Stephen Metcalfe

Yes, it’s happening, something grand.

The news came out of nowhere, a complete surprise.  “Okay, what do you think this is,” asked my lovely daughter, she and her husband, showing us an image on her cell phone.  My wife and I had no idea.  It looked like a small, swirling whirlpool.  (“A hurricane in the North Atlantic?” was her uncles’ later reply).  “It’s an ultrasound,” said the lovely daughter, trying not to burst at the seams.  “It’s a baby.  Five weeks old.” 

“We’re pregnant”, said the equally elated son-in-law.

We. 

Well, yes, it does take two to tango.  It brought back immediate memories.  At age 39, I was in the kitchen when my wife approached, an incredulous look on her face.  We were perhaps five or six weeks back from our honeymoon.  “I think…. I’m pregnant,” said my wife. 

I’m pretty sure I blinked.  Blinked twice.  Or gaped.  Or half fainted.  “You think or know?” I might have said. 

“I’m pretty sure,” she said. 

“Well… so much for getting divorced now,” I might have said.

A grandchild.  Due in eight months.  My wife and I were speechless.  We sat there, our mouths hanging open.  It might as well have been a hurricane in the North Atlantic, it was that big a deal.  “It will be here for Thanksgiving and Christmas,” said my daughter.  “We’ll have a tree and presents.”   Christmas.  Christmas is about children, isn’t it.  Holidays are.  The celebration so often joyfully focuses on them.  The gifts, the food, the family stories, the myths and legends.  How old are they when you tell them the easter bunny has hidden eggs around the house.  Who first explains the significance of Independence Day to a little one?   Thanksgiving.  What are we all giving thanks for and why?  Answer?  Each other.  You.   Because we’re so grateful to have you here.  

Babies.  They change everything.  The sense of purpose, the sense of responsibility.  Being there.  I remember feeling that newborns were the foundations of a new family.  And then your babies become toddlers, bravely walking, and then toddlers become children, happily running, and those children go to school and go to the playground with friends and eventually children become teenagers – nothing need be said about that! – and teenagers become young adults who go off to college or go off to jobs and sometimes go off to live in other places and you’ve been on the entire journey with them, sometimes driving, sometimes along for the ride.  And now you find yourself staring at your daughter who has come into the house and given you incredible news that it’s happening all over again. 

“Is it a boy or girl,” asked my breathless wife.  Surprising because as an expectant mother to be, she didn’t want to know in advance.  We discovered our children’s gender at birth.   Among other things, we thought it would make choosing names more fun.

“Too early to tell,” said my daughter.  “Maybe another five or six weeks.  We’ll probably have a gender reveal party.” 

A what?  Oh, that’s right.  These days expectant parents reveal the sex of their child by serving layer cake to friends – if the interior frosting is blue it’s a boy, if it’s pink it’s a girl.  At least, I think that’s how it works.  Maybe the friends serve the cake to them.  Oh, but wait, how would they know….?

“What do you want it to call you?” asked my son-in-law, teasing.

My wife and looked at one another.  Call us.  What a question.  Is it ever for a grandparent to decide how a grandchild refers to them?   My maternal grandmother was named Elsie.  Somehow, I was told, grandmother became a mispronounced Mummer which quickly became Bomber.  It fit.  She was the family equivalent of a military jet, always ready to protect and serve.  My wife’s dear father was first called Poppy by my young daughter.  Somehow Poppy became Poppy-Poppy, which meant my wife’s mother was then called Mommy-Mommy which meant they were eventually referred to as M-2 and P-2.   So it goes. 

And really, that word – Grand?  Grand means magnificent and imposing.  Grand suggests that it’s the most important item of its kind.  When it comes to grandparenting, that sure will be my wife but that sure ain’t me.  Grandfather?  How about Grumpy-father which could eventually evolve into Grump-paw.  Yes, that would fit.  The Grumpster!

“Daycare will be right here at the house,” said my wife, already thinking rapturously ahead.  “Whenever you need me.” 

Daycare.  Yes, the daughter and my son in law both work full time jobs.  I’m sure my daughter will get maternity leave but only for a while.  There will have to be day care, won’t there.  Babies need changing.  And feeding.  And burping.  And comfort when they cry.  Babies need attention.  Why not here at the house?   Unless the babe wants tennis lessons, I can always vacate the premises or go lock myself in the office downstairs.  Ah, but we’re already getting ahead of ourselves.  At least, I am.

It comes down to this.  A change is happening.  Something wonderful is coming our way.  A grandchild.  And in this case, the word – grand – is right on the money.  The most important item of its kind.