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At this time of year, you spot them in the seaside village where I live. You see them in the park, corralling their miniature charges into teams for games of rounders. You see them herding small, sandy creatures into the back of the car, hauling sailing dinghies up and down the slipway, or queuing at the ice-cream shop, patiently explaining the difference between a regular 99 and a bunny’s ears 99.
There’s the occasional one who is used to having teams of underlings at their disposal. The chief executive grandads. “I thought we were all agreed on the strategy, Calum – it’s ONE sandcastle at every corner of the moat. ONE. If you can’t follow instructions, I’ll have to assign that section to Oisin.”
“But grandad . . . ”
I watch them from behind my book, impressed at how successfully they manage to immerse themselves in their grandchildren’s world. I imagine they’re making up for lost time, having missed some of the good stuff first time around. Or maybe they’re just not so distracted by the ping-swoosh-beep of their phones as the rest of us.
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They do things men of their age never imagined themselves doing. Pushing prams. Pureeing bananas. Plaiting hair. Painting nails. (More on that later.) There’s no limit to what they won’t do for their grandchildren.
That’s not always a good thing.
Take my friend’s Dad.
Let me say first that the man is a genius in his field. He has written papers that have been published around the world and shaped international policies. If you need a PowerPoint presentation done up in a whizz, or you feel like a good, meaty debate about climate change, eugenics, immigration or the future of nuclear energy, look no further.
It was tacitly agreed that he and young children should not be left alone unsupervised
There is no doubt the human race is in safer hands with him around.
Individual humans though, specifically humans of the diminutive variety, are a slightly different matter.
When my friend was six, he once left her alone with her youngest brother, who was three, while he went off to attend to some pressing matter of international policy. The six-year-old got distracted, as six-year-olds do, and the three-year-old wandered off, as three-year-olds do. It didn’t make national headlines because he was located, unharmed, some hours later in the neighbourhood. He really couldn’t see what all the fuss was about.
House on fire
Then there was the unfortunate time the house went on fire while he was in charge. The first time could have been said to be unlucky. The second time, it was tacitly agreed that he and young children should not be left alone unsupervised. He agreed even if he really couldn’t see what all the fuss was about.
But all that was years ago and these days, he’s a totally enamoured, and very hands-on grandfather.
One evening recently, he obligingly came home early from a social event to mind his two-year-old granddaughter. His older granddaughter, the little girl's sister, had been taken to the Shelbourne Hotel, to the spa, for a manicure. A little treat, they'd said.
He was wondering what to do for the evening when an idea occurred to him. He would paint her nails just like her sister. He had never participated in a manicure before so he wasn’t quite sure about the procedure, but how hard could it possibly be?
Not that hard, as it turned out.
When his son arrived home, the toddler was sitting quietly as he, as lovingly as any expert manicurist in the Shelbourne Spa, painted her nails a striking red.
“What are you doing, Dad?”
What a question. Wasn’t it painfully obvious what he was doing?
“I’m painting your daughter’s nails,” he replied.
“I can see that,” said the son, an easygoing sort. “But what are you using?”
“Red,” he said, wondering what kind of idiot he had raised. Surely this, too, was obvious? “Isn’t it nice? She seems happy anyway. Don’t you pet?”
“But is it actually nail polish, Dad?”
“Of course it’s not nail polish. Where would I get nail polish?”
He really had to wonder. Nail polish? Did you ever hear the like? He had been pleased at his own resourcefulness. His daughter had sold that car – a 1987 Honda Civic – years ago and that paint was only sitting out in the shed going to waste. Good paint. You’d get 50 years out of paint like that.
I don't know what you're making such a fuss about. She loves it. Look, if you're that upset, I'm sure I have a chemical somewhere that will take it off"
As his son took to Google to investigate the corrosive effects of car paint on bare skin, he couldn't help feeling slightly offended. The younger generation are totally over the top about wrapping their children in cotton wool.
“I don’t know what you’re making such a fuss about. She loves it. Look, if you’re that upset, I’m sure I have a chemical somewhere that will take it off.”
That was a few weeks ago. The offer of a chemical paint remover was declined, not all that politely, so the granddaughter still has striking red nails. She loves them, and he thinks it looks quite nice, if you’re into that sort of thing. He really can’t see what all the fuss is about.
joconnell@irishtimes.com