outlived my 40-year-old nickname – The Narcoleptic Man – borne from an ability to doze off anywhere.
This had the makings of a long week. Walking across a bed of hot coals – even poopy diapers – seemed easier. Around 3 p.m. Friday, I gave myself a passing grade.
There were trials along the way. After rising at 5 a.m. for my basketball game and foregoing a nap, I told Claire everything would be fine just before she headed out to lunch with an old friend. Vivian, resembling a Gerber Baby model, cooed and beamed. Her electric smile was disarming. Nothing could go wrong. That’s when I became overconfident.
I dozed off for a moment. When I regained my senses, I found a sleeping 6-month-old in my arms and an inquisitive boy sitting on a stool near the kitchen counter. He was treating himself to unlimited grapes. I chased him back to the TV where the Octonauts played on a loop. Crisis solved.
Unfortunately, I dozed again. This time Wesley moved the stool to the other end of the kitchen and raided a plastic tray of chocolate chip cookies. I think he devoured a half-dozen before I interceded. He deserved his own episode of Octonauts. Call him The Guppy with Octopus Arms.
This little man gave me a run for my money. He would dive three feet from the sofa to the ottoman or hurl toys over the gate across the basement stairs, just to see if I was paying attention.
On Wednesday, I mastered the seventh-inning stretch. That entailed watching every pitch of a tight, 1-0 Cleveland Guardians victory over the Toronto Blue Jays while changing two diapers in the late innings. Phew! Take me out to the garbage cans.
My Grandfather Hall of Fame move came when I broke my addiction to golf. I worked the phones, found a sub for my league and dispatched mother and daughter to the pickleball courts. They bonded over dinking and smashing and whatever else they do. I made sure to count diapers changed and bottles emptied, all with a shrug of the shoulders and the false modesty of “that’s what grandpas do.’’
By Friday, with great grandma, grandma and mom out shopping and great grandpa napping, I flew solo again. I’m talking World War I dogfighting ace in my Sopwith Camel.
I had learned to read Vivian’s sobs and moods. We headed for the blanket on the living room floor for tummy time – Vivian’s tiny bulge and my rotund Guinness Stout tumor. She beamed.
She cried. I knew she was wet. Remedied that one too.
She fussed some more. I figured out it was the tooth popping through her bottom gums. Teething ring!
She whined a little after a lunchtime bottle. We walked the floor, popped in front of every mirror to see her reflection, and lilted (lumbered?) through “When Irish Eyes are Smiling’’ and “Mother Machree.’’ She melted into her afternoon nap. I’ve always had that capacity to put women to sleep.
At bedtime, I completed the doubleheader with “To-Ra-Loo-Ra-Loo-Ral’’ and Vivian was off to dreamland.
By Saturday, my world was simplified. We passed the children and Claire back to her husband Brian along the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Vivian shot me one last beaming smile. Wes ignored me. He kept my ego grounded.
Morristown native Jim Holleran is a retired teacher and sports editor from Rochester. Reach him at jimholleran29@gmail.com or view past columns under “Reflections of River Rat’’ at https://hollerangetsitwrite.com/blog/
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