The first time I left my one-year-old son was for an overnight wedding, and I was a nervous wreck. I didn’t want to leave him for even a moment, let alone a full day, terrified something might go wrong. My husband gently insisted I needed to learn to let go, assuring me that my father-in-law, my son’s grandfather, would care for him, even if his methods differed from mine. He promised our son was in safe hands. When I returned, I found both grandfather and baby happily covered in chocolate.
In just 24 hours, my son learned a new word, “choc,” adding it to his tiny three-word vocabulary. He couldn’t say “Grandad,” but “choc” came easily. My father-in-law, with his soft Irish accent, explained that Cadbury’s tiny Chocolate Buttons were made for little hands. He seemed to think Cadbury knew better than I did about what my son should eat, and I didn’t take that too kindly. Looking back, I wish I’d been in a better mood to see how much I still had to learn.
My father-in-law has a unique way with my kids. He’s mixed up their clothes, dressing them in each other’s outfits despite them not being twins. He’s put them in the wrong-sized diapers—one swimming in a too-big one, the other leaking everywhere. He once helped my eleven-year-old dye his brown hair bright blonde, requiring two salon visits to fix before school started. I lost the chocolate battle early, and even now, he arrives with one suitcase of clothes and another packed with candy.
He’s played soccer, cricket, golf, and football with my kids, despite not knowing how to throw a football. He’s taken them bike riding, fruit picking, and vegetable planting. He’s even taught them to bet on racehorses. He’s laughed with them at Tom and Jerry, sung along to Barney, and chased soccer balls for hours as my boys missed shot after shot. He’s taken them to parks, zoos, movies, playgrounds, and even river rafting—brave for someone who can’t swim.
When they were little, he’d wake before dawn, sneak them out of their cribs so quietly my husband and I slept through it, and take them to the park in their stroller. By the time they returned, they’d had breakfast, with syrup in their hair and pancake bits on their clothes, while I could’ve slept until 9:00. He introduced them to their first chocolate and, later, their first beer, guiding them through countless moments in between. He’s shown them how to use every power tool at Home Depot, while they’ve taught him dorm room drinking games. I’m not sure who’s learned more.
Now, nearly twenty years later, my grown sons eagerly await his visits and beg him to stay longer as he leaves. What I’ve come to understand is that we learn to be grandparents while we’re still parents. Long before we can picture our own grandkids, we’re learning from those who’ve been parents longer. My father-in-law has shown me how to be there for the grandchildren I might one day have.
He’s taught me how to be a grandparent. While I was navigating motherhood, he was quietly showing me the way to grandmotherhood. When that day comes, and I hold my own grandchild, I’ll remember that a little chocolate never hurt anyone and that nothing matters more than being there.
[Lisa Endlich Heffernan]
