As of March 15th at about 1:45p.m. – the Ides of March, whatever that means – I crossed the last threshold into senior citizenship. I am now a grandfather, and, by extension, I am now married to a grandmother.
My youngest son, with a little help from his wife, increased the population of our already overburdened world by one with the birth of an assigned male at birth (that’s the way it’s said today, right?) baby. To separate him from the rest of the future classroom rabble, they have named him John. There will likely be a dozen Jaxton’s in his future classes, but he will likely be the only John.
My wife (a.k.a. grandma) and I visited the new family member in the hospital, about five hours after his arrival. I immediately called him Lil John (I thought that would be his rap name, but it turns out there is already a Lil John; for the record, there are 42 rappers named Lil). Even by newborn baby standards, at just 6 lb. 7 oz. he is little.
When I first held him – very, very gingerly – it dawned on me that the last time I held a newborn baby was Feb. 24, 1991, the day Lil John’s father was born (another potential nickname: Sweet Baby J.) I had forgotten just how helpless a newborn human baby is. On a farm, or almost anywhere in the animal kingdom, a newborn is expected to shake off the postnatal stun, get on their feet and get to doing whatever it is they do. A human baby, however, is the most fragile, dependent, entirely helpless creature in the universe. They are also impossibly beautiful. Johnny has a perfect button nose and tiny perfect hands and tiny perfect feet and perfect baby skin, the softest material in the world. I was captivated by his beauty … until he took one of those surprisingly huge post-birth poops. (His father’s first poop looked like a melted hockey puck. His brothers were amazed, and maybe a little envious.)
I of course posted the happy news (about the birth, not the poop) on Facebook, and I was deluged with messages, some even from people I actually know. Of the 42 comments (a deluge by my standards) 41 contained the word ‘congratulations’. Everyone I told in person said the same thing. I, of course, said thank you, but I felt like a bit of a fraud by accepting congrats. After all, what exactly did I do to deserve congratulations? On Feb. 24, 1991, I deserved them. But March 15, 2024? I don’t know.
Still, the congratulations are sincere. Many of the messages promised pure joy in being a grandpa. “You’re about to start a beautiful chapter in your life,” said one. “There is truly no love like it,” said another. “This is the best day of your life!” another said, somewhat boldly. “You’ll have so much fun,” another promised.
The bar has been set pretty high, but I am optimistic. Even though some of my grandpa friends have privately complained about how much is expected of them as 21st century grandpas, I am looking forward to this experience. I hope it will be a little like parenting, without the bad stuff.
Like poop.
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