Donovan Kelly
Crummy But Good Writer with a Lighter Touch
“We have a problem here,” Elijah said. The note of concern in his four-year-old voice made me laugh, made me cry. Maybe this time I had gone too far. Maybe he really thought his Grandpaw was hopelessly goofy.
To goof or not to goof, that is the question for every grandparent, or at least for we who take our duties of grandfatherly teasing, teaching and goofing seriously. Who better to bring adulterated silliness to grandchildren than grandfathers? What else do grandpaws have to do? Is not acting goofy better than talking endlessly about the good old days?
But there is the constant worry of going too far. The worry of becoming permanently classified as downright weird.
What if grandchildren keep track of our goofiness? What if grandchildren have the same scary power as our grade school teachers to put comments into our permanent records? Can grandchildren add never-to-be-erased notes of Grandfatherly failure to go with that damning note from my first grade teacher: “Donny tells interesting stories, but he can’t tie his shoelaces.”?
What if Elijah has already written down, “Paw can tie his shoes now, but still can’t be trusted on an elevator.”
Because Elijah does not allow me on an elevator by myself.
It began a year ago. Elijah, his older sister Isabella and their grandma Baba had just gotten off the hotel elevator. They turned to look at me, who was taking slow, silly little old man shuffling steps across the elevator floor. And before I could get off, the elevator doors closed. I pushed the open button and was greeted by three big-eyed, open-mouthed stares.
Baba shook her head in resignation. Both kids yelled an alarmed “Paw”! Before I could resume my slow small-stepping routine, Elijah ran over, grabbed my hand and pulled me off the elevator. And he hasn’t let go since, especially when elevators are near.
Go ahead, laugh at me. But how do you get your grandson to freely, spontaneously hold your hand? Yes, there is reward to my goofiness.
Yesterday in a restaurant, Elijah reluctantly agreed to share his milkshake, but only for as long as he could count to two. He was already counting as he shoved the milkshake towards me. I made a big show of sticking the straw in my ear while making sucking sounds. Elijah panicked and tried to re-direct the straw to my mouth. Which is when he hollered in alarm to Baba and Isabella, “We have a problem here!”
Some might accuse me of silliness or goofiness or felonious manipulation of grandchildrenal affection. Let me respond to that. Guilty. Happily guilty.