Playing Hurt

 Just got back from four days in Columbia. Spent most of my time hanging out with my grandson. When I wasn’t gawking at, playing with, rocking to sleep or singing to him, I was working on the new novel. I love writing, love the process, the grind, the agony of constructing the story. But as much as I love writing, it’s nowhere near as much fun as watching your grandchild look you straight in the face and burst into a smile.

In our time there we experienced several “firsts”. He had his first restaurant experience, the two hour, slow-service variety. There were nine of us, six adults and two other kids besides Silas, all seated outside—in Columbia, SC—in August. He was an angel, behaved himself better than his Pops. Then on Sunday he went to church for the first time, where his mother handed him off to a friend who worked the nursery. He slept the entire time. Then on Monday, we put him in his expensive car seat and took him all the way across town to visit his Daddy at work. Not a minutes trouble.

The only negative thing about our time with him was the realization that the unique physical demands of being a grandparent are not ideally suited for a 67 year old. It was pointed out to me by my wife that her mother became a grandmother at age 44, while my parents were also in their 40’s. One of the drawbacks of your kids waiting later to have their children is how painfully difficult it is for 67 year old men to get up off the floor after playing with a baby for twenty minutes. In addition, holding a baby in the conventional manner plays hell with the back. Regardless, none of these realities stopped me from getting on the floor to play or holding him until he fell asleep. I’ve spent an entire lifetime playing hurt, no reason to stop now.