More Than Grandpa

I’ve been a full-time caregiver for one of our grandchildren for over four years now. My wife and I have been responsible for Asher since he got out of the NICU. What’s most striking about my relationship with Asher is that I spend more time with him than I ever did with any of our own children.

This is mostly because I’m retired. It’s also because Asher doesn’t have anyone else to care for him. In many families, grandparents help out as part-time babysitters. My wife and I are not just helpers—we act in place of Asher’s actual parents. We are raising our grandson, and while we now have more time than we did with the previous generation, we also have far less energy than we did thirty years ago.

My wife and I work in shifts to care for Asher. I’m a morning person, so I’m active with him early in the day. My wife is a night owl, so she takes over after lunchtime. I usually take Asher out—often to a playground or a library. That gives my wife a chance to catch up on her household chores, work on her fiber arts, or just enjoy some quiet time.

Asher and I are together almost every day for three to five hours, just the two of us. We play, we talk, we eat, and we argue. We bond—and we do that in a way I never did with a four-year-old before. I am his grandpa, but also more than that, and he is more than just a grandson to me.

Yesterday, the two of us went sightseeing. We drove a few miles south to the Eco-Justice Center. It’s a small farm and also a place for environmental studies. Asher always notices when we’re getting close because he sees the blades of the wind turbine turning in the breeze.

The farm has chickens, goats, and alpacas. Asher likes to visit the alpacas—he keeps calling them llamas. Well, he’s close.

The people running the farm also have a few guinea hens. Those are fiercely territorial creatures. They apparently enjoy defending their turf from small children. Asher is a small child, and they confronted him. He ran from two of them, which only encouraged their aggressive behavior. One of them nipped at his blue jeans. He freaked out.

I told Asher, “Don’t run. Walk slowly to our car.”

He moved away from the guinea hens at a glacial pace while keeping an eye on them. He asked me,
“Grandpa, is this slow enough?”

“Yeah. However, we need to get to the car sometime. You can go a little faster.”

We left the farm and drove a little way to the lighthouse at Wind Point. It sits near the shoreline of Lake Michigan, north of Racine. Asher was excited about going to the beach. The water was cold, and the wind was kicking up breakers that churned the surf into a grayish-brown color. He had on his rain boots because I knew he’d play in the surf.

He found a mound of tiny shells, picked one up, and put it to his ear.
“Grandpa, I can hear the ocean!” he told me.

Most of the beach was covered in brownish sand, but there was also a low-lying ledge of limestone filled with hollows that served as tidal pools. Asher launched small round stones into the pools. The rocks were different colors: black, white, deep red. As he threw the stones, he kept edging further into the water.

I yelled, “Don’t go in too deep! I don’t want you to get water in your boots!”

“But Grandpa! I am not going too deep! Can’t you see?”

Note: Asher’s favorite word is “but.” Most of his responses start with it.

Later, Asher grew tired of throwing stones and insisted on climbing the large rocks inland from the beach. He was clambering up from the shore toward the lighthouse, which worried me. I kept imagining him slipping and doing a lip stand.

“Get off the rocks! I don’t want you to get hurt!” I said.

He kept climbing over the boulders. As he navigated the rocks, he replied,
“I can do this! See! I am on the other side now! I didn’t get hurt! I am on the main island now!”

The main island? The mainland? Whatever. He was on a level grassy area inland from the rocks.
“Grandpa, what is this place?” he asked.
“Asher, this is a golf course.”

The answer meant nothing to him. We got back into the car and drove to his favorite playground.

The day was getting warmer, and the playground was packed with youngsters. I prefer to visit when it’s not so busy. The more kids there are, the higher the energy level. As the population increases, so does the volume. The children move faster, and confusion reigns. Often, caregivers at the playground have their eyes glued to their smartphones. When the place swarms with children, everyone’s radar is focused on their own, but it’s still easy to lose a kid in the crowd.

Asher ran around like all his contemporaries. I kept moving with him. I got tired. Being hyper-vigilant is exhausting. Eventually, I told him it was time to go home. He balked at the idea, but after much haggling, he climbed into his car seat.

On the way home, I rolled through a yellow light. Asher noticed. He told me, very seriously,
“Grandpa, a yellow light means that you should slow down and stop.”

I said, “Thanks, Asher. I’ll do that next time.”

He fell asleep after that.

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Frank (Francis) Pauc is a graduate of West Point, Class of 1980. He completed the Military Intelligence Basic Course at Fort Huachuca and then went to Flight School at Fort Rucker. Frank was stationed with the 3rd Armor Division in West Germany at Fliegerhorst Airfield from December 1981 to January 1985. He flew Hueys and Black Hawks and was next assigned to the 7th Infantry Division at Fort Ord, CA. He got the hell out of the Army in August 1986.

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.