Immersion grandparenting

Hammocks are fun, says Matilda

Since the grandkids are with us again, with their parents in tow, it struck me that I’d better get a move on with telling the story from back in February, of their most recent previous visit, when the parents weren’t in tow. Well, they were in tow enough to have one of them bring the kids to us and another pick them up four days later. That gave them (the parents) the chance to have a well-deserved weekend break together for the first time for, oh, centuries. In between we had the kids on our own.

That’s ‘immersion grandparenting’. With them alone, keeping them amused, out of trouble and away from danger, is down to us with no one to take over if (sorry, when) we get tired. It’s grandparenting without a net. Much the most exciting, if not a little exhausting, kind.

The kids are fine with us on their own these days. Matilda did mention on a couple of occasions that she’d like Mummy to give her a cuddle before she went to sleep, but it was without any real sorrow and she shed no tears – it felt rather like a formal protest as though to say that she wanted it on record that she missed her parents and, though she could cope with grandparental care for a short while, we weren’t to believe that she saw this as any kind of long-term arrangement.

When it came to entertaining them, my thanks are due to Matilda who came up with an excellent suggestion. There was a film she wanted to watch. Slightly thrown by her idiosyncratic pronunciation of the first syllable of the title, I spent some fruitless time looking for ‘Papa Troll’ which, you’ve got to admit, doesn’t sound like an impossible title for a kids’ film. It turns out that what she wanted was the second Paw Patrol film. To be honest, I wasn’t aware that there’d been a first film but, hey, you learn a lot from being with grandkids.

The price of the film was, I felt, reasonable. It was around eight euros. But the excellence of the economics only became fully apparent once we realised how often the kids could watch it. The price per child per viewing worked out at around ten cents, which is unbeatable value. And, when they finally decided they’d had enough of it, I’m glad to say I found Paw Patrol 1, at an even lower price, and again providing hours of entertainment.

Beach fun in February, with Elliott (l) and Matilda

Apart from the films, there’s one aspect to being with us in Valencia that the kids continue to perceive as outstandingly advantageous. I mean, apart from playing on the beach in February. That’s ice cream every day. At home, ice cream’s a luxury, available only on rare special occasions. So having ice cream every day is a kind of anticipated preview of heaven. 

There's playground fun to be had at the beach too

Also in Valencia, while the kids do have their own bikes, the alternative is to travel on kids’ seats on ours. This is a great source of pleasure. Since kids like rituals, there are of course traditions associated with these bike rides. For instance, on one occasion I was out with Elliott on the back of my bike, and we’d been gone some ten minutes when he suddenly piped up from the back, ‘why no bumpity-bump?’ 

Bumpity-bump is what we do when we go over what the English, in their cruel way, refer to as sleeping policemen, though technically I think they’re called traffic-calming measures. You know, those bumps in the road that are designed to slow motorists. I call out ‘bumpity’ as we hit one on a bike, and ‘bump’ when we come off the other side. He echoes the calls. Matilda does the same, I might add, whether on my bike or Danielle’s.

Well, on that occasion I’d gone ten minutes and crossed several bumps but without any bumpity-bumps. Elliott was, rightly, reminding me of the ritual which I had, quite honestly, forgotten. I remembered it for the rest of the ride. 

Making their own entertainment:
Elliott housecleaning, Matilda mastering colouring

Talking about Elliott, and specifically about Elliott talking, it’s time for me to admit that there are those in my family who rather question my prediction that he would be a strong silent type. It’s true that his sometimes-unquenchable loquacity might be seen as undermining my sense of his quietness. No one, mind you, questions his strength: seldom have I seen a kid who’ll pick himself up from pretty much any fall with so little apparent concern or spilling of tears. His sister’s pretty tough too, treating her own injuries – and of the two grandkids she’s the only one to have broken a bone or suffered a burn – with philosophical courage once the first shock has passed. But his resilience even at the time of the accident is remarkable. This suggests that Elliott’s as strong as I maintain, and his general willingness to take pain without complaint might even seem to prove my belief that he’s strong and silent, were it not that he has developed a readiness (how shall I put this) to be outspoken on other occasions and matters. A readiness he exercises frequently and at length.

Interestingly, his handling of language has apparently reached a new stage. He’s decided he doesn’t like qualifiers. ‘Lovely Elliott’, as Danielle inadvertently described him on one occasion, received the response ‘just Elliott’. He had no time for the expression ‘fresh orange juice’ either, insisting that what he was about to drink was simply ‘orange juice’. I’d be inclined to say that he had an admirable commitment to concision, if I didn’t expect him to correct that to ‘just commitment to concision’. 

While he’s become good at expressing himself, he hasn’t developed quite the same level of attachment to the process of listening. Or at any rate listening and obeying. It was biking that brought that out again, in a dramatic fashion. Danielle and I were about to take them out on our bikes, much to their delight – they like the bike seats and enjoying going ‘bumpity-bump’ on them to one or other playground (we’re becoming experts on the respective advantages and disadvantages of all the playgrounds anywhere near us, and quite a few that aren’t). Our brand of bike has a design flaw, which is that it has a built-in lock but, if we set the lock with a pedal next to the kickstand, it becomes impossible to unlock. I won’t bore you with the technical details, but I had to lock my bike and then unlock it again before we set out. As I was getting everything done, Elliott came trotting over, making a beeline for a pedal.

‘Don’t move the pedal!’ I cautioned him.

He looked up, smiled, and moved the pedal. That lined it up neatly with the kickstand just as the bike emitted the ominous clicking sound which told me it was now locked. And that was the end of our projected excursion, since I could no longer unlock the bike. Indeed, it took me three weeks, including emails to the support service of the company that built the bikes. That’s not as straightforward as it one was, since the company has gone broke and been bought up by another. Eventually, a helpful person in the service kindly told me the (actually quite simple) solution to the problem and I could start using my bike again.

To be strictly honest, that’s not the only aspect of Elliott’s behaviour these days that can be – let me put this carefully – a little tiring. You can tell him – ask him, beg him – to do something, or more to the point, not to do something, and he’ll blissfully go on refusing to do what he should or, more to the point, refrain from doing what he shouldn’t. At one point, I got so annoyed that I couldn’t prevent myself making clear to him my displeasure (verbally, I hasten to add, only verbally). 

Actually, to be entirely truthful, that happened more than once.

‘Come on, David,’ Danielle told me, ‘he isn’t three yet. Stop expecting him to behave like an adult.’

I felt like getting a little picky and pointing out that, actually, I knew a lot of adults as impervious to rational requests as Elliott. It’s probably just as well, for my own wellbeing, that I thought better of saying so.

The best response to a burst of annoyance on my part, however, came inevitably from Elliott himself. He’s someone who generally resist any attempt of mine to kiss him (‘I don’t want a kiss,’ he frequently informs me with firmness). On this occasion, however, faced with my obvious irritation, he looked at me wistfully and said:

‘I’d like a kiss.’

How can any anger resist a request so disarming? Mine evaporated. Such is the power, I suppose, of one who’s certainly a strong type but perhaps all the stronger for not being entirely a silent one.

Having fun in Valencia can be exhausting for everyone