Grandchildren

Am I actually jealous of their grandkids? Could I be that self-centered, that petty? I’ll never have grandkids of my own. Most gay guys of my generation, even long coupled ones, won’t – which is nothing I’d thought to regret much – until they got theirs. Not having children never seemed such a negative – not as I saw the worry, conflict, anguish (and, yes, even sometimes joy) they got with having – and raising – theirs. Not having children was just the way it was; you delt with it. At least you still had your friends.

But clearly grandchildren are a different thing. I know, because now that they’ve got theirs, they are the total focus of their lives. I count for nothing now, at least I assume so, since I almost never hear from them, almost never see them, anymore. Friends of 50 years, who had lives, and careers, of anticipation, ambition, accomplishment – now have only grandchildren, to judge from what they go on about: “Let me show you photos!” As though no one ever had grandchildren before. (There’s that damned jealousy speaking again.)

Since I don’t, won’t ever, have grandchildren of  my own, and since I never knew any of my own grandparents, it’s a relationship that’s foreign to me; one I can’t even imagine, though imagining it would be the only way for me to have even a hint of what it’s like.

But, as they used to warn about cats, BEWARE, they suck babies breaths, I’ve begun to wonder if grandchildren shouldn’t come with warnings too, CAUTION, grandparents personal selves at risk!

Or maybe the warning that really concerns me more: ALERT, grandparents’ cast-aside friends may make roadways slick with tears.

Of course, I’m happy for them – both the grandparents, and the little demons who’ve stolen them from me – through no fault of their own except the inconvenient fact of their existence. I even (occasionally) delight in seeing the photos and hearing the tales of unprecedented adorability, precocity, brilliance. Occasionally.

I don’t suppose there’s anything to be done about this appalling, and altogether unsatisfying phenomenon, not by me, at least – though I do bring to mind Dr. Swift’s Modest Proposal – stew or fricassee? What seemed like a reasonable approach in his time, however, may not be workable in the modern world. It may be that I’ll just have to accept my disadvantage in the competition for grandparent attention, and move on. Though it doesn’t seem fare, since I’ve known them a whole lot longer than these young whippersnapper kiddos. Once again, life is so unfair.

To myself I say, Get over it, you’ve lost; to the grandkids I say, I’ll try not to hold it against you (though that may be difficult, more than I can manage); to the grandparents, my former friends, I say, I miss you, I hope they are able to give you what you’re giving up along with me, You may miss me too someday. And when you do, I’ll be here waiting. But not patiently.