It's not always so great to be a grandfather
IT was the morning after the birth before. Daughter Number One had arrived. Oozing pride from every pore I cradled my brand new pink bedecked bundle and waited for my parents to show-up for a mutual wallow in the glory. I expected them to be cock-ahoop, clutching hand-knitted bootees, fizzing and buzzing with excitement.
Instead a pale, wan 49-yearold and his dejected 46-yearold wife walked wretchedly into the ward. “Mum, Dad –
what’s the matter?” I asked anxiously. “Vanessa, I woke up this morning in bed with a grandmother,”
said my father, visibly struggling to absorb the unpalatable truth.
Of course, received wisdom, jolly commercials and u p b e a t novels tell us grandparenthood is an entirely desirable state.
There is no downside to being a grandad. In fact, it’s a licence to enjoy all the fun of childrearing without any of the
messy, boring expensive stuff.
Grandparents are not allowed to appear in print without the adjective “devoted” appended to their names.
So, it’s something of a relief to find that novelist Martin Amis regaled Hay-on-Wye Literary Festival-goers with
his refreshingly honest response to his altered state.
“Becoming a grandfather,” pronounced Amis, whose grandson Isaac is two, “is like getting a telegram from the mortuary.” He went on to describe being a grandad as: “so uncool”. Cue horrifi ed tutting from besotted grandparents everywhere.
Perhaps it’s time we acknowledged that grandfathers in particular find adjusting to their new role and title irksome.
They didn’t ask to be grandads. The shift in identity has been thrust upon them.
They have been rebranded against their will. Overnight they have been transformed from firebrand, romantic lead
and man about town to “grandpa”. To some, the little mite may be the pinnacle of infant gorgeousness. To men
in the Martin Amis mould who can’t abide the idea of getting older and have convinced themselves that, in their case, the march of time doesn’t apply, the “grandpa” label is unbearable. It has unsexy, wrinkly, carpet-slipper, prizewinning- marrow associations. THEY can’t wriggle out of it but they can certainly nurture
a deep-seated resentment against the infant who plunged them into this predicament.
Fortunately, anti-grandchild sentiments rarely last beyond the day when baby’s first beaming, toothless grin is directed at grandad.
In most cases, love blossoms and grows. In the case of Martin Amis, however, famously grumpy, age-hating
advocate of euthanasia booths on street corners for the swift and convenient ending of pensioners’ lives, little Isaac
had better not expect pocket money and a trip to the fair just yet.