Grandparenting cancels Father's day

It’s Father’s Day, here in Spain, and I’m on a train towards Madrid to spend a few days with the grandkids, Matilda and Elliott, who live in the hills above the city. 

Not that Father’s Day applies to me. Apparently. Matilda and Elliott’s father, Nicky, my dedicated and supportive son, went to some lengths to explain to me that once you’ve become a grandfather, you lose the rights of a father. It seems the two statuses are mutually incompatible, like being a professional or an amateur sportsman: turn professional and you lose your amateur status.

So I’m facing a curious reversal of roles: today, I have to treat my son as a father, and indeed give him the consideration appropriate for Father’s Day. As a mere grandfather, I’m entitled to no such treatment from my son.

Just as well as I’ve never celebrated Father’s Day in my life.

Fortunately, the grandchildren will make up for all that. Matilda already announced the day before yesterday that she wanted Granddad to come ‘today’ not in two days’ time. As I pointed out in my last grandparenting post, she’s good at the distinction between today and the future. Today, she makes it very clear, is the moment to fulfil her wishes, not some vague date to come.

I’m looking forward to seeing her. It’ll be fun, as it always is. But she also has a more particular need for some additional affection, which I hope I can provide in a grandfatherly way. She’s broken a collarbone. I salute the guts she showed by climbing to the top of a large rock in a park near her home, but I lament the misfortune that led to her falling back down it, and which has left her with a broken clavicle and her right arm in a sling.

Matilda with her sling

As for Elliott, I’m looking forward to having some more conversation with him. 

He’s easy to talk to. Above all, he’s easy to amuse. In our video calls, I’ve taken to roaring at him from time to time. The effect is always to produce a beaming and seductive smile.

He has recently begun roaring back at me. But, without wanting to blow my own trumpet – or my own roar – too much, I think I have the edge on him for now. He can’t produce quite the same volume of deepthroated roar that I can. Not yet, at any rate. But it doesn’t matter, since his roars get me smiling just as warmly as he smiles in response to mine. 

So we have a roaring time.

Elliott in reflective mood
Scouting a new opportunity for mischief perhaps?

And what more do I need to celebrate Father’s Day?