Pip, my grandson, is clambering up the fake rock wall at the local playground. I stand behind, not assisting, but ready to catch him should something go wrong. I move my weight onto one leg, then onto the other, then back again. My arms stretch in one direction, and then to the other. It’s very elegant. I think of it as “Grandparent’s Tai Chi”.
I should, of course, just sit on the bench and let him go for it. It’s a playground. The climbing wall is only a metre and a half high. There’s a padded bit at the bottom. Were he to fall, it would be bruises rather than breaks. And yet I sway from side to side, not helping, because he doesn’t want help. I’m just his safety net. I am ever ready to catch a falling Pip.
I swear, that scrape on the knee did not happen on my watch.Credit:iStock
When I was a young father, I understood that raising a child entailed embracing some risk. I tried to triage the possible injuries from any activity. Serious injury was to be avoided, but a scraped knee was a badge of honour. A ding on the arm was the medal for a well-spent day.
Pip’s father would start climbing a tree and I’d think, “The worst that can happen is cuts and bruises and 30 minutes of the screaming habdabs. Stand back! Let him go for it!” Then he’d climb a half-metre higher, I’d triage the possible injuries to “straight to Emergency” and insist he moderate his ambition.
Parenting is a long, sweet song of joy and anxiety. There is always some part of you that is scanning the horizon for danger. This never stops. I’m sure there are 99-year-olds concerned about their 70-something children. They worry about their 76-year-old daughter, crossing the road as she leaves the nursing home after a visit. “I do hope she remembers to look both ways. She gets distracted, that’s the problem.”
Then, if grandchildren happen to arrive, you are required to extend the circle. More joy. More horizon-scanning.
I want Pip to be adventurous. I want him to climb the fake rock wall, and hurtle down the slippery slide, and be pushed so high on the swing it feels like he’s touching the sky. Yet I’m more cautious with Pip than I was with his father. It’s not for me to do any fine calculations of risk. He’s only mine for the day. My attitude to injuries: “Not on my watch.”
It’s like the difference between a rental car and your own vehicle. As you drive away from the airport in your rental, you are always imagining the moment you’ll drop it back in Darwin, a galah embedded in the front grill, chunks out of the windscreen, and a broken rear light due to your attempt to reverse park at Uluru. The whole thing is fraught with anxiety.
Having a grandchild for the day is the same deal. You don’t want to be back at the drop-off point with some explaining to do.
Yet here’s the thing: often, like the rental car, the grandchild is not in factory-issue condition. As I hover close to the climbing wall, performing my grandparent’s Tai Chi, I notice that Pip already has a few dings. There’s what looks like a mossie bite on the back of his knee, and the elbow has a definite scrape. These imperfections, I’m pretty sure, did not occur on My Watch. They were there when I took delivery.
I’m struck with the thought: maybe we need to extend the rental car system to grandparenting. There could be a printed outline of the child, against which one could put an “x” to record any pre-existing dings. Particularly bad grazes could be photographed in case of disputation.
“Yeah, sorry mate, that knee was already scraped when we took delivery. Here’s the time-stamped photo to prove it.”
Meanwhile, during the day ahead, I’m alive to every peril. Have I remembered to lock the shed door, bristling as it is with dangers? Do those ancient toy cars contain lead paint because, if so, I really need to wash his hands after he plays with them. And if we stand to watch the digger down the road – the one pulling down the brick garage in a way that seems staged for our enjoyment – is there any danger of dust or flying debris?
Pip, however cautious those around him, will inevitably gather the dings of life. The human body, after all, is just a map of past misfortunes – here, the bent nose from a soccer header gone wrong; there, the dashing scar from a prang when riding a bicycle. In my case: a busted big toe from an inglorious attempt at ballet some five decades ago.
And should Pip, in years to come, break an arm in some similarly useful pursuit, I’ll be the first to sign the cast: “Glad you are finally having a break.” It will serve as a reminder that Dad jokes, given time, can always find new life as Pa jokes.
And I’ll be sure to add an addendum on his cast. “PS: This injury did not occur on My Watch.” Hopefully, I’ll have the rental documents to prove it.
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