Grandparents are parents too

This week I’m granddad again. 

I started taking the kids to school on Monday, and it all went smoothly enough, except when I tried to push the buggy up onto a low kerb. Not low enough, apparently, as the kerb stopped us dead and the shock provoked a sharp reprimand from Matilda, who sits in front, looking forward. Elliott is on the upper level, looking backwards at me, and therefore observer of the author of this incompetence. Matilda’s reproach and Elliott’s look were more than enough to make it clear that my ineptitude was not appreciated.

Matilda goes in front
In case you’re wondering what she’s eating,
cheese is a favourite (for now).
And it has to be Cheddar if she can’t get Comté: 
Her English and French ancestry runs strong

Elliott sits at the back, up high, from where
he keeps an eye on his granddad’s blunders

Anyway, all’s well as ends well, and it ended well enough. We got to school in one piece – well, three pieces, one each – and in good shape to face the day. What’s more, this little dose of grandparenting had one curious by-product: it got me thinking of what came before it. That’s the time before I was a grandparent, and instead did a bit of parenting. 

The thing about kids is that they can be a source of great joy. Note that I didn’t use either of the words ‘constant’ or ‘unalloyed’. There are moments when the joy is temporarily suspended. Quite a few moments. And not always all that temporary.

But let’s start this little trip down photographic memory lane with a picture of one of the boys, Nicky, father of Matilda and Elliott, in 1986 when he was pretty much Matilda’s age. It shows him at his most adorable. Or at any rate least diabolical.

Nicky in a moment of (temporarily) suspended mischief

His brother, Michael, a year and a half older, could be bearable too, at that time, just as long as he was in that same state.

Michael equally angelic, equally briefly

Sadly, this wonderful state of sleep never lasted long. Most memorably, it was interrupted a year later at a particularly early, and particularly painful, time of day. This was the moment they decided to get creative.

Now, creativity is great. Art is wonderful. And there’s no reason, naturally, why fine painters shouldn’t focus their art on a room’s walls. Why, look at how many magnificent murals have graced the history of art.

Diego Rivera self-reflecting: a mural about painting murals

Still, Michael and Nicky’s efforts didn’t entirely match Diego Rivera’s for artistry, though I suspect they must have rivalled him for sheer energy. And for extent. Because, once they’d sneaked the powder paints from the cupboard where we thought we’d hidden them safely, they didn’t stop at the walls. The carpet and the furniture got its fair share of creative passion too.

No comment necessary

Now, if you’re thinking that we must have spent hours clearing all that happen, think again. Very little of the content of their room was recoverable by mere cleaning. Oh, no. We hadn’t planned – or budgeted – for the complete redecoration of the boys’ room. That, though, is what we had to go for.

Ah, that was 1987. A vintage year. In August, we went to lovely Lake Como, in Northern Italy, with these two (David, the eldest of the three, was already on the brink of adulthood and far better at looking after himself). They dressed appropriately for playing near a lake in the Italian summer. Enjoy the sight of the image cultivated by the well-dressed canoeist that season.

Nicky (above) and Michael enjoying the lake near Como

By the autumn, though, they were back to their old ways. We had a day at the seaside in Hastings and, of course, the boys wanted to go in. But this time there was no question of dressing appropriately for the occasion. Dressing appropriately? What’s wrong with the clothes we’re already wearing? Good enough for the land, they’re surely good enough for the sea, aren’t they?

Nicky (left) and Michael enjoying the sea near Hastings
Well, it was an English autumn and far too cold to undress

Ah, well. Prudent parents carry changes of kids’ clothes, and they can be washed (the kids and the clothes). Michael and Nicky were obviously enjoying themselves, and isn’t ensuring that the children are having fun a far more important part of parenthood than teaching them sensible, disciplined behaviour? And doesn’t that apply in spades to grandparenthood?

To those who answer ‘no’, discipline and good sense are vital at any time, I’d just point to some of our most successful men today and ask, did they ever learn those things? I leave you to provide the names – whoever you choose is more than likely to make my point for me.

The boys were three (Nicky) and four and a half (Michael) back then. We clearly have all this to look forward to with delight, or possibly trepidation, in the near future from Matilda and Elliott.

And, Elliott and Matilda, if and when you get to read this, your Dad, Nicky, is the one on the left. Download a copy of the photo and keep it around you. Just for those moments when he tells you to stop misbehaving.

Look how much fun he (and your uncle) got from misbehaving.