My father’s father

If I were my father’s father, I’d go to the hospital the day he was born. I’d hold his mother’s hand while she delivered, and if they’d not let me do that, I’d wait at the door, ready to burst in. I’d take them both home, where I had prepared the crib for him and the bed for her, and I’d make dinner while she’d rest with him on her chest. I’d then take him from her to let her sleep and I’d wake up in the night when he’d need to be changed. I’d feed him and I’d bathe him and I’d kiss the top of his head, the back of his tiny feet and his chubby little hands. I’d sing to him and I’d tell him made up stories.

If I were my father’s father, I’d watch him grow. Not just the way his body would stretch, but also the way his mind would expand, the way his soul would make space for feelings he’d yet have to get used to. I’d hold his hand when we’d cross the street and I’d stand behind him when he’d try something new. I’d not shout at him to hurry or to not go in the mud. I’d let him get dirty and I’d explain how to clean his shoes. I’d even let him get hurt, not because I’d want to see him suffer, but because I’d want him to have a range of experiences that he can learn from. And I’d show him that he’s not alone. Even when hurt, especially when hurt, I’d be there to support him. Sometimes, some wounds are not external. Sometimes you can’t see when someone is in pain, but it doesn’t mean they are not. I’d listen to him when he’d tell me something hurts and I’d not make fun of his feelings. I’d not tell him to be strong, or to just be a man. I’d tell him it’s human to feel pain and it’s human to cry. But I’d teach him that it’s also human to heal and that there is no point in picking at old wounds. I’d show him that it’s not only time that heals, but also medicine. And sometimes medicine looks like hugs and kisses and long conversations, while other times it’s creams and pills and plasters. 

If I were my father’s father, I’d want him to know what love is. I’d let him hear me say that I love his mother. And I’d want him to see it, in the stolen kisses on the hallway, in the way I’d caress her face and hold her gaze, in the favourite chocolate that she’d never ask for, but she’d always be grateful to receive. But I’d want him to know that love is not just words and it’s not just kisses or gifts. I’d want him to see love in the way that I pay attention to the way his mother likes her coffee, the way I let her get the last bite, or the way she feels safe to let her mind be known. I’d want him to know that going to the store for her, not just when she doesn’t feel well, but also when she just craves something, is also love. I’d want him to understand how the foundation of a relationship is strong not because of making grand gestures, but because of avoiding tiny cracks that can weaken it in time.

If I were my father’s father, I’d take him to play football and I’d take him to swim. I’d ask him about his day and I’d actually listen. I’d ask questions and I’d remember his friends’ names. I’d know his birthday and I’d get him a present that he’d enjoy. And if I’d not afford to get him something, I’d make sure that he feels pampered on his birthday anyway. I’d make him pancakes in the morning and I’d let him watch TV, I’d take him on an adventure and then I’d make him his favourite dinner. I’d show him that caring is not about spending money, but putting in effort. And I’d tell him that effort is not something that doesn’t cost you anything. It does. He’d know that effort is about intention, and the currency for that is will. It’s about attention, a price that your mind has to pay. And it’s about dedication, the most expensive of them all, asking you to commit not only your mind, but your actions too.

If I were my father’s father, I’d make him feel wanted and I’d make sure that he finds a space where he belongs in the world. I’d encourage him to explore his passions and to drop them when they don’t spark joy anymore. I’d not teach him to give up, but to look inward to find the path. I’d let him know that he has all the tools he needs to succeed, but that I’d always be there if he needs a hand. I’d make it my mission to be his safety net, so he doesn’t have to worry about falling, but focus on going forward. I’d walk with him, I’d watch him run, fall, get up and when he’d not be able to, I’d be the rock he needs to push himself back up. I’d let him go in a different direction than I had in mind for him and I’d not punish him if he changed his mind. I’d pick him up if he’d ever find himself in crumbles and I’d sit by him while he pieces himself together, only to see him run again. And I’d watch. I’d let him go, come back and go again. I’d let him live his life the way he always intended to and I’d let him know that I will be there every time he looked back.

If I were my father’s father, I’d allow him to be a child.