Derrick Coyle
I’ve been hearing the rumours for some time now.
The incessant gushing of ebullient friends, family, and colleagues who arrived there before me and speak of this life-altering phenomenon known as … grandparenthood.
It seemed oddly coincidental that virtually every grandparent I came across, raved about the experience. Surely there was some kind of skulduggery at play; a clever ploy to dupe the self-absorbed and recruit fresh membership from a pool of holdouts, caught temporarily off guard.
Admittedly, it was not so long ago I was in no particular rush to get there. After all, what more damning evidence of having made the turn into life’s back nine, than the admission of being a grandparent? Hell, it seemed I’d hardly finished being a kid, myself!
Besides, I couldn’t possibly be ready – grandpas drive speed-governed Buicks, with perpetually blinking left-turn signals. They’re the silver-headed curmudgeons sporting ill-fitting leisure suits and silly gray hats. They can often be spotted a step behind fashion-flummoxed spouses with spray-stiffened bouffants, storming the doors of Swiss Chalet for a 4:30 pm seating, before the Friday bingo.
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My wife and I were blessed with two beautiful daughters. Raising them has been our privilege; watching them grow into the wonderful women they are, our greatest parental reward.
In life’s cocktail of opportunities and challenges; wishes and realities; triumphs and disappointments, a parent’s hope is for their children to find their way to people, pursuits, and a life that brings joy and fulfills dreams.
In the past few years, both our daughters celebrated marriages and made homes with fine young men. We live a short distance apart and enjoy each others company often. We consider ourselves very fortunate.
A week ago, we learned we had become grandparents.
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While the process of birth and babies may be much the same as it’s always been, there comes new perspective in sharing such a monumental life event, as a grandparent.
After nearly six decades of life experience, perceptions are different than they once were.
In our day, youthful bluster tended to leave us with flawed assumptions and expectations. The principal area of concern in the field of reproduction was more apt to have involved contraceptive reliability, than the prospect of complication with fertility or conception. When we were ready – so we thought – we would just go ahead and have a baby.
We now better appreciate the complexity of conception and the uncertainties that come with conceived pregnancies. We’ve learned over time and through example, there are simply no guarantees.
And we have a deeper appreciation for the gift of health than we may have had thirty years ago as young parents. With the passage of time, we’ve inevitably witnessed – somewhere in our circles – the reality and heartache of the alternative.
It seems we come to understand, we’re not quite as invincible as we once believed. It’s a maturity of perspective that does nothing to ease the worry along the way, but it does leave us immeasurably grateful for the blessings we’ve known.
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The grandparental perspective also involves the delivery of an infant into our world under entirely different life conditions than when parenting our own. For some of us, I suspect it is an opportunity for one of life’s great do-overs – where time, patience, and pocket change are often in greater supply. Many of us also have a much more accommodating set of life priorities. Even at this early stage, it’s easy to see how a grandparent gains so much joy sharing in the developing lives of their grandchildren.
For me, the bond is already a special one. As the offspring of immigrant Irish and Scottish parents, the kids of our household had very little exposure to grandparents.
On my dad’s side, I met my Irish grandfather once – at age one – during my first trip to Scotland where he had visited us not long before his passing. On my mother’s side, I was introduced to my grandmother during the same trip to Scotland, and spent time with her again during her month-long visit to Canada in the mid-60’s.
My closest relationship was with my maternal grandfather, developed in several extended visits he made to Canada and my own three-week trip overseas at age 14. It is from this relatively short, but dearly treasured relationship, that I chose to be called Grandad – the moniker of affection I knew him by.
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My octogenarian parents are thrilled at having become first-time great-grandparents, as it happens, by their first grandchild. But such occasions also turn our thoughts to people unable to share in the celebration. Sadly, neither maternal grandparent lived to meet their great-grandchild – whose middle name, Romeo, honours my daughter’s pepère, who passed away five years ago.
Perhaps the most poignant experience with the arrival of this first representative of a new generation for our family, is witnessing one’s own child transform so naturally and beautifully into the role of mother. In a lifetime of making us proud, we cannot imagine being any prouder or happier for her than we are right now.
It’s a powerful wave of emotions when a daughter gives birth to her first child with the memory of her own birth still so vivid.
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The bond with a grandchild is instant. There is also an immediate appreciation for the mosaic of physical features and characteristics rooted in the respective bloodlines.
Before us lay a tiny, perfect bundle of hope and opportunity, who from this point on, will draw from the influence and guidance of his parents, his extended family, and the world around him, to grow into the boy and man he will ultimately become.
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Just a few days into grandparenthood, I humbly confess that there appears to have been some truth to those rumours, after all.
And, I’ve also become kind of partial to gray hats.
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